Book 11: American English: Dialects and Variation

American English: Dialects and Variation
Walt Wolfram and Natalie Schilling-Estes

Ah, textbooks. Those semester-long providers of endless drudgery and dry, condescending, and repetitive information, with page after page of endless examples and dull prose, will soon be dead to my required reading lists, but here is an example of the good mixed in with the otherwise dominant bad. As a textbook, American English: Dialects and Variation can be expected to run a bit on the dry side, and dry it is indeed, though there is a sly humor that meanders its way through the book and occasionally pops up in unexpected places. Though it is not a book most would choose to read for fun and is certainly not meant for a general audience, the book is engaging and informative, with an exceptional glossary and indispensable appendix of grammatical features discussed throughout the book, making it useful as a reference book beyond the initial run-through. Nor is the prose, dull though it may be, quite a slog. There are plenty of places where it could be more lively, but the authors are careful to introduce new concepts with plenty of illustrative examples and relevant academic studies that clarify potential questions while providing suggestions for further reading. In fact, one of the most useful aspects of the book is the bibliographies and suggested reading that accompany each chapter, providing readers with a vetted list of the linguistic studies that provide the foundation for the book's assertion. This academic honesty and thoughtfulness for the audience is appreciated and echoed in the book's greater organizational scheme, which presents variationist linguistics first through a series of chapters exploring the nature of variation and its potential causes and then moves into specific aspects of variation (race, gender, or age, for example) and, finally, practical applications. These final two chapters, in fact, are the only part of the book that becomes cumbersome for interested readers, as a promise to explore applications of dialect study stalls instead on educational aspects. This follows a very intriguing (and more widely applicable) treatment of the linguistics of standardized testing, and while the information presented on teaching dialects is interesting enough for those particularly interested, the focus is too specific, too drawn out, and does not provide a fitting conclusion to the book. Instead, the authors insert an overt agenda that reaches far beyond the book's general, self-justifying, and reasonable assertion that variation is legitimate and which makes the final chapters not so much a summation as a slog. Regardless of its final failure, however, American English: Dialects and Variation is a remarkably useful and accessible introduction to variation and dialects for the academically inclined and, though dry, efficiently packs a wealth of information and examples into a reasonably slim and easy volume.

Grade: A

Book 10: Lysistrata

Lysistrata
Aristophanes

It is difficult to enter the study of any ancient literature without a serviceable knowledge of ancient culture, and in that regard it is impossible to separate my reading experience of the Lysistrata from the work of translator Alan H. Sommerstein. Unfortunately, however, this thought occurred to me not afterward in a fit of particular gratitude but, instead, in the midst of reading the book. Sommerstein’s introduction to Aristophanes and his endnotes are immensely useful to readers who, like me, have little experience with Ancient Greece, but his work is sadly transparent throughout the work in numerous missteps and distractions. It is, of course, difficult to display the nuances of dialect, slang, and vulgarity in any work’s non-native language, and the supplementary material within the book indicates that Sommerstein has a firm grasp on the play’s context and creator. Nonetheless, the rendering of Spartan speech in a stereotypical and borderline offensive exaggerated Scottish dialect does not imply the general difference I believe the author was aiming for but, instead, simply makes the group sound, well, Scottish. Various Britishisms that appear throughout this particular translation are forgivable as the dialect is presumably Sommerstein’s own, but the silliness of the Scottish Spartans and of numerous awkward constructions will immediately and forcibly drag American minds away from the text at hand and will induce a pondering of the translator rather than the text itself.

That said, however, Lysistrata is a delightful and surprisingly vulgar play, humorous for modern readers and understandable despite a number of contextual references to Greek culture and history that may not be immediately understood by modern readers. Moreover, the play is at times uproariously hilarious, and its take on the ability of physical desire to trump all human evils is surprisingly cutting even in these enlightened times. Lysistrata is an enjoyable read for its own sake, and Sommerstein’s occasional inadequacy is significantly mitigated by his adeptness at translating the songs of the play’s various choruses, which absolutely shine. The play is well constructed, though the ambiguity of time leaves the plot seeming at times a bit disjointed, and the work is revealing about the context of its creation even if some of that context is obscured either by the fog of history or a particular reader’s own unfamiliarity with the topic. Generally speaking, each character develops his or her own voice, and though the plot can seem a bit silly and gets downright dirty, even for today’s standards, at some points the play contains what is necessary and few distracting embellishments. While some phrases are repeated too often and an undue emphasis is often placed on sex and the naked body, Aristophanes succeeds in creating a lasting play that is readable and relevant millennia after its creation. Though Lysistrata may suffer at the hands of overeager translators, it remains a quick, fun, and surprisingly revealing read for modern readers, though it is certainly not for the faint of heart.

Grade: B+

Book 9: Zot!: The Complete Black and White Collection, 1987-1991

Zot!: The Complete Black and White Collection, 1987-1991
Scott McCloud

To call Zot! a graphic novel is a bit inaccurate, as this particular collection instead represents the complete run of the black-and-white comic series over a number of years. As a self-contained body of work, however, the collection does portray a number of narrative arcs and presents an addicting fusion of manga-influenced artwork, the classic American superhero tradition, and comics' late-1980s foray into the everyday problems otherwise relegated to more highly regarded types of literature. Though some oblique references to the series' earlier 10-issue color run may be a bit confusing, this particular collection is well-annotated to avoid confusion, and these references and in-jokes are generally of the kind that will enhance longtime readers' experience with the book without greatly hampering those new to the series. In fact, what makes Zot! so appealing across a range of audiences is an elegant mixture of a great historical awareness that contextually situates the comic in a particular point of genre development and a well-developed series of engaging storylines that are well-balanced and that engage a number of topics, themes, and storytelling tones. While there is nothing inherently revolutionary about the collection, it represents a successful attempt to fuse new storytelling styles and techniques in American comics with a delightfully old-fashioned superhero and classic teen coming-of-age angst.

Zot! is a series that is appealing and marvelous despite some very obvious shortcomings. Though McCloud's explanatory essays, which themselves are a welcome addition and are presented helpfully after the storylines in question rather than as spoilers, frequent self-derision regarding the artwork is distracting, though not entirely undeserved. McCloud does, however, call undue extra attention to the inconsistency in his art, which is apparent but which does not greatly hamper the general reading experience. It should be obvious to most readers that the comic is primarily character-driven, and though there is a bit of necessary nuance lacking in taut emotional scenes, his eye for perspective makes his futuristic scenery stand out, particularly as it is rendered in black and white. Moreover, McCloud clearly has a good grasp of the medium and its particular affordances and abilities, and series of panels meant to convey very small changes in expression or gestures may not quite achieve their artistic goals, but are nonetheless effective in representing the effect of what the author/artist is going for. This is, ultimately, what is important about Zot!, which is clearly not intended to survive solely or even mostly on artistic merit but which instead challenges boundaries and is more than sufficiently supported by its storylines, writing, and characters.

In fact, McCloud's constant apologies attempt to atone for problems that are often not even evident. Part of Zot!'s charm is its distinctive artistic style, and the resistance to color illustration allows the content to triumph over the use of superhero cliché. And while McCloud does utilize some character exaggerations that often make the comic seem too earnest, there are signs of author, artist, and character growth over the course of the series. Even the traditional-seeming supervillains are thoughtfully constructed to represent different possibilities for a future gone awry, and McCloud is able to utilize the superhero narrative as a critical device rather than as a narrative fallback. It also helps that he often displays exceptional talent, from an implicit understanding, if not complete mastery, of comics' potential as revolutionary narrative medium to a number of issues nominated for various accolades. McCloud displays an exceptional range. He nails effective political commentary, from the non-threatening De-Evolutionaries, who revert humanity back to monkeys with special ray guns, to the overzealous capitalism of the Blotch. Here, too, are more serious threats to humanity posed by once-human robot Dekko (whose visions are rendered in absolutely stunning artwork) and, most tragically, by technology itself, as personified in 9Jack9, a true "ghost in the machine." The story arc of the same title lingers, its haunting conclusion and surprisingly dark tone aptly setting the stage for the more mature second half of the series. The implicit darkness of Dekko and 9Jack9 will stay with readers, though their last hurrah comes as comic relief as Zot's worthy nemeses come together for a pitch-perfect battle that provides a perfect segway between the series' two main thematic halves while entertaining and rewarding fans.

The concluding batch of stories, which concentrate on our Earth and which do not utilize the portal that facilitates travel to superhero Zot's brilliantly retro-futuristic world, grounds the series and allows it to wrap up in such an effective manner. As the series opens, readers are left to wonder why we shouldn't, after all, want to live in a world whose perfection stems from favorite visions of Golden Age futurists. Early in the book, protagonist and Earth girl Jenny wonders why we might bother to appreciate anything about our world, but as these sentiments are echoed in the series' final lines, they display a depth made possible only by the intervening stories. McCloud is, in some ways, a genius, one who more than makes up for his own acknowledged shortcomings by presenting readers with the familiar in an unfamiliar context, forging meaning out of cliché and elevating comics to a new artistic respectability. Ultimately, Zot!: The Complete Black and White Collection, 1987-1991 has its awkward moments and growing, but the overall effect is a marvelous blend of traditional escapism and real-world relevance that transcends its own limitations to present a wonderful collection of riveting stories that is truly a joy to read.

Grade: A

Book 8: Eugénie Grandet

Eugénie Grandet

Honoré de Balzac

This installment of Honoré de Balzac's Comédie Humaine promises a realistic look at rural France in the early 19th century, advertising a well-fought contest between two rival families for the hand of an unthinkably rich miser's eligible daughter. Surely this promise will maintain the slowly dwindling hopes of readers as they maneuver through the dense exposition that occupies a good deal of the book's opening stages. Rather than opening directly upon the action, or even alluding to action, Balzac takes readers through an agonizingly monotonous and just slightly tedious history of Felix Grandet and the acquisition of his millions. The lot makes for a fascinating look at post-Revolutionary French economics and certainly paints a story of a very keen, very cunning man, but without anything to break the tedium, readers whose strong suits lie outside economics may find themselves lost in the details. The story shows a bit more promise once events catch up to the present, but even then it seems unsettled and a bit unsure of what, exactly, the story is. Various framing devices suggest that the story centers around the potential suitors of Eugénie, and indeed this is initially borne out in some of the book’s funniest moments, but a series of events detracts from that narrative and makes the book seem to be something else altogether. This is, of course, fine if the desired outcome is a history of Eugénie Grandet, but readers are justified in feeling a bit misled by expectations of a different sort altogether.

For modern eyes, the book also suffers from its location in literary history. Balzac’s idea of a three dimensional heroine is rather flat, and though the injustices suffered by Eugénie at the hands of the various men in the book are effectively enraging, she is hardly a character to root for. Even Grandet himself barely transcends stereotype, relegated to the part of an uncompromising miser but somehow spared full indignation in a number of awkward moments. It is difficult to see where Balzac stands in all of this, and difficult to see what he is driving at as the novel time and again changes its tone and focus; the novel is undoubtedly about the history of a particular provincial family, but it is a bit more difficult to get a handle on what aspects of this family readers are meant to focus on. This overall incoherence masks a dry wit that is at times quite entertaining and which, one suspects, would be well-suited to some of the narrative paths the novel embarks upon, only to hesitate and retreat into a dull stupor. Within the jumble, there are also some interesting observations about money and miserliness, and about gender relations in early France. The book is undoubtedly a valuable historical artifact, but it can be tough going for some modern readers as it presupposes some familiarity with economic concepts and nuances of French society and, more importantly, as it dances around its themes without really settling upon a few to explore in further depth. At book’s end, it is difficult to tell what, precisely, readers are supposed to get out of the experience.

The experience isn’t all unpleasant, however, and there are some good points to the book, most notably when Balzac displays a bit of exasperation at a particular habit. Neither Parisians nor provincials are entirely immune from his barbs, and though they are small and easy to miss they break up what can otherwise be a dull or confusing narrative thread. Likewise, the hints of plot that emerge occasionally from the atmosphere induce readers to keep reading, if never quite paying off, and the book certainly illuminates many of the facts of life in both rural and urban France in the early 19th century. Abundant details, however, are lumped together and easily become meaningless, lost among the muddle. Ultimately, however, though the (male) characters (and, perhaps unsurprisingly, a female servant) are generally well-drawn and the plot threatening interest at various intervals, the book might prove more trouble than it's worth. Eugénie Grandet is an excellent historic artifact but the book's lack of pace may prove too dull and disconnected for many readers.

Grade: B

Book 7: In the Land of Invented Languages

In the Land of Invented Languages: A Celebration of Linguistic Creativity, Madness, and Genius

Arika Okrent

Though it irks my inherent cataloger, the fact that this lovely book bears the library's "Fiction" sticker is quite apt, as it deals with that purest realm of fiction, the invented language. As much as our own natural language patterns evoke within us and to our conversational partners a sense of who we are, it quickly becomes apparent that life In the Land of Invented Languages is far from unbiased, much to the chagrin of the intrepid language inventors that form the core of Okrent's engaging, humorous book. Concentrating on broad trends in language invention but adapting a narrower focus to zoom in on particular iterations of certain larger schemas about language and, by extension, the world, the book neatly falls somewhere between historical survey and case studies. Though this form naturally suits the subject matter (it is, after all, difficult enough to grasp the basics of any given language, much less to understand its mechanics well enough to place it in historical or linguistic context), a balance is not always struck and the book seems to lack overall structure despite the author's clearly sound instincts. A desire to provide examples and to entertain betrays Okrent as each of the book's sections begins with an individual anecdote, often tracking a certain language inventor, a practice good for drawing readers into the action straightaway but which is executed here so effectively and to so much depth that the inevitable withdrawals toward the larger picture inevitably seem abrupt. There are few transitions between chapters within broader sections, and where they do exist they don't quite make sense; it seems wasteful, for example, for the second section to dive straight into Okrent's (hilarious) recollections of her recent stint at an Esperanto convention only to abandon that language for several chapters. The thematic threads that link each section's eventual redemptive chapter with its neighbors and with its opener are thoughtful and rendered well throughout each segment, but the transitions are apt to induce vertigo. The trick works for the book's introduction and concluding chapter, but the effect is, sadly, not scalable.

In the Land of Invented Languages actually is. The book is nothing short of delightful as the author proudly embraces the oddities that define those people crazy enough to invent languages, crazy enough to learn or use them, and the complete lunatics who find all of this intriguing enough to embark upon a book project. The scope of invented language history is massive, and though it the book's primary exhibits are obviously trimmed off of a far larger whole, its focus can be awfully specific, occasionally at the cost of greater elucidation. Okrent does, again, clearly have the right instincts in grouping trends together and placing them within their respective historical paradigms, illustrating them thoughtfully and peppering the combination with the truly weird anecdotes she seems to have a nose for and obviously enjoys. The book, however, feels at times like a loosely tied whole and is in danger of falling apart, united more by the author's enthusiasm than by some small, thematically-minded touches that would serve to make the book much more coherent for linguistic newbies.

Strange, then, that the book is a genuine pleasure to read. Okrent’s obvious enthusiasm for the material combines with an appropriately skeptical eye to create a book that is full of pep and which successfully deploys an array of zingers. It is obvious that the work is, to a large extent, a labor of love, but it is one deployed with a sense of underlying purpose and humor. Nor does it lack all technical sophistication; while the book is far from a dry academic exploration of language invention, it contains enough of a technical vocabulary to be useful to those more versed in the language of linguistics. Importantly, however, the material is absolutely accessible, with linguistic nods a bonus for interested readers and spanning a number of topics that should be of interest to audiences various and sundry. There is a bit of inevitable history that informs various linguistic choices, some geography and study of perceptions of Chinese scripts, and a range of sociological considerations. Okrent seeks to place invented languages in both the context of their historical era as well as the particular concerns and motivations of their creators, and in the process she delivers a thought-provoking collection of individual case studies that begs, but never desperately, relevant larger questions. In the Land of Invented Languages is a witty, engaging book that makes up for its organizational anarchy with interesting, well-delivered content.

Grade: A-

Book 6: If the South Had Won the Civil War

If the South Had Won the Civil War
MacKinlay Kantor

The alternate history genre that arises from the everlasting intrigue of "what if" is, really, inherent throughout all manner of fictional stories, from those that project a certain understanding onto the otherwise "real" world to the tales of galaxies far, far away from our own. If the South Had Won the Civil War is, however, an example in the vein one would expect from the genre, as amply evidenced in its title. If ever it is appropriate to judge a book not by its cover but from its title alone, MacKinley Kantor's effort is the epitome of such easily-judged literature. With a point of departure originating from the game-changing Union victories at Vicksburg and Gettysburg in July 1863, the book traces the brief continuation of the war and its aftermath until the time of publication, 1961. While there is nothing particularly shocking about the book, as it seems to exist primarily as a series of interesting postulations rather than as an exploration of Kantor's own reality, it is clearly well-thought out and dressed wonderfully.

That the book is engaging at all speaks to its wonderful engagement with its central conceit, and those times when the book goes a bit off script are jarring but in the amusing, overly explained way peculiar to alternate history. Posed as a brief centennial history written in 1961 (a nod to Kantor's own publication date), the book is complete with occasional invented footnotes and little details that flesh out its reality and at its best when subtly dropping sly hints to its core audience of Civil War aficionados. Unfortunately, the book does include the familiar, stereotypical traps of the genre, and while the posing of historical immutability at its introduction successfully and immediately lures readers with its camouflaged irony, the author offers numerous asides to the audience that do not play nearly as well. These nods to the narrator's own "what if" scenarios are few enough in number to be more annoying than actually troublesome, though they temporarily pull readers out of the narrative context and are particularly aggravating for readers who are less familiar with the original history's own particulars.

In Kantor's case, these winks tend to err on the side of tolerability because his knowledge of history is obvious through his meticulous concern to detail. The book is small but possesses a remarkable depth for those who have the background to recognize the many changed details within the book that characterize its wartime segment. Indeed, these are so numerous and trifling that readers less versed in the storied history of the 1860s may feel at times hard-pressed to continue amid the barrage of minor details that seems to reinforce such reader's claims of ignorance. Regardless, the general sketch of events hangs together well enough that the most meticulous portions of the book are worth its post-war vision of a tri-partite North America. It is here most obvious that Kantor has given his scenario a good deal of serious thought, despite a bizarre, wholly unlikely treatment of Lincoln's death. The post-war implications for racial segregation are briefly explained but not dodged, and indeed there are some sentences that seem to originate from a later sensibility than that of 1961 (I had to double-check the publication date after reading what I believed to be a sarcastic reference to presidential resignations), as well as the expected (but intelligently done) cameo appearance of the real-world Cold War. Despite a somewhat pedantic ending, the book satisfies with its enthusiasm and consistency. If the South Had Won the Civil War is a surprisingly rich novella, with bountiful rewards for knowledgeable readers on the subject and enough verve to sustain the merely curious.

Grade: A-

Book 5: Death in Venice

Death in Venice
Thomas Mann

Immortalized for many by the few final moments of its famous film adaptation, Death in Venice is an intriguing, slightly inaccessible look at beauty and the intoxicating power of raw emotion over otherwise rational individuals. The inevitable decline of protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach is at once flamboyant and timid, maintaining an uneasy balance marvelously evoked by Mann when his full attentions are on the task at hand. Though frequent philosophical digressions routinely adorn the text and leave little room for ambiguity, they are often detached from the story at hand and seem to operate independently of Aschenbach. The intention behind these detours is pretty clearly to illuminate the depth of complications arising from Aschenbach's solitude and his growing fascination with a pretty young thing, but Mann's extended meditations on the eternal conflicts between the desire for beauty and truth in art, between the intuitive and the rational, or between the unspoken and overt come at the heavy cost of readers' attention and interest. These passages are illuminating but demanding both in their placement surrounding, rather than really integrated into, the narrative and in the richness of their topics. Death in Venice may be a short novella, but it requires far more attention than most novels I have read, and any lapse is likely to send the reader into a vortex of inscrutable confusion. That the book is short should not be surprising, given the small scope of a plot (insofar as plot exists), that feels abbreviated even after its natural concision is taken into account. The result is that the slender volume feels quite inflated with the author's insights and editorializing.

Not quite a character study and not quite a philosophical allegory, the novella flails a bit while attempting to strike a balance between protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach's increasingly obsessive, and not a small bit creepy, infatuation with a young teenager and Mann's observations on the nature of the human psyche. Despite lacking interest for a general audience, the book does display some deft skill. There are the usual clever turns of phrase that decorate most esteemed literary works, but what is best conveyed throughout the novella is a sense of foreboding, at once overt and subtle. Mann is not shy about setting the tone and deploying an array of repetitive cues to signify Aschenbach's most important observations; when these do come, they are not despite their obviousness in any way obtrusive, and indeed it is refreshing to get inside the fictional writer's head rather than his real-life author's.

Mann may be forgiven for hitting the theme heavily in those moments when the story advances, and indeed his consistency is refreshing and grounds the text after so many distractions. His view of plagued Venice is deeply unsettling, but he is able to convey strong, severe images of decay without relying heavily on meaningless exposition. The inevitable sense of deterioration accelerates meaningfully with the plot, though these tandem developments could have been handled with more skill, and the overall effect of the novel is as deeply intellectual as intended. Like the book itself, the month or so that occupies the bulk of the story moves by with a kind of dreamlike quality, each revelation fading into another until an irrevocable decision is reached and a fate duly sealed. Though it is difficult to actually read and enjoy due to a surplus of attention to unwieldy intellectualism, Death in Venice is obviously crafted with skill and offers rewards for readers who will have a chance to probe its surprising density in greater depth.

Grade: B

Book 4: Northanger Abbey

Northanger Abbey
Jane Austen

Because the early nineteenth century is so far behind us, it easy to forget that the world of Jane Austen may in fact bear a striking resemblance to our own, if not in its particulars then certainly in some of the tendencies of human nature. To misread Jane Austen as predominately predisposed to epic period romances is perhaps to do her a slight disservice; though it is primarily concerned with romance and the follies and glories of love, Northanger Abbey is a hilarious, biting satire that should be lumped neither with Jonathan Swift nor with Fabio-adorned Harlequin romances. Set in Bath and then in the English countryside, the book is one of many faces, a richly textured work pleasing through both its social comedy facade and its frequent, finely pointed but never entirely mean-spirited wit. While Austen’s more salient points are offered by and large with little subtlety, her humor is effective and only rarely disrupts the plot. An offhand remark on the tendencies of gentlemen when wooing likely prospects often serves not only to satirize the silliness of enforced formality (and resulting uselessness) in courtship but also to disguise a more insidious, subtle remark about gender relations in the early nineteenth century. Blatancy is employed as a disguise and a diversionary tactic throughout the book, and readers will find themselves rewarded if they seek out meaning between the sharpest barbs.

Those lines themselves, however, offer no shortage of amusement and are reasonably unpredictable, though the ultimate conclusion will not surprise any seasoned readers. Though the novel suffers a bit from its awkward transition between the high society follies of Bath and the superbly gothic expectations of Northanger Abbey, its story is just cohesive enough to hang together. More importantly, nary a plot element passes by without comment, whether overt or subtle, from the author. From the opening introduction of her protagonist, Austen cranks the irony up to eleven, making comments throughout on the suitability of “heroine” as an appropriate descriptor of poor, naïve Catherine Morland. The author is full of snark, but is able to deploy it with enough subtlety that the novel is rarely overwhelming and, when overwhelming, is often at least amusing (a page or so about the merit of novels is entertaining and revelatory but ultimately misplaced in this particular narrative). Its population of characters displays an effective mixture of the expected and the nuanced, with caricatures such as Isabella and John Thorpe playing so effectively to type that they are nothing short of delightful. Indeed, Austen is at her best when openly riffing on the established norms of high society and of gothic novels, subverting each while deploying them effortlessly to create a novel that is, in some sense, at odds with itself. More than a period piece, more than another canned, predictable romance, and more than a bitter satirical jab, the book is enjoyable for its surface features as well as its deeper implications. All told, Northanger Abbey is nothing if not fun, often provoking audible laughter and wearing its age well by providing contemporary criticism of nineteenth century faults we are now quick to point out.

Grade: A

Book 3: A Geography of Time

A Geography of Time: The Temporal Misadventures of a Social Psychologist
Robert Levine

The perfect nonfiction book may be a simply unattainable product: the few with more than passably good writing and fluid arguments are often distinguished by dry subject matter and delivery, while many with blockbuster concepts are undone by a complete inability to string together a decent sentence or two thousand. The latter are all the more tragic because they leave readers with the lingering feeling that an opportunity has been sorely missed, all the more important in nonfiction because, unlike good plots, good theses and interesting ideas often have few experts and the books that espouse particularly intriguing ideas often owe their genesis to the author alone. It is difficult to read A Geography of Time as anything but a painfully missed opportunity, an exhibition not of Robert Levine’s truly interesting take on the human condition but instead on all of the crucial errors he makes in attempting to create a high-impact pop-psychology bestseller out of his own experience as a Very Serious Scientist, Thank You. The result is a muddle of memoir, data, and that particular breed of arrogance showcased best when one is attempting hardest to avoid such accusations. This wouldn’t be so infuriating if Levine was writing a run-of-the-mill clunker, but the unique importance and ubiquity of time, his chosen subject, makes this painful result all the more tragic.

Levine wastes no time in demonstrating many of the ways a well-conceived book can veer dramatically off course, opening his preface with a personal anecdote about the flow of time in Brazil. This technique, of course, is a brilliant way to draw readers into an otherwise heavily fact-oriented narrative, but it becomes immediately apparent that Levine is no storyteller. The observations fueled by his recollections go incredibly wayward as he first attempts to embrace cultural relativity and then suddenly realizes his need to play to his audience, couching his language in ironically indicting, careful non-judgmental terms that play up his ignorance not only of Brazil, but of his audience as well. Levine clumsily dances around real issues throughout his book, absolutely unwilling to take a stand while simultaneously pretending to and offering value judgments where he promises objectivity. It is difficult to say what he is arguing at any given moment, particularly as evidence often contradicts facts due to his mishandling of English. Time and again, arguments are undercut while readers can only sigh and try to construct what Levine meant to say instead. In one particularly hilarious example, Levine reprints a story of a medieval duel left uncontested after one participant failed to show by noon and the other duly declared him a coward. What the author does not seem to realize is that the resulting intensive court inquiry as to the precise time of the challenger’s own departure does not, in fact, illustrate an "indifference" to time; rather, it demonstrates what appears to be his original point, that the understanding of time could be very fluid in a world without reliable, coordinated clocks. An indifferent court would have placated the duelist and needn’t have bothered ascertaining the precise time that the duel was abandoned.

This may appear to be a minor quibble, but this gross misunderstanding of evidence is just about the only consistency of Levine’s book. Despite being ordered into reasonably logical sections, the book bounces back and forth between subjects, repeating stories and observations and wholly unable to knit anything together at all cohesively on any level. Paragraphs are just as often non-sequiturs as enlightening follow-ups to those preceding, and the inconsistent deployment of line breaks and headings renders them almost pointless. The writing itself is often condescending and remarkably ignorant for all of the traveling Levine has done, his observations hollow in their inevitably numerous iterations and his eagerness to please undermining any scientific credibility he may have had.

Simply put, this book is ultimately undone by ambition and good intentions. It is admirable that Levine himself admits some of the flaws of a given data set, but after spending pages describing why, exactly, his data may be untrustworthy readers may be forgiven for failing to give it any credit at all. The author’s decision to include data this unreliable is questionable at best and perfectly illustrates the confusion that rests at the heart of this book. Levine wants so earnestly to write a pop psychology bestseller that his intent bleeds through where any semblance of a consistent thesis or even a reasonably reliable tone cannot. The book is at once organized thematically, chronologically, geographically, and not at all. Most galling, the end result of a globe-spanning exploration of the flexibility of human time perception yields no useful results. Interesting observations, such as the power associated with making people wait for you or the differences between individualistic and community-based societies, are illustrated with the same few bland anecdotes or are basically ignored as Levine remembers something shiny he either forgot to mention when it was relevant or simply cannot wait to divulge.

For all his misdirection and stumbling, Levine has constructed something useful. His enthusiasm for and appreciation of time as an under-recognized but crucial factor of the human experience is unquestionable and should motivate future scholars to follow up on his more interesting ideas. Unfortunately, Levine simply lacks the finesse necessary to make his ideas coherent and the good judgment to edit, well, anything. There is nothing wrong with embracing cultural relativity, and his decision to do so follows naturally from his experiences, but some things are just incomparable: it is beyond appalling that Levine quite seriously equates habitual Brazilian lateness with honor killing of women caught in adultery; this is no exaggeration. With that gem, Levine erodes any credibility he may have had only halfway through the book and readers can only grimace and prepare for the barrage of ill-supported, self righteous assertions that populate the text. A Geography of Time has the basic elements of success with a unique and important subject, combination of personal experience and scientific data, and the author’s unwavering enthusiasm; unfortunately, the last becomes so overwhelming that any useful insight can only be gained through sheer persistence as a reader wades through the muddled mess.

Grade: D

Book 2: Austerlitz

Austerlitz

W. G. Sebald

It is difficult for me to make a kind of assessment of this book. On one hand, it is lyrical, poetic, moving; on the other, plodding, confusing, and pompous. Sebald has a gift for language, deployed wonderfully through translator Anthea Bell, and there are times when this talent is so luminous that it masks a digression or a lack of plot. At others, however, no amount of lyrical beauty can persuade the reader that the text at hand is anything but the author's indulgence, prioritizing a favored technique or Daring Literary Idea over the needs of the story being told which, all things considered, is quite a powerful one. Peppered with thematic and stylist diversions and distractions, the story is at heart a powerful exploration of identity and anonymity, strangely intertwined and the driving forces between both the erratic style and half-dreamed substance of the book. Constructed primarily of the patchwork narrative of Jacques Austerlitz, told to an unknown acquaintance over a period of thirty years, Austerlitz retraces individual and collective disturbances caused by the Holocaust and the ways in which the past can shape how one views oneself as an individual or within the context of a larger community.

The ethereal nature of identity, its fluidity and inescapable insecurity, are captured effectively by many of the same literary methods that often make the book a chore to read. The displacement of the primary narrative, accomplished through ambiguous, unnamed first-person narration and deliberately evoked through self-referential third-hand quotation, makes the act of reading the book in some ways as unstable as its original telling. Constructions that call attention to the story's murky provenance are frequent and, though jarring, create a chord of thematic harmony as the narrator relays information across several channels of communication ("He said, Austerlitz continued…"). Though these reminders highlight how difficult it often is to remember who, exactly, is narrating at a given moment, the ambiguity reflects the questions of certainty that drive the story. Austerlitz is, in many ways, a man without a history, and his gradual uncovering of the past serves both to solidify his identity and to make him feel increasingly out of place in the world. Sebald's exploration of this dual-pronged result of historical inquiry is an extremely perceptive and appropriate method by which to examine the horrors of the Holocaust and the insanity that occupied Europe throughout the early mid-20th century.

Just as Europe could not, and to a certain degree still cannot, reconcile its past with its present identity, so Austerlitz re-traces his own history, both aimlessly and with an inevitable, inextinguishable desire to progress further. The journey, in Sebald's hands, is both painful and strangely beautiful. There is a lyrical sadness to the book and a heavy weight to both its words and images, many of which are reprinted in stark black and white throughout the text; frequent foreshadowing creates an air of constant slight unease paired with a desire to see where, exactly, the story is heading. The novel in its construction echoes brilliantly its theme, yet it is often cumbersome and seems to be intentionally difficult, much to its detriment. One sentence stretches on needlessly over the course of five or six pages until, exhausted under its own weight, it collapses and allows readers to glaze over. Moreover, the story is presented in large chunks of prose, without chapter distinctions and suffering for want of more than about five paragraph breaks. The structure may mirror the course of the conversation and the neverending flow of history and relational thinking, but a constant battering of words and images and ideas will exhaust many readers and will distract from the greater importance and, yes, beauty of the book. Austerlitz is, as is its central theme, in many ways a paradox, a brilliantly conceived, brilliantly constructed, and brilliantly written novel that suffers from the burden of its care and its uncompromising capitulation to form over substance and readability.

Grade: A-