Book 48: Look Who's Back

Look Who's Back

Timur Vermes

Satire can often be a tricky prospect, for what should be obvious reasons, and it is difficult to imagine a trickier target than Adolf Hitler; this is especially true when the target audience is German. Timur Vermes accepts the challenge by dropping the historical Hitler into modern Germany, with all of his personality (and our real-world history) intact. Moreover, this time-transported Hitler narrates his own story, putting readers into the dubious position of seeing the modern world through his point of view and, more importantly, forcing them to reconcile that vision with the reality we (think we) understand. The resurrected Hitler is as stubborn and single-minded as he was in his own time, and he struggles to make sense of a Germany that is radically different from both the one that he lived in and the one he intended to create. Meanwhile, he cannot accept the reality of his defeat, and thus views every development as a natural consequence of a resounding Axis victory in World War II. The constant discrepancy between Hitler's assumptions and the actual facts of postwar history creates the cognitive dissonance that drives the novel and provides the backbone of its (often pitch-black) humor.

The primary result of this juggling is a very funny novel that pokes fun at the displaced dictator and at the absurdities of the modern world. Yet Look Who's Back offers, at its core, a stern warning about this same tendency to laugh at humanity's darker impulses. Hitler is recognized and celebrated, in part, because this is what he expects; what others see as impeccable method acting is, in fact, a life truly lived, and it slowly wins over the public (but not, in a nice twist of irony, the actual neo-Nazis, who likewise believe that Hitler is merely a committed actor in wolf's clothing). He ultimately catapults to stardom after going viral on YouTube and winning a gig on the late-night circuit, a would-be parody act who is funny precisely because he is the only one not in on the joke. Wisely, perhaps, Vermes doesn't offer a verdict on the main question that arises: whether Hitler's charisma or the audience's (our) susceptibility to the exaggerated illogic of extremism is responsible for his renewed rise to power. Whatever the answer, the book certainly invites readers to consider how easily Hitler (still) captivates audiences, and how easily we dismiss extremists as silly without fully recognizing the danger they pose.

While it is surprisingly deep for a book focusing so obviously on ts surface humor, Look Who's Back may fail to resonate fully with an expanded audience. The trouble with Look Who's Back, for American readers, anyway, is that much of its humor is very narrowly tailored to its German audience. Certain jokes are necessarily inaccessible, despite translator Jamie Bulloch's best efforts and an appended glossary offering biographical notes on former and current German politicians (including lesser-known figures within the original NSDAP), entertainers, and potentially obscure facets of the country's entertainment industry. These references force the foreign reader into a catch-22: to read the explanatory notes is to accept spoilers, but to ignore them is to dwell in ignorance and miss many of the jokes as they fly past unheeded. It is somewhat unfair to blame either Vermes or Bulloch for this, but the obvious disconnect did affect my enjoyment of the novel; the book sacrifices universal accessibility for a deeper dive into modern German culture, and as a result it is impossible for many (if not most) English readers to fully appreciate and/or understand its humor and underlying message. Even in this somewhat distilled form, however, Look Who's Back cleverly explores the ramifications of its interesting premise, offering plenty of slapstick and satire to entertain readers who cannot fully appreciate, or judge, its criticisms.

Grade: B+

Book 31: The Violent Century

The Violent Century

Lavie Tidhar

I have always found stories featuring alternate and parallel histories somewhat enticing, with their visions of a past that, despite being somewhat similar to our own, is not quite right. At their best, these stories open up worlds of alternate possibilities, asking and allowing us to reexamine the ways in which we affect the world around and beyond us. Lavie Tidhar's alternate 20th century, which he aptly terms the "Violent Century", hinges on the presence of Übermenschen, ordinary humans who acquire superpowers after a mysterious quantum event in the early 1930s. Though World War II and subsequent conflicts proceed more or less as expected, the book effectively utilizes narrative tricks to evoke a sense of chaos that parallels the effect of the century's many wars. With its short (and often punchy) sentences, shifting points of view, and occasional flirtation with first- and second-person narration, to say nothing of its constant time-jumping structure, The Violent Century often provides a sense of disorientation that, somehow, doesn't feel out of place. The book quickly settles into a pattern, of sorts, and though the framing narrative and other details occasionally get lost it delivers necessary information at a reasonable pace. The book certainly rewards lengthy spells of reading, as certain bits of information become easily forgotten or lost, but it is remarkably accessible given its inherent complexity.

Some events do seem to get lost, not the least of which is the appropriate character building necessary to lend the book's central relationships an appropriate level of plausibility. Tidhar is also prone to distractions; though his visions of the various superheroes' postwar ventures are as compelling as the depictions of World War II, it is not immediately clear how they are thematically relevant. Likewise, one character's deus ex machina appearance toward the book's climax comes across as incredibly disingenuous, given the vast possibilities offered by their unique abilities; it simply beggars belief that it would not have previously been relevant, even given the novel's chaotic narrative structure. The book is jam-packed with excellent and intriguing ideas, and Tidhar employs a deft hand in bringing them to life, but the book clearly has larger philosophical aspirations that it cannot quite live up to. The questions are posed, if meekly, but the reader is never able to properly consider the implications.

Nevertheless, the book's set pieces are so convincing and impressive that it succeeds on the level of pure entertainment, experimentation aside. From the snows surrounding besieged Leningrad to the steamy jungles of Laos and the concrete maze of September 11-era New York City, the set pieces match the best in the business. Even more impressive is Tidhar's ability to seamlessly weave his Übermenschen into the fabric of oft-studied history, creating a slightly altered world that is as utterly convincing as any that I've recently encountered. What the book lacks in philosophical depth it more than makes up for in pure spectacle, his alternate 20th century a mirror on our own that invites, even if not in a wholly satisfying manner, a fair share of reflection. The book is eerily plausible in the way that it interweaves real and imagined histories, and it is a shame that the characters and their relationships cannot quite match the book's base level of surprising realism. Even if the story is ultimately disappointing, the worldbuilding deserves utmost admiration. The Violent Century may not deliver on all of its aspirations or promises, but it does invite readers to carefully consider the nature of heroism and, besides, offers a compelling alternate history that at times feels far more real than the actual chain of events that led us to today.

Grade: B+

Book 29: Touch

Touch

Claire North

One of the things that I find absolutely electrifying about speculative fiction, in the hands of skillful writers, is its ability to derive the deepest senses of meaning from the most absurd of premises. The idea behind Claire North's Touch- that there exists a type of "ghost" soul that can move from body to body at the merest meeting of their skin, leaving the previous owner wondering where the time could have possibly gone- is not, to be fair, particularly ridiculous. It does, however, pose a plethora of scintillating possibilities, both practical and philosophical. That North manages to convincingly posit a world in which this is possible, covering all of the minor details and major sticking points in due course while simultaneously exploring ontological issues without resorting to condescension or tidy answers, is a testament to her immense talents; that she successfully dresses her inquiries into the many meanings of identity and the ethics of borrowing bodies in the fabric of a compelling, fast-paced thriller replete with the requisite twists and turns almost beggars belief.

Though she is somewhat susceptible to the kind of uneven pacing and suspiciously convenient coincidences that occur in even the most tightly plotted novels, North more than makes up for it with the unique narrative diversions that naturally arise from her body-swapping premise and the deftly employed flashbacks that humanize her characters and enhance readers' understanding of the alternate Earth that includes her ephemeral, drifting souls. The story flows effortlessly between past and present and, in doing so, heightens the emotional tension, significantly raises the story's stakes, and rounds out the nameless, body-hopping narrator. The flashbacks imbue the villains with extra menace via their deeply intertwined (but never unrealistic) histories with the entity they call "Kepler" while also introducing readers to the variety of ways in which North's ghosts approach, take advantage of, and suffer because of their peculiar abilities. Touch presents a rich world of possibilities, tackling the most difficult questions with a sense of unease, as even the more moral ghosts recognize that, merely by seeking to survive, they almost inevitably leave those they inhabit confused, violated, and shaken, never to retrieve the time they inexplicably lost.

North never shies away from the moral consequences of the world she imagines, and her book is indisputably better for it. The ghosts and those who oppose them (from outside and within their ranks) have a range of personalities and individualized motivations for behaving they way they do; indeed, it is the ways in which they envision and rationalize the consequences of their actions that most effectively define them. The book invites (and almost requires) characters and readers alike to ponder the multiple meanings of identity, love, and, to a certain extent, life itself. That one of its central questions- whether a ghost can ever morally justify the actions they must take to survive- remains tantalizingly unanswered is a testament to the complexity of the ambiguities she explores and to her willingness to tackle them head-on. Though Touch does not lack its fair share of rationalizations and competing rhetoric from multiple perspectives, North nobly resists the temptation to overextend and provide a neat solution. Instead, she trusts readers to reconcile these various points of view.

Touch is a rare specimen, a book whose greatness lies in its subtleties, in the million minor authorial touches that add up to an exhilarating experience. Its greatness lies in the repetition of a key phrase (though I felt incredibly cheated that it wasn't the book's final sentence), in the varied experiences of those who borrow bodies and whose bodies are borrowed, and in the tight plotting that alternates between high-octane, gun-fueled chase scenes (made all the more exciting due to the ghosts' ever-shifting physicality) and Kepler's haunting soliloquies without causing excessive whiplash, or even much at all. The book's inherent moral ambiguity lingers pleasantly beyond its final pages, begging to be prodded and discussed. With Kepler's immersive first-person narration, a carefully weighted balance of action, anticipation, and reflection, and a surfeit of philosophical implications to consider and revisit, Touch provides a captivating reading experience that is truly rewarding at multiple levels of engagement; I could hardly ask for more than this brilliant book consistently provides.

Grade: A

Book 24: Chain of Events

Chain of Events

Fredrik T. Olsson

Everything about this book's jacket, from the plot description on the inside flap to the brief character blurbs on the back cover, says generic thriller, with a hint of science fiction thrown in for good measure. This is, more or less, what the book delivers, hitting all of the necessary bullet points to provide a somewhat predictable, yet mostly satisfying, experience. Olsson kicks off his high stakes, pan-European plot with a kidnapping and ably juggles several plot lines and viewpoints, focusing in turn on abducted cryptographer William Sandberg, his captors and the mysterious high-level organization they work for, his ex-wife (who is, naturally, an intrepid journalist determined to uncover the truth about his disappearance) and her intern sidekick, and a Dutch professor whose own girlfriend mysteriously vanished in similar circumstances. Some of the villains' asides feel misplaced, and Olsson never dives deeply enough into their psyches to really probe the delicate moral calculations that influence their previous and present actions. I'm inclined to praise Olsson for at least making an attempt to probe the complex morality of their choices- and for allowing the reader to glimpse the knowns, unknowns, and terrifyingly high stakes from their points of view- but the unconvincing result betrays the author's reluctance to assign blame in circumstances that seem to warrant it. The antagonist organization may not be filled with stock villains, which is in itself a welcome change of pace, but its perspective is rendered in black and white whether or not Olsson believes he works in shades of gray.

This is a bit of a shame, as the plot likewise begs- and even explores- some Very Big Questions about the nature of mankind's place in the universe and free will, for starters. This offers readers a surprisingly philosophical change of pace from the typical thriller, but its twists don't capitalize on even a fraction of their (considerable) potential. And while I do sympathize with Olsson's decision to leave his biggest question unanswered, as any attempted solutions would have almost certainly derailed the whole thing entirely, I couldn't help but feel a little cheated by his resolution of the plot's most pressing problem, plausible though it may be. This and other quality control issues arise not only from the book's reliance on the manufactured coincidences that drive the genre (forgivable enough, in context) but also from its halfhearted attempts to characterize the ostensibly minor viewpoint characters whose inner turmoil gradually becomes the hinge on which the entire book rotates. In these and other ways, Olsson asks the reader to exert a degree of philosophical effort that his book doesn't fully support and thus cannot fully reward.

It is to the author's credit that the book is successful, despite the fact that it ultimately falls short of the high standards it sets for itself. Olsson (through English translator Dominic Hinde) relies on the kind of straightforward, direct prose that drives the reader forward, even if his constant section- and chapter-ending mini-cliffhangers and foreshadowings become tiresome and worn in short order. He juggles the various science fiction elements convincingly, and his pandemic disease is just as terrifying and convincing as its many cousins. The multiple points of view enhance the tension more often than they distract from it, and the plot moves along at a solid pace throughout its many twists and turns, both seen and unforeseen. While I wish that Olsson had done a bit more to actually explore, or at least invite his readers to seriously contemplate, the philosophical conundrums he poses, the book clicks at a fundamental level and entertains, even if it aspires to more. Chain of Events is a capable thriller that provides sufficient bang for the buck despite some clumsy moments and wasted opportunities for greater depth.

Grade: B+

Book 14: The Big Book of Swashbuckling Adventure

The Big Book of Swashbuckling Adventure

Edited by Lawrence Ellsworth

Well, with a title like that, how was I supposed to let this book pass me by? All told, I'm glad I didn't, although the 19th-century prose and occasional alien sensibilities made it slower going than I perhaps expected from a book purportedly all about adventure. It is evident from his general and story-specific introductions that editor Lawrence Ellsworth is devoted to the swashbuckling adventures popular throughout much of the 19th and early 20th centuries and that he is well-read (or at least well-informed), although I was alarmed at the proportion of the biographies that focused on authors other than the ones at hand and remain a bit skeptical about his skill as an anthology editor. I also found myself disappointed at the large number of extracts from novels and longer narratives; having read the climaxes of several stories, I'm now unsure whether I'll bother to read the preliminaries. Though Ellsworth generally chooses self-contained stories within longer works, a lack of established context sometimes contributes to a general sense of indifference and incompletion.

Likewise, while all of the stories do fit, more or less, into a swashbuckling paradigm, Ellsworth does little to define the characteristics that these stories and, more importantly, their characters, are meant to embody. He often sings the praises of swashbucklers, in all of their many forms, and his enthusiasm is obvious, but doesn’t offer satisfactory explanations of his chosen parameters. As a reader with only a vague sense of this era's adventure literature, I would appreciate more context: why, for example, does the collection include so many English-language stories set in France? This lack of visible deliberation and oversight, combined with a story order that appears haphazard and more or less random (except for the fact that few similar stories appear back-to-back), can make the book a bit of a whiplash experience as readers are jolted from one paradigm to another unexpectedly and seemingly without rhyme or reason. Readers are left to reset and quickly adapt to new settings, moods, and themes with each new story; this could, perhaps, have been avoided with a clearly defined organizational scheme, whether chronological, geographic, or thematic.

As a rule, most of the stories display the fundamental characteristics one might expect from the era's literature, such as a weighted exposition-to-action ratio and a particularly well-defined sense of honor. I was a bit disappointed to find little moral ambiguity in these tales- as many swashbucklers do, by definition, adopt a slightly more lax view of the rule of law- but did appreciate those stories that did allow their heroes the slightest bit of outlaw stature. Taken as a whole, the book offers an excellent demonstration of the authors' moral codes, and modern readers with a certain sense of irony will appreciate the great pains the authors take to ensure that their heroes are entirely morally upstanding, regardless of their actions or the circumstances. The plots, however, might leave its more seasoned readers a bit wanting; in many cases, I was able to plot most or all of a story's developments and twists well before they occurred, and I found many to be no more action-packed than other works from the same era.

Nonetheless, and despite an over-reliance on pre-Revolutionary France that isn't satisfactorily explained, the collection does include a pleasant array of stories that take place in locales both expected (England, Renaissance Italy, the pirate-laden Caribbean) and surprising (India). The book includes requisite, but pleasing, cameos by Robin Hood and Zorro, as well as a number of other expected tropes that are quite satisfying here, in their proper context. While I was disappointed with a lack of an Arthurian adventure, which seems to me to fit the category, I was pleased with the various authors' abilities to make their chosen settings come alive. In the majority cases, I felt myself transported across space and time, and while I only occasionally felt the kind of heart-racing tension that the stories must have elicited in their own eras, I thoroughly enjoyed most of these adventures. The Big Book of Swashbuckling Adventure is a bit lacking in context and, perhaps, editorial oversight and deliberation, but it is a satisfying collection that offers plenty of excitement, well-placed poetic interludes, and an adequate introduction into the literature that defined the golden age of swashbucklers.

Grade: B+

Book 18: All the Light We Cannot See

All the Light We Cannot See

Anthony Doerr

I just finished this book moments ago and, while I'm sure that I loved it, I'm not quite sure what can be said about it; after all, I usually hate books like this, books that so prize style that plot falls by the wayside, forgotten. Not so with All the Light We Cannot See, in which Anthony Doerr proves that high-minded, poetic prose is, in fact, quite compatible with a compelling plot, fully realized characters, and the numerous other qualities that make the best novels rise above the remainder and lodge themselves permanently in your brain. Immediately after finishing this book, I wanted to pick it up and begin all over again, to lose myself again in Doerr's haunting prose that so perfectly captures both the depth of the darkness that fell over Europe in the 1930s and 1940s and the small beams of hope, of humanity that somehow managed to shine through, however tenuous their gleam. All of the standard clichés apply here and words like "transcendent" wouldn't seem ill-applied to this novel, whose lyrical, haunting prose lingers in my mind. Every sentence is a poem, yet, unlike so many other books with similar aspirations, the words combine to conjure characters the reader can care about and a plot that provides the story with essential motion, particularly through the use of carefully weighted cliffhangers.

All the Light We Cannot See could go wrong in so many ways, but somehow Doerr manages to use every potential pitfall to his advantage. Though book's brief chapters quickly alternate between Nazi Germany and pre- and post-occupation France, the twin stories are easy to follow, anchored firmly by the use of integrated flash-forwards to (or perhaps flashbacks from?) a few pivotal days in August 1944, which provide the novel's emotional and thematic climax. Time progresses at uncertain intervals, racing along and stalling at the author's whim, but Doerr provides just the right amount of context to keep everything from running together. Perhaps Doerr's most remarkable feat is his successful deployment of present-tense prose; though the book begins in 1944 and looks backward and forward and backward again, every moment feels suspended in its own time- aided, no doubt, by the sheer poetic weight carried by every word. I cannot say for certain how the risky narrative choice achieves its desired effect, but somehow the tense of urgency slows this story down and allows readers to be present in every moment.

Fundamentally, what Doerr has done in All the Light We Cannot See is not new- it is a World War II story that places the fundamental question of morality at its beating center, looking deep into the heart of a Wehrmacht soldier's path to France and at a young Parisian refugee's experiences on the Brittany coast- but somehow every page bears revelations that somehow feel new despite decades of literature exploring and re-exploring seemingly every aspect of the war. The twin themes of light and darkness are further illuminated by Doerr's rather blunt decision to make one of his main characters medically blind and his far more subtle explorations of willful blindness; wisps of metaphor are planted throughout the book, stronger than suggestions but mercifully left for the reader to discover and parse. Even the book's more cliché elements become new again in Doerr's hands, and the remarkable coincidence that ties the book's disparate threads together seems perfectly suited for an era so adequately defined by the thoroughness of its chaos.

All the Light We Cannot See contains elements of this chaos but is grounded and ordered by its author's formidable literary talents. Even after trying to rationalize my complete and utter fascination with this book and the trance it held over me, I can't say what, exactly, makes the book succeed. Even an ending that feels drawn out and unnecessarily (if not quite garishly) sentimental against the backdrop of the rest of the novel failed to break the hold it had (and even still has) over me. At its core, the book is a war novel that is deeply concerned with human kindness but that overcomes the base sentimentality that often chokes similar forays into the redeemable aspects of the human spirit; it is a quick-moving story told at an elegiac pace, ruminating and demanding careful attention as it moves readers forward; it is the embodiment of what literary fiction aspires to be while remaining accessible; it asks readers to consider the big questions but is never for a moment condescending. And, most importantly, All the Light We Cannot See possesses that bit of literary magic that somehow obscures the source of its greatness.

Grade: A

Book 9: The Second Son

The Second Son

Jonathan Rabb

Set several years after the events of Shadow and Light, The Second Son concludes the Nikolai Hoffner trilogy. Like its predecessors, the book places its hero at the center of Europe's interwar troubles, this time taking place in Nazi-era Germany and revolutionary Spain; like its immediate predecessor, it tries just a bit too hard to shoehorn a plot into a vibrant setting. Hoffner remains a vividly drawn protagonist, affected by his prior adventures and aged not only by the passage of time but also by his sons' diverging political paths: one is enmeshed in revolutionary Barcelona, while the other (thought part Jewish) is entranced by- and close to- the rising Nazi elite. It is this entanglement that provides the novel with its emotional core, and the brutality of Rabb's plot mirrors that of the historical setting as Hoffner's life spirals into chaos (alongside much of Europe). This book is more introspective than the previous Hoffner novels, and as a result Rabb's efforts to integrate his fictional story with actual historical events are a bit less clumsy, though there are quite a few convenient encounters and celebrity cameos that are alternately charming and intrusive. The chronological gap between Shadow and Light and The Second Son also detracts from the novel's raw power; though Hoffner retains a consistent personality, one feels that there's quite a bit left unsaid, which draws the reader out of the narrative and calls attention to the conceit that is always the slightest bit noticeable, despite Rabb's best efforts. All told, however, The Second Son provides a fitting conclusion to the saga of Nikolai Hoffner as the Europe he belonged in thrashes in its death throes.

Grade: B+

Book 41: Life Goes On

Life Goes On

Hans Keilson

Life Goes On is one of that peculiar class of novels published in Germany on the very eve of Hitler's ascendance, and it dissects the effects of the country's economic unraveling during the Weimar era through the autobiographical lens of Hans Keilson. Though Keilson was Jewish and fled Germany a few years after the Nazi takeover, politics plays very little part in this novel of everyday life, which focuses more on individual lives and reactions than on macroeconomics and international, or even national, politics. Socialists are given a brief cameo, likely make briefer by the book's post-January 1933 publication date, but the story focuses on a middle-class, moderately successful shopkeeper and his small family. The occasional use of "Mother" and "Father" in place of personal names do humanize the story, but often present confusion, particularly in the early pages where readers may struggle to grasp who the main characters are, and how many they are in number. The characters are at once specific and generalized, and though the adult couple will appeal as a stand-in for a certain class of Germans, their son Albrecht is a bit more difficult to pin down. He grows significantly throughout the course of the book, but remains consistently out of reach and difficult to relate to, perhaps because of his frequent apathy and inability to understand the forces at work around him. The novel itself is similarly difficult to digest as the narrative progresses at a pace that echoes the general apathy of the time, which, unfortunately, can make it a bit boring. Time flows at an inconsistent speed, with few pivotal events to serve as guideposts or break the spell, and while this method of storytelling may reflect the times themselves, it hardly makes for compelling, page-turning consumption. In its execution as well as its content, the book is a time capsule, an almost stream-of-consciousness work that explores the tepidness of interwar Germany in both style and content. Life Goes On is most compelling as a product of its times, an intensely personal view of pre-Nazi Germany that may fail to fully captivate or resonate with modern audiences.

Grade: B+

Book 36: Shadow and Light

Shadow and Light

Jonathan Rabb

This book, set a few years after the events of Rosa, continues the story of German detective Nikolai Hoffner and, in a way, interwar Germany. This installment takes place in the 1920s and, as its title suggests, uses the burgeoning German film industry as historical decoration. Though the book does a good job of focusing on its main character and his sons, who play an expanded role in this novel, Rabb's eagerness to evoke the era occasionally gets in the way of the narrative. Readers can feel the almost unseemly effects when major historical developments are dropped right into the primary narrative path, and though Rabb has clearly done a significant amount of research the details sometimes feel a bit too convenient. Just as in the previous installment, major historical figures make cameo appearances that feel too unlikely to contribute to a sense of realism, as was likely the author's intention. Likewise, Rabb goes a bit too far overboard at times in pursuit of shock value, and the horrors he depicts (though secondhand) feel a bit sadistic even for a series predicated on murder mysteries. The images do leave a lasting impression and certainly paint the right-wingers in a sufficiently horrifying light, but at times they feel exaggerated, more like props to prove a point than essential parts of the story's fabric. Nonetheless, Rabb's vision of Weimar-era Berlin is captivating, and the central stories compelling enough to maintain the reader's attention. Hoffner himself seems drawn straight from life (though biographical details are occasionally revealed in clumsy information dumps) and, ironically for a fictional character, provides a sense of realism when history seems exaggerated to suit the author's needs. Shadow and Light is far from revelatory, but provides a sufficiently interesting mystery that continues the development of its compelling lead detective in a unique historical setting.

Grade: B

Book 24: Rosa

Rosa

Jonathan Rabb

What do you get when you take a  somewhat disgruntled, experienced police detective, a volatile Central European country teetering on the brink of political disaster, a brutal crime, and hints of corruption? Jonathan Rabb's novel Rosa indeed has the classic elements of a noir mystery, and successfully weaves them into the tapestry of pre-Weimar Germany. Detective Nikolai Hoffner is at once unique and standard, a no-nonsense policeman with his own deep character faults who can nonetheless be counted upon to do the right thing. Though he alternately comes across as a cardboard cutout and as a fully fleshed character, he is sufficiently interesting and complex to continually drive the story forward. So it is with the plot, divided into two main halves but placed within the scope of plausible- if slightly unlikely- historical fact. The story combines glimpses into Hoffner's personal life and past with a cascade of discoveries that reveal a much more complex case than either the main characters or the reader initially assumed. Though there is little that is surprising within Rosa, it boasts a strong cast of supporting characters and a nice mid-story plot twist that adds depth and historical interest along with a hint of originality that sets this book apart. Though Rabb easily falls into the historical cameo trap, involving unsavory characters from the future Nazi Germany as well as- somewhat less plausibly- Albert Einstein, he knows his stuff, and convincingly portrays postwar Berlin with the assistance of a strong supporting cast. While there is nothing to particularly recommend the prose, Rabb is efficient and effective at revealing details and maintaining suspense without wielding too much authorial dictatorship. Regardless, the book is tightly plotted, and Rabb should be commended for refusing to allow too many gotcha moments- everything fits together neatly, but appropriately, without undue editorial wrangling. Sure, the scope gets a bit out of hand at times, but can one really erase knowledge of Germany's near future? The book manages to posit an alternate history without vitally altering anything of paramount significance, and gains some thematic depth and historical resonance in the process.  Ultimately, Rosa hits all the right notes and creates a convincing scene and story, satisfactory to mystery fans and historians alike.

Grade: A-

Book 40: Alone in Berlin

Alone in Berlin

Hans Fallada

It's understandable enough that much of the literature surrounding the Second World War centers on resistance to the existing regimes, and that most of these works devote their time to the small success of well-organized movements, partisan fighters, or good people helping to hide Jews or other undesirables from their persecutors. In Alone in Berlin, Hans Fallada draws attention to less successful efforts at resistance and paints a picture of wartime Germany in many more shades of gray than the stark black and white preferred by many of the era's chroniclers. Though the thrust of the main plot is occasionally lost as the narrative gets sidetracked, the novel offers a reasonably comprehensive view of the lives of a few normal and ordinary Germans who participated in small acts of resistance to the mighty Reich. Fallada's willingness to expose the near futility of his heroes' actions does not ultimately betray his underlying faith in human decency, but instead contributes to the book's thorough realism. Readers get the sense that Alone in Berlin reflects, as the book's afterword puts it, "the banality of good."

The range of characters explored in the book grounds Fallada's examination of Berlin in wartime, contributing to the book's sense of comprehensiveness despite the centrality of one couple's story. Fallada is also willing to look at the past from different points of view, and while the moral timbre of the book is never in doubt, significant attention is given to less savory Party and Gestapo members as well. Shifting tenses can be a bit distracting, but a preference for the present tense lends the story a sense of urgency and contributes significantly to its superb sense of setting. Though the plot lags at times throughout the middle of the book, an extremely well-executed (and lengthy) denouement transforms the book from a good novel into a brilliant one. It is here that Fallada unleashes a biting satirical tone, as well as displaying a deep sense of empathy and compassion. A well-placed interlude provides a break from the heaviest moments and the book's final sections most fully explore its central themes, presenting a thoughtful and relevant commentary on the efficacy of even the smallest acts of human decency. Alone in Berlin has small slips, but recovers in fine fashion to present a realistic and thorough view of Berlin during the Second World War as well as a moving commentary on human action, inaction, and, above all, decency in the face of overwhelming evil and overwhelming odds.

Grade: A

Book 58: The Book Thief

The Book Thief
Markus Zusak

Some books just grab you and refuse to let you go. Compelling from its first four lines, which establish the book's unconventional narrator at once and segway immediately into one of the narrative's many insightful asides, The Book Thief is thoroughly haunting through its final fatal cadence. Zusak, in choosing Death to narrate this tale of survival and hope in the midst of Hitler's Germany, has made a bold decision that pays off in every conceivable way as the novel winds its way through the majority of Germany's war years. More on him later, as he makes the novel and seals its brilliance. Zusak tackles a lot of heavy and difficult themes throughout The Book Thief, not least of which is death, but he carries off the novel splendidly without beating any of these themes to death and allowing them to work their way through the novel and its characters slowly and subtly until, by the end, the reader is simply changed. The novel sneaks up on readers, who can never be sure what to expect as moments of genuine childish humor (the novel's protagonist is introduced at age 9) mix with pure sadness and then into a dark, not quite cynical humor that is as profound as the novel's most emtionally draining moments. Zusak pulls off the incredible within this book, writing a book about Nazi Germany with normal characters, exploring the depths of human depravity without resorting to unnecessary gore or shock value and presenting the era in a way that seems, amongst the deluge of literature about this period, fresh. This book approaches Nazi Germany from an entirely different perspective than most and, in doing so, more effectively probes that era than just about any work of standard 1940s-evoking fare.

The perspective? By and large, the novel owes its groove and tone to its narrator, a murky representation of Death. Personified yet unquestionably supernatural, Death is by turns caustically sarcastic and lovingly tender. He cracks jokes throughout the novel that can only be laughed at with a twinge of guilt, but his descriptions of soul-collecting (he carries the souls of children gently in his arms) are genuinely moving. His affection for Liesel, the novel's lively protagonist and eponymous budding criminal, rivals the depths of human love felt by and for her throughout her childhood. His insights throughout are by turns hilarious and deeply profound: you laugh, but then you think and, more often than not, realize that it's true. Zusak uses Death to view our obsession with this monster from an outside perspective and the results are time and again astonishing. From the general dry narrative style, with its many sudden switchbacks, to his amusingly titled asides (which include everything from elaborations on a vague preceding description to a mock scoreboard), Death is one of the most appropriate narrators I have ever come across in a book. Though he seems like an obvious choice for one of the darkest periods in human history, Zusak does not make him a monster. Instead, as he himself clarifies, he is merely a result.

Death is a presence throughout the novel as he was particularly in this time and place in history but this does not eclipse the ultimate humanity of The Book Thief; indeed, Death's notes of sad regret color the novel and give it more emotional depth than an omniscient narrator or other first-person narrator probably could have. Death lends an exceptional emotional weight to this book and give sit power on every page, shifting rapidly between elation, fear, hope, sadness, loss, and love but without producing whiplash for the reader. The Book Thief handles itself delicately while dropping bombshells literal and through literary devices and there are profound moments on each and every page as Zusak explores the magic and mystery of words themselves. The book, ultimately, parallels reality in its mood. Who, after all, has not had an elated joy turn quickly to a sobering melancholy? And to think that all of this says little about the characters who populate Zusak's Germany, from the fanatic Frau Diller to the compassionate Hans Hubermann, they come alive on each and every page in this novel that more fully evokes the truth of human experience than I previously thought possible in a novel about such a turbulent and easily simplified historical moment.

The Book Thief is simply astonishing on every single page.

Grade: A

Book 56: Love & Blood

Love & Blood: At the World Cup with the Footballers, Fans, and Freaks
Jamie Trecker

After a fully depressing (but fully brilliant) novella, I decided to turn to soccer, a game about which I long to know more about and which I find very interesting in the international social context. Conveniently, I discovered this book, which is even more topical due to the current ongoing World Cup qualifyers heating up, with only a few slots left to fill. Trecker's homage to the supposed pinnacle of soccer is produced throughout with funny, incredibly readable prose that seeks to contextualize soccer in the globalized environment as well as being a travelogue of sorts recalling Trecker's journey to the World Cup as an American reporter with high-access Swiss credentials. Trecker does a great job balancing fact, analysis, and anecdote in this volume, which will appease soccer fans while remaining inviting to those who don't know much about the sport. Trecker largely stays away from soccer's slang terms, explaining thoroughly those that are necessary, and continuously aims to describe the tensions and emotions of the world's tournament with a keen eye towards an American audience. Love & Blood maintains a careful balance between explaining the recent (and not-so-recent) history of American soccer with due attention to the Rooneys and Zinedines who light up stadiums around the world.

The book itself can get a bit choppy, purporting to talk of the 2006 Cup in general while sliding into a more general discussion of the sport, returning again to Germany as if nothing had happened in the interim. There is a bit of reader whiplash but the informal nature of the book, while making the story of 2006 a little hard to follow, makes Love & Blood a fun read and underscores the author's credibility as a true fan. Trecker's passion for the sport is obvious across each and every one of these pages, and his exploration of the lack of American passion remarkably stays away from a chastising or despairing tone. Love & Blood is eminently fair to its American readers and seems a labor of love; the prose gets informal but the analysis stays relevant and interesting. It is obvious too that Trecker has put a lot of thought in to the deeper issues he explores, which include the effects of increasing commercialization, rising club dominance, and even troubles within FIFA. Complete with his often hilarious observations and anecdotes concerning the 2006 World Cup and its German hosts, Love & Blood takes great steps to contextualize the world's biggest sporting event from an American perspective, remaining respectful and entertaining throughout.

Grade: B+

Book 5: Europe Central

Europe Central
William T. Vollmann

Here is a book that, judging by its jacket, sounds right up my alley: a collection of paired, loosely connected stories focusing alternately on the USSR and Germany during World War II. The book itself looks and feels as epic as its central conflict, but unfortunately it is hampered throughout by this very knowledge. Reading the book with the knowledge that it is a recipient of the National Book Award lays bare the book's pomposity and creates an unfriendly image of the author as compromising quality for award-worthiness. It is understandable that the vast Europe Central won an award but unfortunately this accolade does not reflect any sense of enjoyment or coherence when approaching the book, which is weighed down immensely by its cheap attempts at grandiosity and which ceases to be readable in its pursuit of honors. The project itself, to produce paired stories that expose moral dilemmas and reactions during the 20th century's most destructive conflict is interesting and occasionally yields fascinating results which are again muted by the posturing inflicted upon the reader. Vollmann takes an interesting and important structure and buries it beneath self-aggrandizing writing that is overbearing and at times so annoying that it is hard to imagine Vollmann legitimately believing that his sentences are the best way to get his point across.

Readers should know by the first sentences of the book whether they are cut out to be dragged along in this quagmire of metaphor and nonsensical characterization and narration; the opening chapter is absolutely impossible to decipher and, while raising interesting points that are few and far between, succeeds only in introducing a shaky and useless telephone metaphor that occasionally comes back throughout the book. Much of the writing in this tome echoes this useless prelude as Vollmann stretches metaphors well past literary acceptability. Time and again metaphors extend sentences well beyond the limits of reason and, while these are often insightful, drag readers right out of the story and force them to recognize how clever the author is. This kind of writing is nothing but self-serving and, frankly, the importance of the book's core subject matter demands a more serious and mature writing style. Vollmann far too often uses Europe Central as a showcase for his witty insights which go on pompous display instead of being usefully integrated into the narrative (insofar as one may exist). Even more infuriating is the narration that mars most of the Russian chapters and which ends all of its sentences by abruptly dropping them before they say anything. It's almost as if they, so to speak, well, you know.

The subject matter and weight of these Russian chapters is also a problem. It is understandable that the content of this book would fall toward the Russian side; after all, it is no secret that the USSR bore the brunt of the absolute destruction that defines World War II's style of warfare. For a book masquerading as a look at all of Central Europe, however, Europe Central hardly focuses on the German side at all. This is an exceptionally glaring displacement of attention because the German mentality was so central to the war in the first place. Most frustrating, however, is the fact that the German-focused chapters of the book are its most coherent, best written, and to my admittedly biased mind the most interesting chapters by far. These infrequent and unfairly truncated chapters become mere pit-stops, however, as Vollmann travels the boring and incessantly redundant Shostakovich highway. Dmitri Shostakovich is a fascinating character to follow throughout the tightening paired nooses of Soviet oppression and German military aggression. Vollmann again misfires, however, when constructing the famous composer and every Russian ever as entirely obsessed with a certain enigmatic woman who happened to be his mistress for a year. By the end of the book, I would audibly groan whenever her name was mentioned; her legend is an interesting segway into the exposure of certain Soviet crimes and into Shostakovich's personal life, but using her as the sole inspiration for everything he ever did takes it much too far and turns him into a one-dimensional whiny character, hardly one readers want to follow for so much of the book.

Most annoying about this book is the fact that buried beneath the overbearing weight of unnecessary literary posturing and award-baiting are some incredibly moving stories that shed new and intriguing light on certain moral dilemmas faced in conflict. "Woman with Dead Child", an early look at Käthe Kollwitz's life and art, is incredibly moving if hampered a bit by this work's usual literary hang-ups. "Into the Mountain" provides an original look at the parallels between Norse mythology and Hitler's demise. When Vollmann focuses on an intense character portrait and limits it to one story, he belongs in the highest echelon of World War II fiction. "The Red Guillotine" makes a subtle comparison between the Soviet and German regimes and forces readers to face the uncomfortable fact that each may have been equally repressive and, perhaps, equally evil. Vollmann shows complexity and depth when probing his carefully selected and incredibly thoroughly defined characters within the contexts of the tough moral decisions they are forced to make. There are incredibly complex moral distinctions explored in "Clean Hands", the story of an SS officer who joins simply to reveal the organization's atrocities to the world, and "Breakout", the tale of Soviet general Andrey Vlasov and his cooperation with the Nazi regime against the USSR. The subjective and often fluid nature of ethical judgment, both by historical actors and in hindsight, is preserved in these stories especially as they (more or less) objectively expose the reasoning behind each man's actions. Vollmann is at his best here where he allows his stories to concentrate on compact narratives that center around a strong character- neither is drawn out and each shows an impeccable sense of narrative construction both within itself and in relation to the work as a whole. Vollmann positively shines in these select stories.

Judging Vollmann's vast effort, then, is clouded equally in shades of grey as its best narratives are. His best stories deserve to be preserved and read by anyone interested in the psychology of morals along with those interested in the unique mental climate provided by World War II. Here, Vollmann follows through on the jacket's promise to explore moral decisions forced in wartime. Here also the two great powers of Central Europe, Germany and the USSR, are compared in subtle and astoundingly anti-didactic ways: there is nothing forced in these stories; they are completely genuine. This makes the egregious errors which haunt the vast bulk of Europe Central even less forgivable and absolutely maddening. There is great promise but readers are everywhere disappointed and occasionally even despised. Additionally, those wishing to make any sense whatsoever of several crucial elements of the story must be well-versed in musical theory and history, Nordic and German mythology, and the history of World War II before even attempting to read this book. It is entirely an accident that one of my college classes touched on Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony and its relationship to Stalin; without this nuanced exposure most of the composer's chapters, which dominate the book by far, would have made no sense whatsoever. Vollmann often refuses to make anything at all clear and sacrifices meaning for "art", mirroring perhaps Shostakovich's deepest ambitions but creating something extremely inaccessible and deeply difficult to read, let alone enjoy. This book reeks of wasted talent and unfulfilled promises while its best chapters show that it could have been more than worthy of its subject matter. Readers would be well-served to seek out this book's best stories, but its general framework is distorted and reading all of Europe Central is a waste of time for the majority of readers who simply want an engrossing, useful, or intelligible narrative.

Grade: C

Book 53: Tales of E.T.A. Hoffmann

Tales of E.T.A. Hoffmann
E.T.A. Hoffmann

Wow. If you think Edgar Allen Poe is weird, you should check out the works of Hoffmann, one of Poe's inspirations and a clear contender for strangest Romantic writer of them all. Despite their obvious age and setting in Hoffmann's Germany circa 1810, the stories are realistic and the settings vibrant enough to enchant the modern reader. It certainly doesn't hurt that the settings themselves are muddled and prone to rapid, disorienting changes. Amazingly enough, the dizziness that we feel alongside Hoffmann's vivid characters is not overwhelming but rather helps to build suspense and prod the reader on. It is hard to put down this book in the middle of one of these twisted tales, and while they can tend towards predictability, there are plenty of surprises to even the most cynical seasoned reader.

Hoffmann approaches the world with a certain enchanting level of unfamiliarity, using familiar faces and places but twisting them ever so slightly to create wholly unfamiliar worlds. The twists and turns of reality are shocking and unsettling, yet they retain a certain enchanting ability. Hoffmann's characters absolutely leap off of the page, and though we may never be sure which ones actually exist or who may be sane or schizophrenic, we are drawn to them as they possess a certain magnetic hold over us. Hoffmann takes his readers on a journey into insanity which may not be so crazy after all. The continually disorienting roller coasters of plots are intriguing rather than frustrating and have a certain fresh feeling even in this era of overwhelming postmodernism.

In this collection, Hoffmann tackles love, music, and mistaken identities with gusto and in brilliantly unique ways. His unique blend of fantasy and reality challenges the reader to follow along and provides many equally appealing interpretations at the end, inviting intellectual discussion but not frustrating the reader. The tales are at once wrapped up nicely and frayed with loose ends, and they are surprisingly all the better for it. Hoffmann's few flaws are relatively minor and exist in the basic writing of the stories rather than being thematic. Hoffmann has a tendency to interrupt a perfectly gripping narrative with a condescending address to the "gentle reader," which is annoying and comes off as overly smug pride. This, however, may be attributed to conventions of his era; being no expert I can only speak regarding my personal experience with the work. Hoffmann also suffers from surprising predictability: though his plots are tangled and twisted, his mysteries are fairly predictable and nearly always end up just as happily as one would wish. The means of getting to the end are unique and compelling, but the endings can seem contrived. This, however, is only a problem in a couple of stories and does not diminish the power of the collection as a whole.

Upon hearing my description of "The Golden Pot," a dear friend asked me if Hoffmann had invented LSD. Some of his stories suggest a certain pharmaceutical habit atypical of his era and highlight his peculiar talent and foresight. Hoffmann's work with illusion and outright hallucination recalls the postmodern as often as it evokes its (then-) contemporary setting, enchanting the modern reader and coming off with amazing success. But for a few basic literary flaws, Hoffmann's work shines among the most imaginative and well-crafted short fiction. His ability to create distinct worlds and characters within the span of fifty pages or less is nearly unparalleled, and his prose is clear where the plot is not, allowing confusion and assurance to intersect in interesting and utterly unique ways. For those interested in a truly different vision of the fantastic and the realm of imagination, Hoffmann's short fiction is an absolute must.

Grade: A-

Book 18: Germans Into Nazis

Germans Into Nazis
Peter Fritzsche

I tried not to dismiss this book immediately upon arrival, and, to be fair, its second half far outshines its first. Unfortunately, however, that is only because the second half of the book is mildly coherent and proves that Fritzsche understands that it is usually not to one's advantage to undermine one's own argument whilst searching for it. The summary at the end of the book actually confused me, as well- it would have been nice for Fritzsche to actually make the argument he strings together at the end of the book somewhere before, oh, say, the book's last ten pages. Maybe if the two main halves of the book were connected in some meaningful way, instead of jumping from the end of World War I to 1933 and attempting to prove correlation.

The main problem with the book is its lack of organization, which trumps its unbearable dullness for the win. Fritzsche is on to a good idea by describing representative pictures, but they are used as jumping points from which to go backwards, confusing even informed readers. The first half of the book successfully makes a point, only to completely reverse it a paragraph later. Acknowledging flaws in your argument generally makes your work seem stronger, but Fritzsche just looks like a buffoon trying to string everything together haphazardly. The book makes several useful points, but its frenetic frenzy makes any arguments lurking beneath the surface impossible to find and dissect. Fritzsche takes one of the most interesting and important questions of the twentieth century and bores me (of all people) with it. Boo hiss.

Grade: D

Book 13: Little Man, What Now?

Little Man, What Now?
Hans Fallada

Some books are character-driven narratives, where plot takes a backseat to development. There are also works that concentrate on intricate plots, whose characters are more of the stock variety but which nonetheless captivate the reader. Others are philosophical tales or satires, meant to provoke the intellect. Little Man, What Now? doesn't fall into any of these categories, but somehow it managed to retain my interest. This book is more like a moving portrait, a series of snapshots of life in Weimar Germany, focusing on the lives of a newly married couple. The characters themselves aren't horribly interesting (Bunny can test the nerves at times and Pinneberg is a wimp), but their circumstances are captivating.

Fallada published this book in 1933, just before the Nazis came to power. The book, however, is neither propaganda nor a slamming accusation. It is blunt realism at its strongest. Pinneberg's political wavering captures the essence of the era- he realizes that most down-and-out white-collar workers like himself have turned to the Nazi party, but he feels drawn to communism at the same time. What is perhaps most interesting about the novel is that the reader knows what is coming, but it isn't at all evident in the book. The plot focuses on the economics of Weimar Germany and their dire effects, making the mechanics of Nazification in Germany much more understandable. The novel is, however, without an axe to grind.

Fallada's book isn't particularly captivating on its own; it deserves careful consideration and contextualization but can yield excellent results. It isn't too terribly time-consuming, and it provides perhaps unique insight into the times. Little Man, What Now? may not be intricate or particularly well-constructed, but it is nonetheless valuable for those interested in Weimar Germany and its implications for the rise of Nazism.

Grade: B+

Book 42: The Nibelungenlied

The Nibelungenlied
Translated by A.T. Hatto

What an odd story. This old German tale is quite the adventure, though it never quite settles on one narrative. I suppose its name is really a misnomer, for if there is a common thread woven throughout the story, it is the life and times of the beautiful Kriemhild. The story first pretends it is that of the mighty (and magical) Siegfried, but he drops out of the picture about a third of the way into the book, leaving us with the story of King Gunther of Burgundy, interspersed with the stories of Rüdiger and Dietrich. Notice that none of these are the Nibelungs, the mythical force that belonged to Siegfried and somehow morphs to become the Burgundians as they battle King Etzel (didn't I mention him?) and his Huns.

The main problem of this book, which I hope to have illustrated, is its confusion. It seems that the reader would have to read the book several times, making an outline along the way, to fully appreciate the twists and turns of the book that make it somewhat confusing. The book is secure in its morality and is always quick to blame women for all the wrongs of the world, but on other issues it wavers. The definition of honor seems tied to physical prowess and nothing else; the immoral Hagan is redeemed by his enemy after being slain by, you guessed it, a woman. Though his deeds have been anything but honorable, and include stabbing a man in the back after lying to discover his weakness, he is still honorable enough to be owed avoidance of a dishonorable death.

The base story is compelling enough, but I get lost in the details. It's very easy to get lost in the sea of names and the never-ending turns of the plot. The writing is fine and the adjectives are nice, but I have an issue with the translation, which contained far too many idioms for comfort. Every time a modern idiom is encountered, the reader is harshly jarred from the main narrative, which is often archaic. This inconsistent style of translation only adds to the confusion inherent in the book. Perhaps the appendix makes sense of the mess, but a pure read-through breeds only confusion and feelings of vast inadequacy.

Grade: C

Book 24: The Sorrows of Young Werther

The Sorrows of Young Werther
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

So, the great Goethe and I meet again. This time, however, I'm tackling him all alone, and I daresay I've emerged the victor. This book is very strange; it's depressing, but at the same time it's a very enjoyable read. I think that I now understand better why Goethe is considered such a genius.

For starters, the man's metaphors are amazing. They always put a clear picture in my head of exactly what is going on in the narrator's mind. The narrator is defined from the very start and stays consistent in personality and style, if not demeanor, throughout the novel. Approaching the character and his circumstances works especially well by using his letters to tell the story. In fact, the weakest part of the story is the jolt at the end where a heretofore unseen narrator jumps in. This disrupts the flow of the story, but as the editor returns to the words of Werther the story is ended properly.

The novel is the story of a young man whose enthusiasm for life and for feeling every moment to its fullest extent, to his eventual demise. The dramatic irony and tension really make the book work as the reader watches Werther plunge himself willingly into a situation from which he knows he will have no corporeal escape. We watch, horrified yet curious as Werther hints at his eventual solution, and the tension within the last few pages, when the reader knows for sure what's coming, is so thick you could cut it with a knife. I believe that the book is a work of brilliance, and though it is a tragedy I enjoyed the art displayed in these pages.

Grade: A