Book 32: Terms & Conditions

Terms & Conditions

Robert Glancy

This is another one of those books that I grabbed on a whim from the Champaign Public Library's new books area, and I am ever so glad I did. Robert Glancy absolutely nails the delicate balance of irreverence and heart that defines this particular brand of satire. In Terms & Conditions, Glancy traces the recent history of mild-mannered corporate lawyer Franklyn Shaw, who attempts to reconcile his subconscious feelings with reality as he regains his memory after a mysterious car crash. As he tries to piece together the events and emotions that led to the “little episode” that caused the crash (and, by extension his amnesia), Shaw must come to terms (ha) with the condition (haha) of his life, which is, as he correctly assumes, a bit more complicated (and, inevitably, much more depressing) than the version he gets from his wife and brother. Though the novel relies on very little plot- focusing more on backstory and a general sense of Franklyn (or, more accurately, Frank), the man- readers can easily follow along as Frank traces the paths that led him to his crash and, more importantly, lead him to a series of revelations about his life.

The narrative structure can get a bit fragmented- it is at times difficult to discern which events are occurring during Frank's post-amnesia awakening and which are solely in the past- but the book is generally easy to follow. Moreover, it is chock-full of sarcastic asides, often delivered in the types of footnotes that might punctuate Frank's own contracts. Some of these are better integrated than others- many should really be part of the text, as the next part of the main narrative relies upon them- but many take advantage of the format, sometimes referring to further footnotes in a downward spiral. Glancy avoids most of the pitfalls of what could be an annoying gimmick by successfully varying the types and content of footnotes: some are true, tangentially related asides; some are straight-up jokes; and some represent Frank's inner dialogue. Less consistent are the chapter titles (all offered in the unnecessary format “Terms & Conditions of X”) and the aphorisms that accompany them; occasionally brilliant, they are often missed in favor of a direct engagement with the chapter proper.

Glancy's ability to maintain the book's tone and, much more importantly (and impressively), land most of his intended jokes is remarkable; books like this often fail because they cannot sustain the high standards of their most uproarious gags. Glancy, however, engages all of his ideas with equal parts gusto, wit, and heart, and the book is better for it. From a brother's profane (yet appropriate, we learn) e-mail handle to Frank's increasing frustration with the direction of his life, the book is equal parts hilarious and profound, without trying too hard to be either. Readers may be frustrated by Frank's eternal middle child-ness and his reluctance to sustain important confrontations, but his faults make him far more realistic and relatable, providing the novel with the emotional core that ties it all together. Glancy expertly leverages both levity and gravity, making profound statements about modern life without preaching, either to his characters or through them. I thoroughly enjoyed Terms & Conditions (no footnote necessary), which proves that humor and gravitas can be just as moving as their straight-laced counterparts.

Grade: A

Book 31: Tigerman

Tigerman

Nick Harkaway

After reading Angelmaker and, now, Tigerman, I'm convinced that Nick Harkaway is probably just the slightest bit insane. Happily, however, this makes his novels incredibly exciting and unpredictable, even when they get a bit uneven and carried away with themselves. Such is the case with Tigerman, which- as is apparently Harkaway's style- is clearly the product of a mind influenced by a variety of genres. A fictional island setting and its doomsday scenario suggest science fiction, but the geopolitical forces at play on Mancreu are all too realistic, giving the book the feel of satire. Then again, there's the not-quite father-son bond that forms the book's emotional core and the mysterious murder that kicks off the plot in earnest, borrowing elements from literary and crime fiction. Though some of the mystery elements function only as (annoyingly) unresolved red herrings, they give the plot its momentum and keep readers hooked on a book that is, at heart, deeply meditative on the topics of love and parenthood. Somewhat surprisingly, the disparate styles come together nicely; that the book never seems at odds with itself is a credit to its author, who keeps it all together with a peculiarly British sensibility that permeates the entire novel. Likewise, the humor, tenderness, and action are rarely out of balance, though the ending is clumsy and feels half-finished.

Nick Harkaway has an incredible ability to draw readers immediately (though not always effortlessly) into the worlds he imagines, creating a satisfactory blend of real-world plausibility and escapism. Tigerman is, despite its sentimental core, a bit of a romp and a bit of a thriller, keeping readers hooked as the island setting's doomsday draws inevitably near and forcing us to ask ourselves, as the residents do, why we bother to stick it out when it is clear that the end is fast approaching. The novel's effectiveness hinges on the vibrancy of its setting, achieved by a lengthy- yet compelling, due in no small part to the author's considerable sense of humor and the very Britishness of it all- piece of exposition at the front. This, coupled with subtle sarcastic jabs, draws readers in and keeps them at ease as the book alternates between styles and themes. Likewise, Harkaway manages to shift effortlessly between moods: action, emotion, and exposition are equally convincing throughout the book. Some of the dialogue, however, gets a bit awkward, particularly when a young teenager uses too much internet slang; even if he did learn much of his English from the Internet (which seems as plausible a source as any), it's occasionally bizarre enough to knock readers right out of the story. Like the book's unsatisfying ending and too-crazy twist- both based on solid concepts, but executed poorly- the boy's speech signifies an author who got just a little to carried away by the thought of his own cleverness.

That cleverness, however, is enough to sustain a largely pleasant reading experience, and most of the book's more implausible elements are nestled among enough realism that the reader simply accepts them. Readers immediately come to care about each of the main characters and, just as importantly, the island they inhabit, under threat from an international community fueled by paranoia that, properly directed and managed, could actually solve the problems it faces (global warming allusion, anyone?). The book has moments of unnecessary cruelty, but it is, at heart, a lot of fun. Harkaway's take on the superhero trope is fueled by pure adrenaline (rendered in fantastic, involved prose) and is, strangely, one of the more plausible takes on the idea that I've encountered in a while. His characters have all of the emotional angst of their litfic counterparts, but are allowed to function in a world that- while slightly contrived- mirrors our own more closely than many of the overwrought New Yorks, LAs, and Midwests conceived by literary darlings. Sure, the book has its dropped plot points and an overwrought plot twist of its own that strains credibility enough that it would completely doom the entire enterprise if it did not show up in the final chapter. Tigerman is, despite all this, at once gripping and nuanced, a fine example genre works' ability to look at life just as seriously as books that are, well, much more serious.

Grade: A-

Book 30: Deep

Deep: Freediving, Renegade Science, and What the Ocean Tells Us About Ourselves

James Nestor

I recently watched a documentary about freediving, so it seemed only natural that I should pick up this book when I saw it at the library. From his chosen subtitle to the book's final imagery, James Nestor certainly doesn't hold back: it is clear throughout that the author firmly believes that he has found a fundamental truth about humanity in his experiences in the water. Unfortunately, however, he's not quite able to convince his readers of the same fact. The book- which is part memoir, part pop science- is most compelling when Nestor dives deeply (ha) into a single theme, either his experiences observing and learning the art of freediving (which function as a framing device and connecting narrative) or any of the associated subjects he explores. The framing device- while clever- doesn't quite align with the general flow of the book, which intends to go ever deeper into the ocean, beginning with the surface and ending in the planet's deepest trenches (and reaching a penultimate conclusion with a section of greatly appreciated and cleverly titled "ascents"). Worse still, it is somewhat erratically deployed, showing up in odd places and unnecessarily breaking the reader's concentration, often without adding any clarification to the main text. Though Nestor's side subjects are appropriate to his subject- and do coalesce around the general theme of humans' connection to the ocean- he cannot always link them to his own journey deeper into the sea.

These subjects, including competitive freediving, undersea research at varying depths, and the languages of sharks, dolphins, and whales, usually align with the books' chapters- cleverly numbered at various relevant depths- but it sometimes takes Nestor a while to come around to his point, leaving readers somewhat adrift. Worse still, no one normalized the measurements in the book, particularly in the passages regarding freediving: in an astonishing editorial lapse, measurements morph from meters to feet at a whim; on at least one occasion the change occurred between two lines of otherwise unbroken text(!). This was as immediately disorienting as diving into the zero-gravity stasis of deep water must have been for the author, but I'm not sure that's exactly the feeling Nestor is attempting to evoke in his readers. These and other lapses led me to revisit several passages, and it sometimes feels like the book is comprised of individually minded articles loosely tied together- the book repeats several unimportant facts unnecessarily and seems to imply that the author's most pivotal foray into deep water was both an invitation extended to him and the result of his own organization. Whether it was one or the other is not important, but the confusion engendered by this kind of editorial sloppiness adds to the book's sense of casual choppiness.

All is not doom and gloom. Nestor's text functions as a decent introduction to several interesting and loosely interrelated topics, many of which are otherwise obscure to the general public. I was pleased to learn about a theory of the origin of life that has apparently gained traction since my last biology class, the incapacitating effects of sperm whale clicks, and numerous other points of interest. In the end, however, Nestor cannot resolve the tension between his quasi-spiritual exploration of his and other divers' connection to the water and the underlying science that implies such a connection for the rest of us. He establishes a loose hypothesis firmly and clearly only pages into the book, but never connects the dots, either overtly or subtly. He presents the idea, describes his personal experiences, introduces a few dimly related fields of scientific inquiry, and then concludes that humans must, as a matter of course, be somehow at home in the deep water. The opening chapters offer some promising hints of medical evidence to these ends, but the book never quite follows through, happy to hint at a theme but ultimately comfortable with its ever-divergent narrative forks.

It's somewhat disheartening that the book feels as disjointed as it does, because the author clearly has talent and passion in abundance. He dives with gusto into his subjects, once he decides to, and it is evident that the experiences he chronicles have deeply changed him. He has a few axes to grind, to be sure, but he is usually content to allow his obvious passion make his case for him, only occasionally sliding into awkward partisanship. Nestor's deeply personal writing and easygoing style convincingly invite readers into the world he evokes, and some of the writing is truly astonishing. I repeatedly found myself gasping for air after a particularly vivid description of being underwater, whether the experience was Nestor's, another diver's, or entirely hypothetical. At times I felt like I was drifting on the ocean with the author and the day's team of researchers or renegades, and I missed at least two bus stops while reading the book- not a small accomplishment given my propensity to become easily distracted and the book's own narrative faults. In the end, however, Deep is hampered by the author's enthusiasm, which cannot quite reconcile the promised narratives of his own discoveries, scientific progress, and a fundamental medical truth he never bothers to provide true, convincing evidence for.

Grade: B-

Book 29: Spheres of Disturbance

Spheres of Disturbance

Amy Schutzer

This is a book that snuck up on me in pretty much every way. I picked it up on a whim on a new release shelf at the library, was alternately repelled and sucked in by the lush- though often self-indulgent- language, and ultimately found myself crying during the final pages, though I had accurately guessed the book's ending from the summary on the back cover. One could make a number of fair complaints about the book, not the least of which is that Amy Schutzer is clearly very enamored with her prose; even for a book that aims (often successfully) for a somewhat ethereal, lyrical vibe, Spheres of Disturbance contains a fair share of ridiculous, overwrought language that shakes readers right out of their pleasant stupor. Schutzer is also a proponent of the absolutely maddening tendency to make what I'm sure is some horribly pretentious point by omitting quotation marks, though she does have the decency to set off different speakers with line breaks and, usually, their spoken words with commas. This always sets off my bullshit alarm, and the kindest thing I can say about it here is that it wasn't always completely disruptive and most of the dialogue was understandable as such- that the latter point should be a given is, I suppose, too much to ask of the current litfic crowd. Schutzer does, however, navigate many of the other traditional litfic pitfalls with an element of grace. Most impressive, perhaps, is the fine integration of plot and characterization, where each gently flows into the other, often seamlessly. Ultimately, not much happens in Spheres of Disturbance, but not much has to; the characters and their interactions are enough.

Schutzer, then, has accomplished something quite impressive: she has written an unapologetically pretentious litfic novel that is somehow emotionally moving, to the point where she often held this very no-bullshit reader in the palm of her hand. There is a subtle compelling quality to this book, even if Schutzer sometimes says the obvious through narration or (presumed) dialogue and utilizes a pregnant pig- yes, a pig- as one of her central viewpoint characters. This, and many other things that I usually hate, worked for me in this novel, even the baldly Mary Sue poet whose supposedly on-the-spot poems are clearly anything but. Perhaps it is because each of the characters is recognizable in ourselves, or because their stories intersect and parallel each other so compellingly as they fade in and fade out of view; perhaps it is the suspense and tension that are somehow tightened despite much of the plot being blatantly telegraphed throughout the novel. The book also has compelling subplots that illustrate its central theme, which revolves around the necessary connection between disturbance and (self-)discovery. From the teenager who finally reaches the tipping point to the group of truly terrible people who end up providing some (perhaps unintentional?) dark comic relief to the people most directly affected by a woman's quick decline, the inhabitants of Schutzer's spheres are all chasing a kind of resolution; much as in life, they receive and wait as their closure arrives as expected, surprises them in a much different form, or eludes them for just one more hour, day, or lifetime. Spheres of Disturbance constantly took me by surprise, moving me when I wasn't inclined to be moved and creating something beautiful in line with- though occasionally despite- its lofty ambitions; in that way, it's just like life, I guess.

Grade: A-

Book 28: The Adjacent

The Adjacent

Christopher Priest

I've never read a Christopher Priest book before, though I'm familiar with The Prestige, but I had high hopes coming into and while reading this novel. Unfortunately, The Adjacent never quite lives up to its own expectations. This is a shame, as Priest displays a multitude of talents throughout the book, moving seamlessly between third- and first-person narration and adapting several narrative voices to their circumstances. He evokes World War I's Western Front, a World War II-era English airbase, a plausible future Britain haunted by the consequences of global warming and advanced terrorist weaponry, and a wholly invented island society with equal vigor, but cannot quite weave them together into a single story, coherent or otherwise. To a certain extent, this is the point; The Adjacent obviously revels in the possibilities of parallel and complementary timelines, and to expect a linear story would be to mischaracterize the book's own goals. I do, however, wish that the necessary juggling was handled better, with a discernible point beyond the kind-of-twist ending on offer. The various timelines book includes numerous coincidences and crosswalks, which form part of its charm, but when some of these elements come together in the end, the effect is to distort realism so thoroughly that the entire book becomes a bit of a sham. The big finale is surprisingly conventional, particularly for an author who proves elsewhere that experimentation and departures from linearity (and, indeed, from a single notion of reality, even a fictional one) can be enthralling. The effect is one of unmitigated disappointment- surely the author capable of the novel's heights could come up with a more satisfying, appropriate ending?

Though I left The Adjacent feeling quite disappointed, it is only because the book often employs its tricks to enchanting effect. The highlight, for me, was a pair of stories about an ill-fated magician's trick; together, they recall Akutagawa's In a Grove, updated for the quantum age. The chapters that take place during World Wars I and II are wonderful bits of writing; either could stand alone as a short story and, indeed, the first probably should have, as it bears little relation to the remaining text beyond some hints of shared imagery and relies too heavily on a show-offish cameo that does little to enhance the small or larger stories at hand. The World War II-era narrative provides a surprising and welcome focal point, uniting threads from the near-future and the island stories, although it, too, becomes muddled by the end. Much of what Priest does simply seems unnecessary, focusing on less interesting ideas and characters at the expense of the good stories he tells effectively. As science fiction, The Adjacent explores some interesting ideas about quantum theory. Though these aren't quite explained to full effect they do offer tantalizing- but woefully underexplored- possibilities. In one of the novel's strongest bits- which hints at a resolution and sense of consistency that never, alas, come to fruition- we follow a character in real time only to discover that he might, perhaps, have been somewhere else all along. Yet Priest stops there, quickly moving on to another half-baked application of his solid basic ideas. That, in essence, was my experience with The Adjacent: it is a novel full of interesting riffs on an excellent, unique idea, with top-notch worldbuilding thrown in for good measure, that can't quite put everything together in a meaningful way.

Grade: B

Book 27: Roll the Bones

Roll the Bones: The History of Gambling

David G. Schwartz

Despite having just read a book about board games, I eagerly picked up Roll the Bones from a nearby shelf on the same trip to the library and happily read about the human gambling instinct, the games (and other things) we gamble on, and the industries and cities that have thrived on gambling's consistent allure throughout history. Author David G. Schwartz, an academic with a working knowledge of modern casinos who rounds out his credentials by living in Las Vegas, is definitely up to the task, tracing the history of gambling from nebulous origins in the ancient world to the latest trends in Nevada, in Macau, and throughout the world. Though his descriptions of particular games are often lacking, to say the least- I cannot describe the full mechanics of hazard, baccarat, or fan-tan, despite their prominence in the book- Schwartz has an excellent grasp on the history of gambling and, more importantly, an eye for the array of engrossing personal stories from which he weaves much of his central narrative. As an activity that is periodically subject to alternating bouts of public celebration and disapproval, gambling has attracted its fair share of characters over the years, from the aristocrats of old Europe and Wild Bill to Las Vegas's founding gangsters and current corporate casino overlords; Schwartz often focuses on these and other characters, much to the book's benefit, discovering and exploiting stories rather than recounting a dry succession of events. Though his framing device, which allows him to begin each group of two or three chapters with a relevant story, sometimes looks too far ahead and can actually disrupt the flow of the book, it highlights his commitment to both entertaining and informing the reader. Even the more tangential parts of the book, such as its histories of dice and playing cards, are sprinkled with a healthy ratio of facts and the anecdotes that illustrate them.

Roll the Bones does focus rather heavily on the western world (and Australia and New Zealand), perhaps to its detriment; Asian countries (and, more frequently, their ex-pats) make occasional cameos, but Africa is nearly invisible, and these omissions- without explanation, but also almost certainly without prejudicial intent- seem glaring after a while. Though the book is far from a wholehearted celebration of gambling, tackling as it does a subject that is somewhat notorious for the litany of shady characters it has attracted over the years, it does treat some of gambling's less savory aspects somewhat fleetingly: mentions of addiction and/or ruin are often appended only as afterthoughts to lengthier tales of glory and I recall little to no discussion of match-fixing, though crooked dealers and flat-out crooks appear here and there. Schwartz doesn't whitewash his subject, but neither does he expose all of its warts. That said, however, this book has pretty much everything you could want out of a reasonably comprehensive, subject-based history. It's easily readable, despite some unconvincing copyediting (and perhaps content editing, too), and entertains without condescending, comfortably straddling the line between academic and pleasurable reading. Roll the Bones provides a welcome, pleasant, and informative introduction to the many varied worlds of gambling humans have created and continue to create; I must say, the gamble I took in picking up this book paid off- unlike slots and tables around the world- at a reasonable rate.

Grade: A-

Book 26: The Lie

The Lie

Helen Dunmore

It is no surprise, perhaps, that the First World War's centenary has occasioned the release of a glut of novels and other books examining what is, in the United States at least, a largely forgotten war. Yet as Helen Dunmore shows in The Lie, the war has always been balanced precariously between the realms of memory and willful forgetfulness. This is a thoughtful, deliberate book that wanders from plot point to plot point, caring not so much about what happens as it does about how the few things that do happen affect the war-addled narrator, a British veteran who neither peacefully lives with nor seems particularly keen to discard the memories that continually haunt him. It's as though Daniel Branwell is still caught out in no man's land as he attempts to settle back into life in his native Cornwall; the sights, sounds, and the smells of the war continue to swirl around him as he drifts in and out of consciousness and connectedness with his actual surroundings. The book constantly shifts between past and present, usually without prelude or warning, but the changes are slow and subtle, provoking only a gentle disorientation that softly places readers into Daniel's shoes. The resulting sense of general aimlessness suits the book in the end, I think, although it can make for rough going at the beginning, which provides little indication that the story will build toward anything at all. Yet the story does build, as Daniel slowly comes to confront more and more elements of his past both before and within the context of the war, and it picks up pace nicely as it rolls toward a conclusion that seems sadly inevitable, though cathartic for reader and narrator alike.

This isn't a book about what happens so much as it is a book about what has happened, a subtle difference born out of a modern understanding of the effects of shell-shock. Despite this somewhat modern sensibility, however, the book usually feels appropriate to the immediate postwar period and, more importantly, to its rural setting, which provides ample room for contemplation. Dunmore's poetic prose blurs the lines between Daniel's alternate realities, her words bobbing in and out of both worlds as Daniel does, enhanced (but not pretentiously) by well-chosen quotations from the likes of Arnold, Byron, and Coleridge. Daniel's reluctance to make his presence known is echoed by the book's slow burn, as is his (very) slow reintroduction to some of the people he previously half-knew and the reader's gradual appreciation of the past that weighs so heavily on Daniel. Dunmore is (mercifully) confident enough in her abilities to allow the book's nuances to flow and to speak for themselves, allowing for an organic glimpse into the minds of those who went away and those who survived, both in the trenches and at home. The residents of Daniel's hometown seem themselves torn between deep- yet intensely private- depression and a kind of unemotional avoidance that can only be intentional.

The book may seem unassuming, focusing as it does on one man's experiences in a sparsely populated corner of England, but as it explores the ability of trauma to forever alter the mind, it takes on a larger scope. It is not only Daniel Branwell's story that we are reading; it is the story of any number of the millions whose lives were shattered so thoroughly by a phenomenon so deeply beyond the realm of comprehension that willful ignorance almost seems a justifiably sane way to attempt to deal with it. What results is a deeply poignant book about love and loss without any of the bombastic overtures that often undermine similar attempts to come to grips with the effects of war. The book stays rooted to its small-scale story and, in doing so, somehow comes to represent the whole. Daniel's relationship with his best friend Frederick, which drives the book, is at once unique and universal, as is Daniel's desire to do justice to Frederick long after the decisive moment has passed. So, too, is his subsequent attempt to find solace in the company of Frederick's sister, Felicia, who suffers herself from the knock-on effects of love and loss. But there is no peace to be found, it seems, in a world so profoundly changed from the one they knew before

The book might thus be unsatisfying to some, meandering along as it does without offering any solace of its own, but it feels so real and so true, hinging on the small regrets and white lies that can slowly, but easily, come to overpower an individual human spirit. It is unclear which of its many untruths comprises the book's titular lie, but perhaps this refers, instead, to the falsehood whose effects permeate every page of the novel, the unspoken promise that Daniel and the world alongside him could somehow return to a life where the trenches seemed impossible, the realities of the war too horrific to contemplate. Instead, they returned with the scent of French mud lingering in their nostrils, with ghosts whose presence is at once welcome and disconcerting, with futile hope born out of desperation. In the end the lies- all of them- catch up with Daniel, and there is but one way forward. The Lie is an elegantly crafted, if occasionally slow-moving, glimpse into the effects of war, a subtle exploration of love, loss, and the world the Great War left in its wake.

Grade: A

Book 25: The Oxford History of Board Games

The Oxford History of Board Games

David Parlett

Had I realized earlier that this week is Banned Books Week, perhaps I would have chosen a book with more (in)appropriate content. Nonetheless, David Parlett's history of board games is, like many of the games he describes, an appropriately entertaining diversion, despite falling into some of the tediousness and traps it ascribes to various ludic pastimes. Parlett seems to have come by his task honestly, to judge by the book's numerous asides and personal attestations; these are welcome and add a bit of personality to what in other hands might become merely a droll catalog. Even Partlett's occasional nepotism- he happily mentions and describes games of his own invention- is mitigated by their relevance and (by and large) their placement among a list of similar examples. It is evident throughout that Parlett has the requisite academic and personal appreciation of the topic, and his (very British) humor is often appreciated, though it is, alas, hit and miss. His esteem for certain games comes across not as self-aggrandizing or advertisement, but instead as genuine enthusiasm, which buoys what might otherwise become, again, a very dull text indeed. Unfortunately, he does sometimes wade into the waters of boring academia; most egregious is a repeated series of foreign-language quotations that aren't translated in the text or in the endnotes. I think it's a bit unfair to assume that even the erudite readers of Oxford histories will know enough French and Latin to make their own translations (and, indeed, the author and/or editor seem to have come to the same conclusion at some point, as translations appear directly alongside the book's later quotations).

Parlett does, however, successfully target the casual and serious enthusiast alike in this dossier of gaming history. One wishes that the theoretical framework on display in the first two chapters (on board games in general and the use of dice and other lots to introduce an element of chance, respectively) appeared more often throughout the text, which does often devolve into uninteresting repetitions of rules. Parlett offers a strong introduction- creating a hybrid classification scheme, admitting its faults, and placing it in context by comparing it to those of other scholars- and he does an excellent job of drawing parallels and, indeed, describing the varied mechanics of the games he describes. His symbolic representation of chessmen's moves is intuitive and easy to understand, though it comes far too late, and the fact that most of his descriptions can be easily parsed is a testament to his ability to understand both the subject matter and his audience; try describing backgammon or even Parcheesi without real-time moving visuals, and you'll see just how impressive Parlett's accomplishment is. Given his considerable achievement in this regard, I'm inclined to forgive him for those sections that become bogged down in unnecessary detail, those that do little more than mention the game in question (therefore adding nothing productive to the discussion, as this is not an exhaustive encyclopedia), some late-blooming theoretical considerations that would have been useful in previous chapters, and a baffling failure to describe the basic mechanics of modern international chess (when nearly every other game is described in detail, even those of near-universal Anglo-American familiarity).

Overall, the book is satisfying but occasionally leaves one wanting just a bit more (or, in some cases, less). Parlett largely does what he's apparently set out to do, but I wish he would have stuck with the gut instincts that seem to slip through on occasion, where the discussion focuses on the history and development of games and their variants rather than on the rules alone. The book certainly wouldn't suffer from the inclusion of much more of the kind of cultural context that informs Parlett's discussion of, say, chess or go; sometimes he can't see the historical forest for the trees of individual games' mechanics. The book is, however, more than a catalog, and it is positively exciting for the modest enthusiast who is being introduced to many of these games (and, indeed, families thereof) for the first time. Parlett effectively makes the case for games as more than a childish diversion by showcasing the incredibly vast range of mechanics, objectives, themes, and required skills. The Oxford History of Board Games may not make for the most exciting reading, but it does provide an amusing and educational point of entry into the international history of board games, if not quite of those who create, amend, and play them.

Grade: B+

Book 24: The Amazing Harvey

The Amazing Harvey

Don Passman

It is continually amazing to me how authors can invent new ways of working with a standard group of tropes, a process that makes many stories seem familiar while retaining an element of freshness. On some level, The Amazing Harvey is a fairly boilerplate mystery novel, a lawyer-heavy procedural that traces the story of a narrator falsely accused of a crime, down to the twist that brings together some minor details mentioned in passing earlier in the story and conveniently wraps everything up rather neatly. The mystery genre's stereotypes are so sturdy and reliable that the preceding sentence doesn't come close to warranting a spoiler alert (I hope), but this book- this particular procedural among many- is nonetheless a whole lot of fun, mostly because of the unique elements that Passman brings in. The main character (and narrator) is a magician, an inspired choice in a genre that relies so heavily on the keenness of characters' and readers' observations. Who better to determine how the impossible (in this case, very strong scientific evidence linking an innocent man to a crime) is accomplished than someone whose goal in life is to perform similar feats nightly on the Vegas stage? It is obvious that Passman is fond of and reasonably knowledgeable about stage magic (he seamlessly sneaks in references to greats like Houdini and contemporaries like David Copperfield), and telling that he never reveals the secrets behind the big illusions mentioned in the book, though he does refer to some of the well-worn tricks of the trade. Utilizing a  magician also allows Passman to include some silly elements, like an endearing pet bird, and locales like the Magic Castle, which provides a nice backdrop for some otherwise unremarkable scenes.

The Amazing Harvey's greatest asset is, perhaps, Harvey himself, who proves to be a suitably quirky- and capable- narrator. His sarcastic banter and cynical asides make the book enjoyable and set it apart from a slew of similar works: the story's hardly new, the twist is clever but not earth-shattering (though it is, apparently, scientifically plausible), and the supporting cast includes its fair share of stock characters, but I constantly looked forward to returning to Harvey every time I put the book down. He can be a bit thick, to be sure, but he has a hidden cleverness about him; most importantly, he is a convincingly normal guy in a genre strewn with the smartest, toughest, baddest, and best. Though the book consistently has a ring of truth to it, largely because of Harvey's mix of charm and all-too-familiar flaws, Passman does occasionally err on the side of over-inclusion, particularly during an utterly bewildering foray into a completely irrelevant moral controversy that adds nothing to the book or to the national conversation. Likewise, while he should be commended for his attempt to flesh out some of the supporting cast, his efforts sometimes come across as unnecessary padding or, worse, attempts to elicit unwarranted sympathy that could have been earned through more productive methods.

In a way, though, Passman's greatest trick is to weave what seems to be a collection of very small threads into an entire novel. Aside from the error mentioned above, every subplot, slight narrative distraction, and minor character adds in some way to the general tenor of the book, from Harvey's many wry observations to his attorney's fluctuating level of tolerance for them. The main plot alone wouldn't be enough to sustain an entire novel, even one that passes by as quickly and pleasantly as this one, but somehow the story comes together and captivates readers. The book's plausibility is never forced, and events its occasional stock situations seem realistic enough; after all, even the most familiar and worn stereotypes and tropes have to come from somewhere. Thus we have a novel that is seemingly unexceptional yet somehow pleasant, fresh, and a lot of fun. The Amazing Harvey proves that the key to providing good entertainment doesn't lie in having the latest, greatest, most difficult tricks up one's sleeve but, rather, in cultivating and cashing in on the kind of charisma embodied in its eponymous main character.

Grade: A-

Book 23: Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Thomas Sweterlitsch

I'm a sucker for a good apocalypse story, and when I picked up Tomorrow and Tomorrow, knowing that that it hinged on a post-nuclear Pittsburgh, I expected that that's what I was going to get. Instead, I ended up reading a very well conceived blend of cyberpunk and mystery, with a bit of dystopia thrown in for good measure. Though the novel is ultimately driven by a suitably winding plot and effective emotional angst, its core lies in its wonderfully lifelike, fully realized setting, where a constantly connected society accesses an invasive, ad-laden Internet directly through brain and corresponding retinal implants. Other aspects of this near-future society include the aforementioned bombed-out Pittsburgh, an overly cynical (and cynically overplayed) extrapolation of reality TV trends, and a characteristically dystopian political structure. Yet despite the familiarity of these near-future tropes, Thomas Sweterlitsch somehow manages to create a meaningful society that reflects and expands upon our own while enhancing the story at hand and allowing for natural character development. Hero Dominic's fascination with archived images of pre-bomb Pittsburgh, available to refugees, researchers, and curious outsiders alike, is more than an info dump about the types of technology available in this imagined future (and, likewise, more than a not-so-subtle statement about our own increasing use of surveillance in purely civilian contexts); it exposes a crucial element of his character and allows him to be sympathetic, frustrating, and all-too-familiarly human. One cannot rightfully accuse Sweterlitsch of being a master of subtlety, but Tomorrow and Tomorrow contains enough nuance and fresh ideas to balance its bludgeoned stereotypes.

Even the plot carefully- and successfully- straddles this line. It is at times unclear whether characters (and readers alike) have plunged into a murder mystery, political conspiracy, or techno-thriller, and some seemingly played-out tropes are happily undermined (or at least counteracted) throughout the book. Whether this is intentional or not is up to debate, but what remains is a novel that is enjoyable despite its reliance on a number of well-worn ideas and twists. That said, however, the book does fail to thoroughly engage and/or expand upon many of the ideas within. This isn't a problem of over-saturation; though the book is packed with ideas, they all jive, with the exception of the weird way that irrelevant brands permeate the narrative. They only rarely provide insights that are nonetheless immediately undermined by the relentless, pointless parade of mentions that precede the few relevant points. Likewise, seasoned readers may shrug at yet another book that attempts to exploit a perceived societal descent into increasingly depraved tastes; while this kind of commentary is welcome and certainly not wholly irrelevant, it can be difficult to accept a society that begins to rate the "fuckability" of murder victims as soon as their mutilated bodies are discovered (though Sweterlitsch must be commended for absolutely nailing the word choice on that one). There are other times, however, where yet another overripe trope leads in an unexpected direction, usually without the author beating it to death either in its appearance or in its ultimate change in direction.

Perhaps most disappointing is the book's failure to provide the kind of emotional resonance than it should. This is partially due to uneven plot pacing, where thinly masked foreshadowing and subplots disappear long enough to distract readers but reappear too quickly to be true surprise sleeper elements, and to too-frequent deployment of world-building. While the world of Tomorrow and Tomorrow is rich, it is unclear where certain plot threads are supposed to lead; why, for example, make damaging insinuations about the government without properly following through? While the last thing the genre needs is yet another dystopian book pitting One Normal Guy (or, of late, One Normal, Insecure Teenage Girl) against the Evil Government, the novel's brief, implied appeal to Greater Stakes is, in the end, a disappointing feint dismissed out of hand at the conclusion, which itself is too quick, relies too heavily on implications, and still strangely drawn out. Even more egregiously, the relationship between survivors and those they lost in the bombing- which unquestionably forms the emotional core of the novel and allows it to resonate- becomes almost an afterthought at the end. The effect is to transform a profound novel about the power of loss into yet another thriller that happens to be set in the future.

Thus, Tomorrow and Tomorrow is defined to a large extent by a number of missed opportunities: I firmly believe that there is a truly great novel, perhaps a classic, hiding in here somewhere, though it seems we must settle (for now) for a satisfying book that shows the great promise of its author (who is, it bears mentioning, a first-time novelist). It is often easier to notice and dissect aspects of books that fail, but I feel like this does a bit of a disservice to Sweterlitsch, who by and large manages the complexities of his near-future quite deftly. He manages to effectively unite several genres without adhering too strictly to the expected and without becoming bogged down in any of them, and his characters are as compelling and complex as his setting. There is so much inherent and unassuming promise in this book, which comes tantalizingly close to providing meaningful, transcendent explorations of the depths of loss, love, and forgiveness for the unforgivable, and I eagerly anticipate the author's next foray into fiction. That said, Tomorrow and Tomorrow still falls slightly short of the mark, providing a compelling future setting, compelling characters, and a compelling plot, but failing to fully capitalize on the emotional power that lies somewhere within its core.

Grade: B+