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 17: Station Eleven

Station Eleven

Emily St. John Mandel

With all of the buzz surrounding this book, and its post-apocalyptic plague premise, there was no way that I was going to escape it, and I decided to jump in sooner rather than later (that, and my library hold came through more quickly than I expected). I found the book to be a surprisingly moving, somewhat perplexing experience, and I'm not quite certain why the book affected me as strongly as it did. Station Eleven is a contradiction of sorts, a single story spun from several interlocking narratives that are as complementary as they are contemplative. Mandel takes a refreshing alternate approach to her story's several layers by bringing each to its own conclusion at an appropriate moment within the book, rather than throwing them all together at the end. Nonetheless, everything intersects nicely and in unexpected ways, including the surprisingly effective introduction of a new point of view character relatively late in the book. While the novel occasionally cuts to a different plotline at pivotal moments, thus disrupting the sense of suspense and narrative flow, many of the transitions between the pre- and post-plague worlds are handled with a delicate, seamless touch. Despite its heavy subject matter and its deep engagement with important questions about the meaning of art and survival for a species reduced to the barest shadow of its former self, the book often has an almost dreamlike quality about it, the result of an elegiac examination of the world as it is and as it might one day be.

Though Station Eleven is unmistakably written in the litfic tradition, with its inward-looking focus on the human condition and its charismatic (but rarely overbearing) prose, it also succeeds as an apocalyptic vision steeped in the genre's traditions. The book's three intersecting time frames provide compelling visions of the world before, during, and twenty years after the plague that nearly exterminates humanity, presenting contrasting visions of its core ideas and a pleasantly diverse group of avenues for exploring its many questions and conundrums. The plots- wrought small and large- offer enough suspense to keep readers emotionally invested, even when a central character's identity is guessed before the Big Reveal and when a central conflict is resolved earlier than it might have been for peak effect. The ending might seem a bit too saccharine for the novel that proceeds it, but I must admit that I am as curious as the characters to explore the possibilities it implies. I am likewise inclined to forgive Mandel for the series of coincidences that results in everything dovetailing so nicely; for my money, she exerts sufficient effort to make them plausible without stretching the bounds of probability too thin. Even if one character's arc doesn't quite align with the others as neatly as they do with each other, it does offer a pivotal alternate perspective on the world before, during, and after the Georgia Flu and, more importantly perhaps, a view of the post-apocalyptic United States beyond the borders in which the remaining characters confine themselves.

I suspect that the book is so devastatingly effective because of its artistic sensibilities and the author's ability to render her harrowing vision of the apocalypse with a delicate skill that magnifies its tragic elements without resorting to exaggeration, melodrama, or too much purple prose. Mandel does tick several of the requisite apocalyptic checkboxes, but I found her descriptions of the world fading away, particularly through the vividly observed deterioration of local news broadcasts and the implied plight of those aboard a doomed plane on an airport runway, uniquely haunting. These images, new to me through this novel, will haunt me for some time to come. If nothing else, and there are indeed many other aspects of the novel that deserve its many accruing accolades, Mandel has found a way to tell an oft-told tale anew; it is remarkably raw and relatable despite cameo appearances by several familiar tropes. I would also be remiss to omit my appreciation of Mandel's appropriation of northern Michigan, doubly appreciated now that I live a couple of states away from the familiar woods and lakes of my youth.

Most importantly, the book is as effectively written as it is conceived. Its Shakespearean connections and its examinations of literature (and, indeed, all of the arts) as pivotal aspects of the human experience are never overbearing, in spite of what might have been overwhelming temptation to lesser authors, and one gets the feeling that Mandel trusts her readers to make the intended connections and draw their own conclusions. The novel invites inquiry and insight while providing a satisfying base from which both can spring, displaying the author's talents with a kind of refreshing subtlety that is a rarity in apocalyptic literature, let alone literary fiction. Mandel is delicate and blunt in equal measure, asking readers to imagine the horrors on board a stranded, infected airplane on the tarmac and offering the omniscient narrator's frequent reminders that the end is near for so many of its characters and, indeed, the world itself, in its present-day storylines. This is a book that invites reexamination, re-readings, and book club discussions, a novel that is both a pleasant read and a meaningful examination of the arts and their effect(s) on human connection, among other themes. Station Eleven exemplifies the vast possibilities inherent in apocalyptic literature, looking beyond the more obvious effects of a devastating apocalyptic event to examine why mere survival, as they say, is insufficient.

Grade: A

Book 6: Man v. Nature

Man v. Nature

Diane Cook

I don't know what drew me to this collection, but I am so very happy that I found it. From start to finish, Man v. Nature offers an intense, challenging reading experience that routinely floored me with its ideas and impressed me with the raw power with which author Diane Cook conveys them. I usually start with the positive, but there's so much of it in this book that I'll offer a brief negative statement: some of the middle stories- the more realistic ones, perhaps not coincidentally- show less verve than the others. Though "Girl on Girl" is undoubtedly powerful, it was more difficult to follow than many of its more fantastically-minded counterparts, its characters and their interactions as complex and unknowable as real teenage girls are. Likewise, while "Meteorologist Dave Santana" initially shows potential, it is content to merely exist and resolve itself within the typical, boring litfic paradigm that Cook successfully plays with- and expands- throughout the rest of the book. Even so, these stories- and perhaps "Flotsam", "A Wanted Man", and "The Mast Year" from the more fantastically-minded cohort as well- do testify to the depth and range of Cook's talent; their conceits are intriguing, but not as fully developed or explored as those in the other stories. Then again, perhaps they are disappointing because the collection's other entries are so incredibly, relentlessly good.

I knew from the very beginning that I would love this book. Cook has a way of stretching the bounds of reality, writing stories that are remarkably believable despite the surreal element that usually drives their plots. It is somehow easy to imagine the unnamed (but no less terrifying) threat that chases a group of high-powered executive types (the very aptly titled "It's Coming"); the woman whose husbands are progressively well-suited to a terrifying (but, again, largely unseen and unexplained) world that has devolved into pure, violent chaos ("Marrying Up")- and the pitch-black implication of its final sentences; or even the interactions between three buddies who somehow end up stranded on a popular, familiar lake, where their lifelong bonds show signs of previously unacknowledged strain ("Man v. Nature"). The latter story is thoroughly realistic- if one takes it at its word, which upon reflection may not, in fact, provide a proper understanding of it despite its purportedly omniscient narrator- but it is devastating in its consequences, its spool of revelations coming undone at an unnervingly steady pace.

Cook's themes are rarely far from sight, but even when they are blindingly obvious, she strikes with a chilling, deadly aim. Despite its unapologetically heavy-handed use of The Obvious Hammer, I can't recall reading a more evocative, harrowing, and (likely) true metaphor of the paralyzing fear that must possess new mothers than that which forms the backbone of "Somebody's Baby." It is clear from the beginning precisely what Cook aims to do, but her suburban landscape and gossipy neighbors are drawn with such precision that their nonchalance is devastating and effective, borne out by a twist that suggests that mothers- and all parents, really- suffer from a greater fear than the one that is initially explored. The theme is obvious and constant, but the story rings true, proving both that somewhat fantastic elements need not limit a story's litfic-friendly emotional impact and that literary-minded fiction need not be aimless, pedantic, or boring. Cook effectively tells these boundaries to go directly to hell, and her stories show her love for her craft and her keen eye for all of the emotions and interactions that make us human, from the majestic to the mundane.

Man v. Nature's most effective stories are those that most wholeheartedly embrace and revel in the possibilities of science fiction, immediately and almost irrevocably immersing readers in their dystopian settings, carefully revealing contextual information at a pace and level of detail that neither bog down the stories with unnecessary asides nor leave unacquainted readers in the lurch. These short stories are as richly imagined and presented as those in many novels, and though I craved more as I finished "Moving On", "The Way the End of Days Should Be", and "The Not-Needed Forest", they each tell a complete story; it is rather, each story's larger paradigm that I wanted to explore further. Moreover, each leaves off at just the right moment, lingering on a pivotal moment between resolution and the unknowable future before leaving readers and characters alike to ponder what comes after the action. Even when the conclusions seem clear, the collection revels in the kind of uncertainty that defines our lives in mundane and trying times alike.

Cook may approach her genre-tinged fiction with a litfic mind, but in doing so she approaches the short story in a different way, offering a unique perspective that teases out truths about human emotions that can only emerge when we are stretched beyond our breaking points and must confront the uncomfortable, the uncanny, and the inevitable. She throws herself completely into each situation, each locale, each character, and is sometimes as cruel as she is compelling, though neither author nor stories seem to revel in such cruelty. These stories are shocking, heartbreaking, raw, and inescapably human; I expect that they will stick with me for a long time to come. Man v. Nature is a brilliant collection that absolutely hits the mark.

Grade: A

Book 41: The Door in the Wall and Other Stories

The Door in the Wall and Other Stories

H.G. Wells

I have long admired the works of H.G. Wells, but it has been a while since I read anything by him. As with Gwendolyn Brooks, I am now nominally in charge of a large collection of Wells manuscripts, including drafts of some of his most famous stories, and I happily took advantage of an opportunity to read "The Country of the Blind", this collection's final story. This collection is an interesting one, showcasing Wells's diverse interests and his skill in rendering both the mundane and the fantastic. With a distinctly matter-of-fact sensibility, Wells presents his tales as the truth, lending them a sense of plausibility by taking them seriously himself. His first-person narrators voice and reinforce the reader's anticipated doubts, making a claim for the stories' fiction that, in turn, makes them seem all the more plausible. By entrenching his characters firmly in his own present, Wells is able to tweak one or two elements of that present ever so slightly, weaving realistic tales of fantasy that nonetheless ring unnervingly true. Stories like "The Door in the Wall" revel in a kind of ambiguity (what, indeed, is the reader meant to believe about the titular door's supposed existence and magical properties?), but by exposing their doubts Wells invites his readers to believe.

What is remarkable about this particular collection of stories is its range. "The Cone" is chilling for its stark realism, requiring no fantastic embellishments to establish and continually ratchet its tension as it drifts ever forward to its remarkably brutal conclusion. "The Diamond Maker" is likewise realistic but also a bit more understated and lighthearted, tinged with a less consequential sense of regret than that which propels and haunts "The Door in the Wall". I found the latter story and "A Dream of Armageddon" a bit too apologetic in their attempts to be read as straightforward, plausible narratives; at some point, Wells has to just admit to himself that he's stretching the bounds of reality and go with it, to believe it himself so his readers can, too. Nonetheless, these and other stories do retain enough of a sense of the uncanny to haunt the reader while provoking interesting lines of thought and discussion about the power- both good and evil- of imagination and fantasy. "A Moonlight Fable", too, attempts to explore this theme, but far less successfully; it is easily the collection's weakest story, neither rewarding while being read or after it has been finished, passing harmlessly into the realm of the (rightfully, in my opinion) forgotten.

It is unsurprising, perhaps, that the collection's two strongest offerings, "The Star" and "The Country of the Blind", are those that dive wholeheartedly and unapologetically into the world of the fantastic and remain there. "The Star" is a scientific exploration of the consequences of the planet's encounter with a comet set at a tense slow burn that creates and exploits dramatic tension through every page. The last-minute curveball, though perhaps a bit ham-fisted for modern sensibilities, adds a surprising dose of perspective and a slight hint of black humor in what is otherwise a bleak tale indeed. "The Country of the Blind" is a nuanced exploration of a valley whose inhabitants have lived without sight for several generations, with a spectacular amount of detail that stands up to any modern standards for full-fledged worldbuilding. Wells precariously, but successfully, balances the protagonist's very European self-righteousness with the natives' own arrogance, forcing readers to reconsider some preconceived ideas about physical and cultural differences without exonerating a group that likewise dismisses a representative of the writer's (and reader's) world. The result is a refreshing take on these issues that feels fresh and relevant despite its advanced age, providing fodder for personal reflection and philosophical discussions galore.

Wells has accomplished no small feat in crafting a number of stories that are readable, enjoyable, and thought-provoking into the 21st century. He straddles and blurs the lines between reality and fantasy in so many compelling ways that can continue to entice modern minds. Some of the language and attitudes in these tales do betray the time and place of their origin, but they are nonetheless forward-thinking and exciting, providing excellent conceits that still resonate and will likely continue to do so for the foreseeable (ha) future. Wells is able to drill down past whizzbang flash and fury and deliver tales that capture part of the excitement and essence of being human. Though The Door in the Wall and Other Stories betrays a literary style that has, alas, aged over the intervening years, H.G. Wells remains a-thinking and literary force to be reckoned with, capable of changing and challenging modern readers' perceptions and igniting the imagination as vividly as he must have done in his own time.

Grade: A

Book 36: What If?

What If? Serious Scientific Answers in Absurd Hypothetical Questions

Randall Munroe

I've been reading xkcd for years and its companion blog, What If?, for the entirety of its existence, and I was thrilled to see that Randall Munroe decided to release a book based on the latter concept. What makes What If?- in both blog and book form- so wonderful is that it shows how complex, stunning, and downright silly the world can be when taken seriously and not so seriously, all at once. The book is composed of Munroe's thorough, and often very literal, answers to readers' hypothetical questions, ranging from the mundane (How high can humans throw things?) to the absurd (What if we had a bullet as dense as a neutron star? What would happen if a baseball pitcher threw at the speed of light?) to the strangely profound (What is the furthest a living person has ever been from every other living person? How long would it take the last two people on Earth to find each other?). It is evident, both from the questions he selects and the answers he provides, that Munroe is intelligent, witty, and, above all, human. What If? indulges our collective curiosity and creativity, asking us to question our world and, more importantly, to figure out a way to find the answers. Laced with a fine layer of sarcasm, the book tackles even the most mundane questions with surprising energy, often finding ways to make even the more straightforward questions (What effects would a Richter 15 earthquake have? What did Times Square look like a million years ago?) surprisingly poignant. This is a book about being alive, questioning everything, and enjoying every goddamn moment of it.

This is often where I voice my criticisms, and I'm struggling to think of one. Perhaps loyal What If? readers will be slightly disheartened to see that many of the book's chapters are recycled wholesale from the blog; I, for one, was eager to read and rediscover them again. Munroe's blend of explanatory text and cartoons is as well suited to print as it is to the Internet, and I actually found much of it (especially the footnotes) easier to read in printed form. The stick-figure drawings and more elaborate cartoon explorations of world destruction are- of course- terrific, illustrating (ha) Munroe's inclusive and enthusiastic approach to scientific inquiry. The illustrations enhance and interact with the text in an innovative way that makes some of the more advanced concepts much more accessible and much of the book far more lively than most others. It is refreshing, too, to note how many of them are or contain jokes, lending the book a degree of levity that would benefit works across all disciplines. The science is real and I'm sure the math checks out (Munroe worked for NASA, after all), yet Munroe approaches science in a very relatable way. He never talks down to his readers, but strives to make even the most challenging, complex concepts easily understandable to anyone who is willing to stretch their mind and expand their horizons. Munroe is at once completely serious and completely irreverent, and the result is absolutely perfect.

I am convinced that the central question of What If? is not any of the questions it contains but, rather, an exploration of what it means to be human. If a central facet of our humanity relies on our desire and ability to question the world around us and devise ways to discover whatever answers the world might yield, then the book is a perfect manifestation of this desire. Why not ask what might happen if absurd and impossible thing x happens? Just imagine what we might learn if we suspend disbelief and believe, if only for a few pages, that the most wonderful (and utterly terrifying) things could happen. What If? goes there, managing to balance scientific rigor with the evident, honest, and unbridled thrill of being alive. Hell, I'm a humanities person to the core (with degrees in English, history, and library science), and I am half considering becoming a physicist after reading this book. What If? encourages- no, forces- readers to engage directly with the world around us, to question our assumptions and to think boldly about all of the possibilities the world offers us; no matter how absurd our questions may seem, they can often lead to some pretty surprising, and surprisingly poignant, answers and questions about the world around us.

Grade: A

Book 33: California

California

Edan Lepucki

As a longtime fan of this type of science fiction, I was excited to see a post-apocalyptic (or, as it turns out, sort of mid-apocalyptic and dystopian) novel get so much attention from the mainstream press. Lepucki has an interesting idea in fusing literary fiction's hyper-awareness of individuals and relationships with genre fiction's focus on plot, but the novel's great, and to my mind only, strengths lie in its science fiction elements and not in the relationships that the author clearly hopes will come to the fore. With its tight focus on main characters Cal and Frida, a married couple who have taken to the wilderness in the wake of a lengthy series of natural and man-made disasters (more on that below), it is obvious that California aims to be a close, domestic, literary take on how a series of unfortunate, quasi-apocalyptic events might affect such a pairing. Both Cal and Frida- and, to a lesser, extent, several of the more important secondary characters- are provided with sufficient backstory, although these revelations are often provided at a haphazard pace that diminishes their effectiveness. Lepucki is also wise to present the story in close third-person narration that alternates between Cal's and Frida's perspectives, although even this cannot compel the reader to particularly enjoy spending time with either- or both- of them. There is, of course, nothing wrong with a suitably gritty antihero or two in a post-apocalyptic narrative; it is, however, excessively tiresome to encounter a married couple who continually bicker without bothering to drive the narrative or their characterizations forward in any meaningful way.

The problem with Cal and Frida is neither that they are made of cardboard nor that they are unrealistic; theirs is certainly not the only marriage that would fray under the circumstances they face before and during the course of California's events. It is, rather, that they are two people who are simply unable to do anything for their own good, and who fail to do so in ways that are miserably boring. Time and again, each declares their love for the other (whether aloud or privately) or resolves to begin treating their spouse with respect (and each time, invariably, it is about damn time for that); time and again, they conveniently (and immediately) forget these proclamations and make the same damn mistakes, suddenly lacking the keen self-awareness they discovered equally suddenly at the end of their previous chapter(s). Saying that Cal or Frida is adjective is not, sadly, enough to make them adjective, particularly when their next actions are very un-adjective indeed. Compounding this error is that the author appears to think that this constitutes growth and change; for protagonists in what purports to be a fundamentally domestic story, they are awfully stagnant and often downright maddening. At the end of the day, Cal and Frida, who inevitably form the book's backbone, are not drawn well enough to carry a novel.

California's protagonist pair isn't helped, either, by writing that is often clunky and a narrative that itself cannot successfully navigate the divide between narrow-scope character drama and grandiose conspiracy theories with their attendant political discourse. If The Road (and other books of its ilk) proves that an apocalyptic story needn't be terribly concerned with the bigger picture, and countless explosion-laden romps prove that the Michael Bay brand of science fiction also has a kind of appeal, then California proves that it requires a certain kind of precision to successfully unite the two, particularly in a novel of relatively limited length. One gets the feeling that Lepucki cannot quite decide what kind of book she wants to write, which is a damn shame because she absolutely nails so many of the genre-heavy points. Her slow-burn apocalypse is a nice, timely antidote to the asteroids, zombies, and other sudden disasters in between that saturate the field; it is a problem of our own making, in the making, and while one might argue that it is a bit preachy the argument is made all the stronger by the little details that make this particular future so terribly plausible- and so plausibly terrifying. Lepucki bungles few, if any, of the story's speculative elements and, even more remarkably, displays a keen understanding of human nature that is so spectacularly lacking in her treatment of her romantic leads.

Though Lepucki misunderstands, over-explains, and just plain gets its wrong with Cal and Frida- both as a couple and as individuals- she deploys an obvious fascination with human nature as she explores the causes and ramifications of the country's eventual, gradual demise. She clearly understands how such events can give birth to as many types of responses as there are people involved, and her brief forays into the secondary cast are usually more compelling, and more realistically portrayed, than her deep dives into the main characters' minds. The economic moralizing can come off a bit thick at times, but Lepucki at least has the good sense to place much of the rhetoric in extremist characters' mouths. The book also manages a fair amount of tension and a surprisingly effective balance of plot-heavy moments and more introspective lulls. Readers want to know more about Cal and Frida's history, more about Frida's mysterious brother and the Group that captured his attention, more about those with whom they come into contact in the wilderness, more about the true nature of the settlements they encounter and hear about. To a large extent, these questions are answered, usually to a satisfactory degree, with one blaring, unforgivable exception: the book's ending is a cheap mess that completely undermines all of its good worldbuilding and is acceptable, and only barely just, as a lead-in to a hypothetical sequel.

The ending, in fact, concentrates so much on plot- the area where Lepucki deploys her greatest talents- that it is almost unbelievable that she bungles it so badly. The idea itself is actually somewhat interesting, steeped in stereotype and lazy expectation as it is. The problem is that it emerges as though out of nowhere and resolves nothing, and the book does not prepare the reader to decide whether they are meant to accept or question this seemingly happy ending. One wishes that Lepucki had simply made up her mind about this and so many other elements of the book, as she is clearly capable of writing compelling, probing fiction when she lets go of her aspirations and simply lets the story flow naturally, uninhibited by outsize expectations. But, alas, the ending exhibits the same fundamental errors that plague the rest of the book, caused largely by a reliance on overanalysis when the subtle moments are the ones that truly stand out. In the end, I'm not sure what to think of California; despite hating the main characters, I was immediately enthralled by Lepucki's dire vision of our future and found myself continually eager to follow them as they sought to understand their surroundings and their situation, understandings that proved far more interesting, and rewarding, than any overwrought, hollow understanding the author thinks that they- or readers- achieved of themselves.

Grade: B

Book 21: Survivors

Survivors

Terry Nation

I felt compelled to read this book after discovering the (newer version of the) eponymous show on Netflix and being intrigued by its take on the idea of the disease apocalypse. Though the book posits a future projected forward from the 1970s, when it was written, its core problems and issues feel as relevant as ever, despite some missteps with regard to characterization and plotting. This is largely due to the nature of his apocalypse, in which normal life is suspended (possibly forever) after a lethal virus quickly kills a vast percentage of the human race across the world (which gets an excellent, brutally efficient name: the Death). Nation gets the basics absolutely right as his primary protagonists, a small band of survivors, begin to navigate a world without electricity, government, or a million other types of infrastructure. There's something inherently compelling about viewing the desolation immediately after such calamitous events, before society has had a chance to redefine itself and settle into its new normal, and modern readers can easily imagine themselves raiding grocery stores for canned foods, hospitals for precious medicines, used cars for their half-full gas tanks, and libraries for how-to books on all of the basic survival skills we now leave to specialists. Nation's vision is often at its best when it extends beyond his group, which attempts to make a go of it as a small, self-supporting agrarian commune, to power-hungry groups eager to establish themselves as the new government(s), traders looking to corner the market on now-irreplaceable goods reliant on pre-Death science, and others trying to reclaim, in a way, some aspects of the lives they knew before.

As compelling as his vision is, though, Nation often loses readers in the details, and some aspects of this vision are far more fully realized than others. His characters are unevenly developed and seem to act at the author's whim far more often than of their own volition, and many are ripe for richer backstories and/or present plotlines; likewise, many are pigeonholed early on and never really sway from that one-dimensional, introductory characterization. Perhaps not coincidentally, some of the most egregious failures in this regard occur in relation to the women; though female characters are among the book's most prominent, they are often condescended to by in-world characters and (seemingly) author alike. It is frustrating that even the women who are leaders are foremost wives and mothers, even after the world has been thrown into utter chaos, and that their positive qualities are usually underpinned or undermined by their relationships to their children or to the men. It is, however, encouraging that women do have agency in his apocalyptic future- something that certainly cannot be said of many (probably most) others- and it's not immediately apparent that they are the only victims of poor character-building within the book. This seems to be foremost a failure of talent, not an act of outright malice or misogyny.

Even when Nation attempts to build plot conflicts and provide opportunities for growth- or at least richer realizations- the twists appear contrived, and he relies far too often on his third-person omniscience, rather than events and dialogue, as he draws conclusions and moves the story forward, however tenuously at times. Nation is similarly clumsy in his handling of time: while it is obviously desirable to shift a narrative ahead at different speeds as everything stabilizes, it is often difficult to locate the various starting and ending points either in a kind of absolute time or in relation to one another. This compounds the author's error of introducing too many ill-defined, flat characters and sometimes makes the story difficult to follow. It is hard to sympathize with these people or their plight, even as we can easily imagine it happening to ourselves. Likewise, intriguing threads are raised and dropped before Nation explores their full potential. He has bothered to imagine many of the unintended, wide-ranging consequences of the Death but not to exploit them to anywhere near their fullest potential, resulting in a dull narrative dotted with all-too-brief pockets of excitement and enticing, but quickly disappearing, subplots.

This gets to the heart of the book's primary failure: it relies far too heavily on telling readers what's important, how characters should be perceived, and how England tenuously begins to find its footing in the wake of disaster, rather than developing a consistent, interesting story that reveals any of these things on its own. That the story culminates in a wholly foreseeable event telegraphed, in part, by a blundering attempt to conceal by omission (wherein said omission becomes all the more noticeable, and the reveal flabbergastingly obvious and thus wholly emotionally ineffective) is perhaps fitting; it is a last-gasp attempt at subtlety and nuance that ultimately misses the point entirely and undermines (or perhaps is undermined by) the book's own ending. This same ending would be fitting, if still heartbreaking, if the narrative preceding it paid more attention to questions of shifting morality; in a book apparently concerned more with the bare mechanics of survival, however, it seems unnecessarily brutal, cold, and at odds with itself. Survivors is still worth reading for its imaginative insights into the effects of an abrupt shift from full-fledged modernity to a nearly uninhabited landscape, but it will appeal most to well-versed genre fans who can ignore its many flaws.

Grade: B-

Book 12: Angelmaker

Angelmaker

Nick Harkaway

I'm not quite sure where to even begin with this book- it's a mishmash of international espionage, sarcastic satire, apocalyptic fiction, steampunk, and high-tech science fiction. Despite all of this, it somehow still works, and I truly regretted finishing the book and leaving the improbably captivating world that Harkaway has created. Our protagonist is a typical unassuming hero who has inherited the anachronistic profession of watchmaker and who sees the world through an unmistakably English lens. The language of the book places it distinctly in Great Britain and, to a large extent, defines its charm and drives its humor. As the plot integrates a series of highly implausible events that are at times vaguely possible, fantastic but plausible in such a narrative, and utterly ridiculous, one is reminded of the works of Monty Python and Douglas Adams, who relentlessly maintain a degree of seriousness as the world crumbles into silliness. This quintessentially British point of view somehow ties the book together, despite its nearly continuous leaps directly off of the cliffs of insanity. As a consequence, however, there are many aspects of the book that teeter oh-so-perilously on the edge of complete ridiculousness, and one gets the feeling that the book won't completely make sense without the aid of several re-readings and the discussion of a highly educated book club.

Though it can sometimes be a quagmire, Angelmaker holds together remarkably well. Though some elements might be considered out of place, such as a very science fictional development with nearly infinite (and very serious) implications regarding the philosophy of existence and individuality, the plot moves forward relentlessly in both of its relevant timelines. The characters are interesting and the central mysteries utterly unpredictable- though I think this says more about the novel's inherent wackiness than Harkaway's inherent authorial abilities. Upon finishing the book, it is hard to comprehend in retrospect just how everything fits together- but take my word for it, it does, though some aspects of the book may not make much sense and seem a bit over the top (even in a novel that celebrates this kind of circus). There is something compelling about this book, something that makes me believe that it is, despite all indications to the contrary, not a complete mess. That Harkaway is even able to contemplate creating a coherent ending out of this jumble is a feat unto itself, and even if he is ultimately less than successful in constructing a particularly coherent story, there are enough interesting ideas crammed into the book that it's always interesting. The chaos somehow works; I have no idea how and who knows how I'll feel upon reading it again (which I am nearly certain to do). Angelmaker may be nearly completely inscrutable at times and completely insane, but I'll be damned if it isn't one hell of an interesting ride.

Grade: A

Book 35: Fire Watch

Fire Watch

Connie Willis

After reading Doomsday Book and the eponymous story in The Best Time Travel Stories of the 20^th Century, I knew that I had to read more Connie Willis...and I was absolutely right. I don't know what it is about her stories, but Willis continually finds ways to amaze me. Perhaps it is her range- from time travel to post-apocalyptic landscapes to a more typically futuristic space station, Willis pulls it all off seamlessly. Perhaps the power of Willis's talent lies in her ability to make the science fiction conceits almost vanish behind the raw emotional power of her stories: despite sometimes employing standard science fiction tropes, these are not (merely) gee-whiz-wow tales. Willis writes fiction that should be considered alongside the work of the lit-fic critics' darlings, haunting stories that stay with you long after you turn the final page. To choose standouts in a collection like this feels at best like a hilarious understatement, but the stories that have had the strongest effect on me are the horrifying "All My Darling Daughters" (I was continually shocked by the brutality of this story, yet couldn't stop myself from reading forward) and "A Letter from the Clearys," which might actually be more devastating despite employing a far more subtle emotional touch. Fire Watch may have been Connie Willis's first published group of short stories, but it is simply superb, the work of a living master.

Grade: A

Book 25: Robopocalypse

Robopocalypse: A Novel

Daniel H. Wilson

The possible- and, some say, inevitable, sentience of artificial intelligence certainly isn't the most original way for an author to begin an apocalyptic tale, yet each robot story seems to tell us something about ourselves and, perhaps, what makes life unique. One would expect Daniel H. Wilson, who has a Ph.D. in robotics, to have a particularly interesting perspective on the idea of a robot uprising. Though Robopocalypse does entertain some interesting notions about the technical possibilities of robotics, however, all that it really delivers is a thin skeleton, without any satisfying thematic or character-based elements to elevate the book beyond a mere piquing of the scientific interest. Wilson first errs in the book's form, a kind of segmented post-facto history assembled by (naturally) one of the main human players in the drama. Nothing is inherently wrong with this set-up, and it worked wonderfully in World War Z, but from the beginning it feels clumsy and forced, a bit too self-conscious on both the main narrator and author's parts. We begin not with a feeling of suspense or impending doom, but with the reassurance that everything turns out all right, thus robbing the main narrative of much of its power. Aware that everything turns out all right, readers are less inclined to truly invest in the psychological uncertainties that a proper apocalypse thrives upon. To make matters worse, each section is introduced and concluded with a note from our historian, and while they largely succeed to place events within their respective context, they are painfully reductive and, particularly pre-"Zero Hour", childishly leading. Wilson keeps earnestly promising that certain characters will be vital in the New War and talking up his own story selection, and while this may be something that an experienced soldier might say when retelling his recent history, it is unsatisfying in the hands of an author who should know better. Again, Wilson fails to build any kind of suspense or dramatic resonance, instead constantly reminding readers that he, the author, is in charge of the story at hand, and that he has oh-so-cleverly created (wait for it!) an intertwined, global-scale plot.

Even more disastrous than these cutesy asides are the individual narrative voices. While I can appreciate the attempt at soldierly lingo or a Southern drawl in each first-person chapter, the numerous voices are surprisingly, er, robotic. And for some unfathomable, bizarre reason, the stories are told in present tense. Each and every one. Whether a police interview about a recent crime or a robot's log, the authors are present and accounted for, even when recounting past events. The effect is horrific, especially when paired with a misguided insistence on first person narration for a book whose entire conceit is that its constituent stories are appearing to the framing narrator via a computer. While it's true that people may recount stories using a mixture of tenses ("So, I'm sitting there when x finally shows up"), the existence of the framing narrative as well as the constant asides continually remind readers that the events of the book are occurring in the past. Wherefore, then, the false urgency? All suspense has already been drained from the book anyway, with the continual assurances that this character is important and that event turned out correctly and the author knows what he's doing, okay. It's absolutely maddening, and makes what should be either a breezy or deeply philosophical novel an absolute slog at times. Instead of character development and world building, we get transparent, ineffective gimmicks.

That the book is written so poorly is a shame, because it is evident throughout that Wilson has, in fact, put a lot of thought into his particular robot apocalypse, and he is able to effortlessly drop readers straight into that world when he stops trying so hard to sell his story. He utilizes a good mixture of familiar technology, foreseeable developments, and slight exaggerations to create a near future that is utterly believable, one that would, in the hands of a more competent writer,  force us to re-think our current relationship with technology. Instead, what we get is a lot of intriguing technological developments wrapped up in an insufficient narrative full of cardboard characters. Worse yet, there is no discernible theme. Why, exactly, does the robotic arch-nemesis decide to destroy humanity? There are some hints as to his motives, but I fear that Wilson mistakes a lack of sufficient development for something akin to subtlety. While the slap-bang aspects of the narrative are good enough to keep readers engaged despite a host of flaws, the book's ultimate conclusions, or lack thereof, are ultimately disappointing, and a work that should have excelled is instead relegated to the back corners of the brain. Those things Wilson does best- create compelling near-future technology, weave an interconnected plot- are crowded out by the book's basic writing flaws, wherein the compelling becomes sadly mundane. Robopocalypse posits an interesting future in an uninteresting way, and is a bit too caught up in its potential strengths to actually draw upon them; it is a novel of ideas but not, sadly, of engagement with them.

Grade: C+

Book 4: Lucifer's Hammer

Lucifer's Hammer
Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle

As the title of this book suggests, Lucifer's Hammer is full of mayhem and just a hint of religious undertones, delivered as a comet violently smashes into Earth and destroys civilization as we know it (or knew it in 1977). Though we begin with both feet solidly planted in the technological world, readers can feel the mounting tension as the comet begins to capture the world's imagination, personified most specifically through various denizens of the greater Los Angeles area, with a United States Senator and his hot, slightly slutty daughter thrown in for good measure. Readers who don't know much about the geography of this part of California are advised to at least glance at an atlas beforehand, as the authors assume a working topographical and sociological knowledge of the area; without it, moments of the narrative can jar readers out of the otherwise enrapturing tale. And, though the scope of this worldwide disaster novel is somewhat restrained, the choice seems a good one; the hard science that drives the novel seems to suggest the mid-California mountains as a likely place for human survival, and at the very least this is a disaster novel that pays attention to the everyday men and women on the street, with nary a President to be found. The cast, large as it is, is admirably handled and well-enough juggled, though the list of "Dramatis Personae" at the book's front is a bit misleading, as it emphasizes some decidedly minor characters while leaving out some fairly important ones. Regardless, it is fascinating to watch a spectrum of people react to the news about the comet, prepare for or pretend to completely ignore its impending strike, and, eventually, react, though the cast is overpopulated with burly manly types and is sorely lacking developed, well-rounded women.

In fact, it's not simply the absence of strong women that may rankle some readers but, rather, the way in which otherwise powerful women are consistently dismissed as the authors' personal politics manhandle their way into the novel. For every ass-kicking moment of inspired driving, there is a female character all too happy to accept that she can be no more than a cook in the new, manly society of manly physical labor; worse, the men treat the women as afterthoughts and, in a brilliant display of macho sexism, as an outright prize. It is tempting to attribute this to the times (it may indeed be the authors, and not a character, who essentially say, "To hell with this women's lib nonsense"), but Niven and Pournelle go out of their way time and again to remind readers that women need to be put in their place, even when they know precisely what's going on; they are good for cooking, pushing paper, and introducing dramatic conflict as men jostle for their affections. What begin so promisingly as strong, independent women instead become relegated to the kitchen and the bedroom, creature comforts but, ultimately, not very useful; save, of course, for the Soviet doctor who of course renounces communism entirely. Perhaps this is a personal grievance, but the authors demonstrate throughout the novel that their political viewpoints can come across without use of the Obvious Hammer, then sadly allow the book's climax to be overtaken by an anti-environmentalist rant. This unnecessary proselytizing undoes the book at several otherwise powerful moments, and threatens to derail a thoroughly depicted, perfectly good apocalypse.

All is not doom and gloom, however, and it is possible to revel in this book despite the authors' occasional lapses in judgment. The first chapters of the book are thoughtfully interrupted by a look at the Solar System's first moments, and readers get a first-hand introduction to the planet's doomsday device; the effect is perfectly chilling, and brilliantly echoed at a key future moment. Otherwise, much of the book is standard disaster fare, with a plot that revolves around the (manly!) jostle for land, power, and survival (not necessarily in that order), with some surprisingly powerful, but too infrequent, emotional asides that ruminate on the true effects of apocalypse. Disaster scenes and post-comet visions of destruction are artfully realized, and though some of the cast is mysteriously dropped, referenced only by a throwaway line rather than a proper death scene, readers will come to care about the exploits of the remainder, and almost every thread is neatly tied, just not at the most efficient pace. Niven and Pournelle have clearly thought through the matter of the end of the world, and though their politics can dampen the novel's impact, there is plenty of heart to accompany the standard horror and some truly shocking reversions. Lucifer's Hammer is a satisfying novel of apocalypse that shows sparks of brilliance, particularly in its use of science, but which falls too often into political rants to be truly classic.

Grade: B

Book 51: Sandman Slim

Sandman Slim
Richard Kadrey

Some books are designed to be, above all, fun, where others strive to connect with readers on a more intellectual level, provoking thought and engaging the reader at every twist and turn. Sandman Slim is, at a visceral level, and incredibly enjoyable book and a truly unique sarcastic fantasy-noir quasi-apocalyptic novel. The devil, however, lies in all of the details of this book, including the plot, the characters, and Kadrey's maddening inability to maximize the deep philosophical potential of his work. Sandman Slim deals with the devil and with heaven, including a hierarchy of angels and imps and a main character who firmly resolves to stand between the two ever-warring forces. This philosophical conflict, while evoked beautifully by the gruff and cynical first-person prose, is never fully realized as Kadrey seems more concerned with adding interesting plot elements than using them. The book seems in this way to be built toward an inevitable sequel, but readers may feel somewhat conned by the tantalizing hints of higher meaning and philosophical depth, which could easily have been offered regardless of Slim's potential as a series. There is a lot to be said about the themes upon which this novel only fleetingly touches, and though it seems Kadrey has something to say about death, love, and morality, which are easily the book's major themes, what it is remains uncertain after hints and miscues.

This problem with overall vision, whether too little or too much of it, is reflected in some plot holes and inconsistencies within the book. Death, injury, and immunity are key factors throughout, but are neither adequately explained nor consistently treated. Characters who should have immunity according to the book's internal logic (insofar as it exists) find themselves subject to crippling attacks, and other characters appear invincible one moment and vulnerable the next. It is as if Kadrey wished to introduce plot elements without paying careful consideration to how they would affect the believability of the world he has otherwise so realistically evoked. This, and Chekhov reigns supreme through transparent foreshadowing. Sandman Slim consistently hints at something bigger but is weighed down by minor inconsistencies that add up to a somewhat frustrating reading experience. This is incredibly unfortunate, as it is obvious that Kadrey is a top-notch author and provides a quirky narrative voice. Protagonist and narrator Stark may have the inconsistency imposed upon him, but damn can he tell a story. The language in this book is vivid and pitch-perfect, absolutely consistent and simultaneously creating a dark and dirty noir L.A. as well as a grungy ex-con (of sorts) whose primary motivating factors may surprise without becoming unbelievable or inconsistent.

Likewise, Kadrey's imagination is at once astonishing and terrifying, with some of the best and most evocative fight scenes I have read as well as an arsenal of weaponry that readers can't help but wish to see on a big screen and indeed, this book is almost screaming to be made into a film despite the prominence of language as its driving element. The tiniest of details combine to create a truly extraordinary view of the darker side of human nature and a much-maligned L.A., which makes it all the more maddening that other elements of the book are not as tightly constructed. The book is full of potential constantly showcased, only to crash in disappointment when its promises are not fulfilled or the author distracted from building theme or plot by a fancy turn of phrase or wry observation. Sandman Slim begins as a rough-and-tumble revenge story with celestial implications, and ends with a flimsy, under-explained apocalyptic aversion. It is a novel that attempts to explore the middle ground between good and evil, Heaven and Hell, but which too often gets caught up in its own cleverness. Sandman Slim will fulfill readers looking for a fun and unique thrill ride, but will frustrate those who hope for a little more weight behind its hefty themes.

Grade: B

Book 23: Good Omens

Good Omens
Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

Being vaguely familiar with each of these authors, but not wanting to get sucks into a series, I was happy to stumble upon this hilarious collaborative effort which, to boot, features an excellent sending-up of the traditional Christian apocalypse. Starting rather strong, Good Omens is a satisfying, often laugh-out-loud book that contains some sharply pointed barbs aimed directly at Christianity while delivering an interesting, mile-a-minute story. For beginners, the collaborative effect of the book is seamless- despite the occasional over-the-top showmanship, the book reads as the work of one coherent generative force, consistent in style throughout. The English humor adds a layer of depth to the book but may trip up some Americans; it does not, however, detract from the novel but rather serves to place it in a firm geographical context.

The story is fairly strong, though the book is best read in as few sittings as possible. Through many section breaks and distinct narrative threads, characters and plots multiply quickly and may be forgotten in the crowd. This speaks to a decline of quality in the book's second half, where the plot becomes a bit too odd and convoluted, with the accompanying jokes feeling far more forced than in the book's more successful opening. Regardless, Good Omens is fun throughout, and the post-climax wrap-up brings it back around to its previous good form after a few plot missteps in the final climactic buildup. The book features among its delightfully named cast the Antichrist as an eleven-year-old and several humans humorously involved in the world of magic, but none can compare to the wonderful angel/demon duo who drive the entire narrative- and who strike comedic gold time and again, inducing fits of laughter nearly every time they appear. Good Omens contains enough glorious moments and spot-on satirical observations that it is, overall, a fun and satisfying book.

Grade: A-

Book 2: Cloud Atlas

Cloud Atlas
David Mitchell

Some books are obviously, painfully meant for critics, and are often as a consequence difficult for the ordinary reader to slog through with any enjoyment at all. Others, however, are so brilliant and well-executed that serious readers and critics alike can enjoy and appreciate them; Cloud Atlas is, to my mind, a fine example of the latter species. With a structure difficult to pull off and remarkably original given its inherent simplicity, Cloud Atlas not only delivers six enthralling stories but, in doing so, forces readers to think about the effects of stories and storytelling. The book is set up as a series of nested narratives, with the beginning story's second half as the very last part of the book; the sixth (and perhaps the most compelling) is presented in the unbroken middle. The structure can get a bit clumsy at times, especially as readers descend from the strongest stories to the weakest, but its fiction-within-fiction-within-fiction conceit serves its overall storyline and narrative thrust instead of imposing an impressive structure on mediocre narratives. True, few of the stories are exemplars of their genres ("Half-Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery" is a fairly standard, though fun, thoughtless mystery and "An Orison of Sonmi~451", despite being well-executed and touching, riffs on dystopian themes heard time and again), but each is more than sufficient and each lends its own particular voice and rhythm to Mitchell's larger examination of the role that storytelling has in our society.

Each story stands on its own but, more cleverly, appears in the stories around it as well, creating a nested effect greater than the physical layout of the book may at first imply. Mitchell weaves his stories together carefully on the way to the middle story, with characters finding the first half of the preceding story cut off, much as the reader has. This creates a nice layered effect but unfortunately loses some steam as the interconnectedness of the stories becomes connected; this becomes particularly wearisome as the stories descend to the first and the discovery of the second half of the story, introduced with profoundly moving simplicity at the end of the middle piece, thereafter is accomplished with decreasingly successful plot devices. Cloud Atlas does, however, carefully and remarkably reveal subtle plot details as the stories move chronologically forward; we find out, for example, that "The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish" is experienced as a movie by the protagonist of "An Orison of Sonmi~451", and the concluding half of his narrative includes side notes to a projected future director, lovingly nicknamed Lars. Similar clever bits allow those in the chronological future to dwell on the fates of those whose stories precede and inform their own without revealing too much of the plot.

There are times, however, that the whole conceit wears a little thin, as Mitchell allows his characters to discusses their reactions to his own stories. It is almost insufferable to hear Luisa Rey gush about the poignancy inherent in the "Letters from Zedelghem", as it is obvious that Mitchell is in the business of congratulating himself instead of allowing the stories to speak for themselves, which they do in many other varied and interesting ways. The evolution of language, for example, to include future adoption of brand names as generic nouns (nikes are shoes, disneys are movies and, most intriguingly, to judas is to betray) is introspective and well-executed. There is no question that, though Mitchell may only truly master the forms of the modern comedy and apocalyptic oral history, his ability to operate in numerous utterly distinct genres is absolutely incredible. "Half Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery" would certainly not deserve critical praise but it may, in fact, find itself selling moderately well as a middle-of-the-road newspaper thriller, "Sloosha's Crossin' an' Ev'rythin' After" is a well-equipped post-apocalyptic tale, and Somni does, though treading familiar ground, make interesting points about corporate culture and a possible future trajectory. Most enjoyable, however, is probably Timothy Cavendish's ghastly ordeal, whose second half far eclipses its first and provides the last truly great moment of the novel.

Cloud Atlas aims to demonstrate, with its interlocked stories and its unique narrative structure, that stories and language are essential building blocks with which we construct a coherent and shared view of the world. Even "Half-Lives", the only story presented in the third person, fundamentally revolves around communication and has a newspaper reporter as its protagonist. Each of the stories is serviceable on its own, though it is tough to know that "The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing" is the final chord struck in the symphony. Its very final notes are effective but the novel's best moments are peppered throughout its rich middle sections, but this is the only major failure of the book's gutsy structure. Cloud Atlas is a rich and rewarding reading experience that manages a tricky dance of crescendos and diminuendos among clumsy tangos and midnight rendezvous. The book is a joy to read both for its enthralling contents and in the way it employs an unique structure to speak to the importance of stories to all of us and, perhaps, to underline the tenuous threads connecting us to the past and the future.

Grade: A

Book 12: Cat's Cradle

Cat's Cradle
Kurt Vonnegut

And now for something completely different, yet again; I sure am running the gamut with the books I'm reading this year. I've only read one book by Vonnegut before (Slaughterhouse-Five) and it was quite a while ago. Also, I'm usually not one for absurdist books and am almost totally unfamiliar with the genre, but I didn't get very far into Cat's Cradle before I could appreciate its incessant satiric jabs, presented perfectly in a light tone but possessing quite the punch. Without very many solid characters or easily understood chronology, at least initially, it is a bit difficult to get into the book unless you sit back and allow it to absorb you completely; once it grabs a hold of you, however, it doesn't let up for a second. Most piercing, and central, is the book's hilarious answer to religion, found in the pack of lies known as Bokononism. Bokononism attracts its followers by immediately asserting itself as a false religion, but one that can improve the lives of its followers. It's actually a very subtle and nuanced philosophy that pokes fun at faith while retaining its best elements. Particularly uproarious is its send-up of people who wish to see connections in the most mundane and meaningless of coincidences: though Bokononism holds that humanity is organized into teams performing God's will, granfalloons are teams people invent for themselves and which hold no meaning (nationality, fans of a particular sports team, people named Dave, etc.), similar to the cat's cradle string game which, in fact, has no cat and no cradle. Imagine my delight when the central granfalloon turned out to be Hoosiers.

Bokononism and the way Vonnegut gradually and matter-of-factly presents its central tenets and history provide a wonderful and assertive, yet gentle, attack on many fallacies of modern self-centric philosophy, but its use in the novel as an opiate of the masses is right on target as well. Bokononism is outlawed on the main setting of San Lorenzo, but only to distract the masses with a common enemy in its prophet and a hero in its prophet-hunting dictator; everyone on the island is, of course, a devoted Bokononist. Aside from satirizing human associations and interactions, Vonnegut directly tackles the arms race and the end of the world, linking the two through the narrator's projected book on Hiroshima and the sudden omnipresence of ice-nine, a potentially apocalyptic new way for water to arrange its molecules. Here also Vonnegut is sharp but keeps his observations coated in a candy-sweet covering of humor. Many satires can be read entirely on the surface as good works of literature, but Cat's Cradle is inseparable from its social context on all levels, and though Vonnegut's jabs are obvious and finely pointed, they are spot-on and as entertaining as they are revealing. It's hard to say exactly what it is that makes Cat's Cradle so enjoyable, particularly when its plot is often difficult to follow, but its humor and its lighthearted view of the apocalypse and the cheerful abandon of reason by modern humans make it both searing and satisfying, a wonderful quick jaunt through absurdism that turns out, in the end, to be far too real.

Grade: A

Book 6: The Road

The Road
Cormac McCarthy

This book is not for the faint of heart or for those looking for a quick pick-me-up. Though it reads quickly, The Road just as quickly absorbs itself into your soul and refuses to let go, leaving the reader stunned and strangely hungering for more of the bleak and barren landscape of the road. McCarthy's style may here defy conventions and seem simple, but this book is an elegant masterpiece cloaked in the clothes of simplicity. All of the aspects that would hurt any other book come together to form a panoramic view of a hopeless post-apocalyptic environment that tugs at the heartstrings and is so passionately real. McCarthy doesn't need flashy language or complex constructions to tug at the heartstrings and to evoke utter despair and desolation- indeed, the simplicity of the text makes it that much easier to relate to and allows the book to permeate and linger, a careful meditation on human frailty that is ultimately beautiful in its complete destruction.

McCarthy's style is, to say the least, incredibly understated. Dialogue is unmarked and contractions are often missing apostrophes. Rather than rendering the book unreadable, however, these small stylistic considerations (they are obviously far from oversights) create an atmosphere that transcends the book and allows it to become an independent environment actually experienced by the reader. The conversations between the unnamed protagonist and his son, for example, often resolve in ambiguities that open up vastly different and intellectually interesting possibilities. Though the portraits of the two main characters are heart-wrenchingly complete, they remain elusive and general enough to apply at once to everyone and no one else at all. Occasionally they seem extraordinary for surviving thus far; at other times, they are reflections of humanity's deepest and darkest moments. They are brilliantly inconsistent and each conversation, each snatch of description adds to their portraits and force the reader to look inward. There is something about these characters that is eerily resonant and haunting, a perfect tone that matches the plot.

The plot, while a bit tedious at the beginning, weaves itself in amongst the character developments and prevents the book from becoming a simple character study. Though events may seem interchangeable or intermittently excessive, each in fact adds to the legend and builds upon the previous events to create an actual narrative. It would be far too easy to begin at the apocalypse and end with salvation; instead, McCarthy begins in the middle and gives his starkly rendered landscape no direct cause. The apocalyptic event remains shrouded in mystery and heightens the generally tense tone of the book; it simply does not need to be explained. It has happened, and events follow as such.

The Road lingers in the mind and in the heart, at once deeply touching and incredibly disturbing. It achieves so much in part because it works solely in subtlety- the scarce shock scenes that do appear don't seem for a minute out of place and fit in perfectly with the world McCarthy has created. The book manages to be understated while touching strongly on themes of morality throughout: there are no grand moral pronouncements, only two characters trying (for whatever reason) to survive and doing the best they can. It may seem strange that a pre-apocalyptic audience could find such cohesion with these characters and their incredibly distant situation, but McCarthy's incomparable talent makes the barren, bleak road appear before us. The Road may be the emotionally heaviest book I have read in a long time, but it is achingly poignant and worth its weight.

Grade: A

Book 4: World War Z

World War Z
Max Brooks

Thankfully, I'm picking up the pace quite a bit here, and with mind-blowing entertainment too. World War Z has everything: a clever concept executed with amazing clarity, gripping narration engrossing yet effortless, a compelling human interest story, good writing, a touch of black humor, and a combination of hope and cynicism that would astound Hemingway. I was a bit worried while approaching this book; in fact, I laughed it off. A book about a zombie war, by the son of Mel Brooks? Well, hey, I had to read it for class. Having finished the book, I wish to ban my ignorance forever to the wayside. This book is amazing and strong from start to finish. Brooks is a master of adaptation and movement, tracking a zombie plague throughout the globe and nailing international relations as well as intricate human relationships. Brooks deals with concepts as familiar as love and as unfamiliar as, well, a zombie apocalypse. He may have chosen a niche topic around which to weave his tales of violent upheaval and worldwide panic, but his excellent authorial skills should not be dismissed and instead lend the somewhat marginalized topic of zombies a piece of credible, highly executed art.

From the first page of the book, I knew that Brooks had chosen exactly the right medium in which to tell his story. By compiling a selection of interviews, Brooks is able to present the multiple viewpoints modern readers should expect with an event of this scope. Instead of limiting his story to the United States or even expanding to Europe or Australia, Brooks provides a truly worldwide outlook on a colossal global event, made possible only through the globalization utilized to brilliant ends within the book. By beginning in China, Brooks roots out the very beginning of the problem and sets off the chain reaction he will follow around the globe as the contagion spreads. More importantly, he thinks outside of the realm of the particular interview at hand and includes references to future or past interviews that, taken together, provide a complete view of events. Brooks recognizes both the strengths and weaknesses of oral interviews as a source of information and exploits both brilliantly, adding insightful satire and critiques without becoming too overbearing (usually). A few references to the Iraq War become a bit cumbersome and are too transparently linked to the views of the author (though I happen to agree with them), but authorial presence is usually held to a minimum in the book. That presence that Brooks does show is usually filtered through the lens of the interviewer who has collected the data available here; adding this voice gives the book an extra dimension of realism.

This realistic take on such a cliched and overly fantastic subject as zombies is shockingly effective. Brooks uses the viral strain of zombie history and links it into current fears about potential bird flu or SARS pandemics. The path he traces is realistic and recalls the spread of other diseases. The actions of the different countries most represented (particularly the United States, Russia, and China) seem to be realistic extrapolations based on their current conduct. Is it so unbelievable that China would do all in its power to hide news of the spreading crisis (just think of the more benign toy contaminations) or that Russia would revert to a pseudo-Romanov "Holy Russian Empire"? Brooks presents much of the darker side of human nature but is so compelling and so blatantly honest that readers have no choice but to go along for the ride and accept the story as it unfolds. It is, in fact, shocking to be drawn out of the narrative universe and back into the real, zombie-free world.

Brooks's speakers are likewise incredibly real and broadly representative. There are doctors, statesmen, everyday survivors, soldiers, and even emotionally scarred victims of the war. Some appear more than once and all are somehow sympathetic. By presenting them in their own words, Brooks wisely avoids judgment (except for the sly interruptions of the interviewer) and lets the story tell itself. This is the best way to present a global event, and characters run the gamut in almost every respect. Not all are stereotypical representatives of a typical apocalyptic story; you'll find them here but presented in the flesh and without cliche. Each person has a story to tell and yet each story connects to the others and reveals a small piece of the larger picture. The book is a triumph in integration; each section is necessary yet stands on its own. None seem extraneous and all are equally compelling in their own way.

By the time the reader finishes this book, zombies have gone from a tired horror-movie staple to a compellingly terrifying possibility. We are as intimate with the zombies as those who directly encountered them. We know the timeline of the war and are familiar with the different methods and means by which people escaped. We are not only familiar with the war itself but with the shape the postwar world is taking; the story does not stop with the last great pushes against the zombies but lives on in the remarkably and concisely detailed interview settings (as well as the consideration that the plague may not be entirely over).

This book is a well-written and engaging literary piece masquerading as pulp fiction. Brooks knows what he is doing and has brilliantly executed each facet of his incredibly detailed concept, exploring its ramifications and leaving no part of the history of the zombie war along the wayside (my shattered ego lies alone). Some sections of the book are a bit heavy on the present, making me fear for its potential longevity (it is tied incredibly closely to the early 2000s), but I believe that it can function as a work of alternate history, projecting a path based on our own times. While the gore in the book may turn off some readers, it is not overbearing and certainly not extraneous- the horrific moments are central to the plot and help create the vivid sense of reality that ultimately makes the novel work. I may have been skeptical at the outset, but I will undoubtedly return to this incredible book time and again to explore its insights into human nature, its bizarrely relevant take on the fate of humanity in a world gone mad. With zombies.

Grade: A

Book 61: The Apocalypse Reader

The Apocalypse Reader
Edited by Justin Taylor

The premise of apocalypse promises to create interesting, if not always excellent, stories, and this collection offers up quite a few worth the time. Taken together, however, the collection feels patchy in parts and has stories that vary from excellent to bizarre and annoyingly postmodern. While I understand Taylor's insistence on collecting stories that focus not only on the Apocalypse as we commonly think of it but also on minor apocalypses such as the loss of a child , I think that his collection suffers from a lack of coherency because of the variance of apocalypse in the stories. If they were grouped more thematically, it may have been easier to track the point of the more indecipherable stories, but the collection is as it stands and can become a bit confusing.

The stories themselves vary incredibly in their quality. There are some by new authors that are stunning and weave in new and fresh methods with stunning success. There are others, however, that seem to relish their art to the point where there really is no story and nothing to grasp onto. I cannot get a firm grasp on Taylor's criteria for inclusion; the stories are so wildly inconsistent that the book is really only useful for finding the gems, a feat that can be easily accomplished within the span of a library loan. Taylor has put together an interesting attempt, but ultimately the collection fails to hold together and captivate the reader the way apocalyptic literature should.

Grade: B

Book 19: A Canticle for Leibowitz

A Canticle for Leibowitz
Walter M. Miller, Jr.

I have mixed feelings about this book. I think this is due to the fact that my reading thereof was necessarily rushed and somewhat hectic and distracted. I believe that, given the time to fully appreciate this book, my opinions concerning it would be much more fair. My reading is as it is, however, and while I appreciate the depth and the power of this book, I found much of the plot overcrowded with unnecessary and underexplained characters. Miller is definitely trying to present a complex and nuanced critique of human actions, but his scope is a little too far-reaching at times in the text, confusing the reader and muddling his point behind the confusion of the reader.

The text itself is worthy of its ambition, and though it overshoots its target a bit, its criticism does resonate and strikes hard. Miller almost presents a scientific historical hypothesis in the book, and it reads like an evolving proof of the cyclical nature of history. Indeed, the entire plot of the book reads as a rehashing of the two centuries since Christ, made especially poignant due to the religious nature of the shifting protagonists. Indeed, an abbey is the central character in the book, and it plays its part dutifully to the end. The three novellas that comprise the overarching story arc all fit perfectly into place in their respective benchmark eras in the history of the abbey, and Miller intertwines the stories enough to create a cohesive narrative, though it must be unraveled.

The book's main weaknesses are its overuse of Latin and the initial confusion of each novella. To tackle the latter first, Miller is on to a good idea- he begins each mini-story right in the middle of the action, wasting no time in base recapitulation. Unfortuately, this makes the novellas inaccessible until they are well underway, creating ample reason for a second reading but creating a colossal annoyance upon the first. I'm sure that Miller could have been more careful when creating his characters, and as each world is at a schism from the one preceeding it, a little introduction is crucial for complete understanding. Along with this possible overestimation of the reader (or my particular deficiency, perhaps) comes the superfluous Latin phrases scattered throughout the text. They are definitely inserted for flavor, which works somewhat because of the book's focus on Catholicism but ultimately distracts from general understanding. The book quotes blocks of Latin at will, and to the uneducated reader this becomes annoying, condescending, and distracting.

The book is very good, but it seems almost too aware of this fact at times. It's kind of like meta-gaming, as it feels that parts, especially the excessive Latin quotations, are written just to add to the mystique of the author's aptitude. The book itself has some important and subtle observations about human nature and the tendency we have to invent ever more capable ways of destroying ourselves. Miller also deserves praise for his spot-on imitation of today's presidential administration. Written in 1959 and no doubt with the stewing Cold War in mind, the book accurately portrays the state of fear that has dominated American politics for the past several years. Miller's book, though cumbersome, holds valuable insight and definitely deserves to be read by the thinkers among us.

Grade: B+