Book 22: 100 Places You Will Never Visit

100 Places You Will Never Visit: The World's Most Secret Locations

Daniel Smith

Between this book's title, which is a nicely cheeky send-up of the burgeoning bucket list genre, and its cover, which features a sign warning trespassers about a nearby "laser hazard"(!), I couldn't wait to get my hands on it. I was thus slightly disappointed to discover that the book is, in fact, a relatively serious, straightforward tour of some of the world's most dangerous and most strictly guarded places, from the obvious (the Chernobyl fallout area, Langley, Fort Knox) to the ambiguously located (crash sites and smuggling tunnels), unknown (Snake Island, Surtsey, North Sentinel Island), and officially denied (Moscow's second subway and various military installations). While Smith makes an effort to include a variety of natural and manmade locales all around the world, the book is unsurprisingly heavy on the United States, England, and the rest of Europe, with a few token entries from a variety of countries both expected (China and North Korea get a couple) and, perhaps, more surprising (Somalia). Likewise, the book concentrates on a few types of locations; while each is, of course, unique, the similarities can make for a somewhat drab experience as the reader encounters yet another military research and development complex, bank vault, or national intelligence headquarters. The book's geographically oriented organization- Smith begins roughly at the International Date Line and proceeds eastward across the globe- is a good idea, but results in quite a few unexciting clusters. In a book that already relies too heavily on repetition, this is a grave error.

All of this could, of course, be mitigated by excellent, searing prose. While Smith sneaks in a few attempts at humor, many are misplaced and even the goods ones do not adequately compensate for the otherwise unremarkable prose. The editing is also a bit lacking, with copy errors cropping up and inadequate attention paid to the little details that lend even bad books a certain sense of flow. The book suffers from unexplained abbreviations and abrupt endings; when a page ends at the end of a sentence, it is nearly impossible to guess whether the next page will continue the current segment or open a new one. The entry for Osama bin Laden's final hideout in Pakistan is adequate enough, referencing the government's intention to demolish the building. The problem? The accompanying photograph shows the compound mid-demolition. I understand that layout often happens well after a text is completed, but surely someone looked at the final product before it went to distribution? Though frustrating at this and many other moments, the book does offer a decent glimpse at many of the locations it covers, piquing the reader's interest or at least allowing them to move on to another entry quickly enough. I was pleased to learn about and revisit several of the featured locales and the book does make an adequate reference volume, best read, perhaps, as an afterthought. For all of its faults, the research behind the book appears to fit the author's ambitions and most of the prose is serviceable, if forgettable. 100 Places You Will Never Visit is a somewhat uneven, mildly entertaining coffee table book that may best be enjoyed in small doses.

Grade: B-

Book 19: The Professor and the Madman

The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary

Simon Winchester

I've been enthralled by the idea of the Oxford English Dictionary since I first encountered it in an undergraduate course about the history of the English language, and I figured that Winchester's account of two of its pivotal figures would be a nice way to learn a bit more about its remarkable history. While Winchester avoids the pitfalls that plague dry historical nonfiction (of both the popular and more academic varieties), The Professor and the Madman swings a bit too far in the other direction, coming across as impossibly disorganized despite its obviously good intentions and its ostensible focus on the quintessentially Victorian impulse to categorize (and thus make sense of) the world. The author's effort to interweave stories about editor extraordinaire James Murray, institutionalized power contributor William C. Minor, and the dictionary itself is a noble one, but the book and its readers become repeatedly lost in a seemingly endless stream of internal and external distractions.

Winchester seems to be an inherently capable writer, sticking to accessible (but refreshingly not condescending) prose even when halfheartedly posing existential questions and resorting to misplaced melodrama. It is, rather, the book's fundamental narrative incoherence that makes for a difficult and dissatisfying reading experience. Rambling asides range from obviously relevant and enlightening (the history of English-language dictionaries) to tangential, but potentially interesting (the history of schizophrenia as a psychological diagnosis) and, unfortunately, incidental and unnecessary (Irish participation in the American Civil War and possible post-Emancipation disillusionment with the Cause). Together, these diversions seem intended to pad an already slim volume instead of enhancing the story or providing meaningful historical context. Combined with a narrative structure that is fragmented at best and baffling grammatical errors as simple as mid-paragraph tense changes that render the surrounding text nearly incomprehensible, they contribute to the book's pervading sense of sloppiness.

The problems proliferate in the plot, such as it is. The book opens, predictably but reasonably enough, with a compelling anecdote that the surrounding stories can build up to and upon, but Winchester relates the same incident almost verbatim in a later chapter, only to immediately discredit it in favor of a more historically accurate version of events. I found the effect to be uncharacteristically condescending and almost infuriating in its pretension; moreover, why waste readers' time? The book shifts incessantly backward and forward in time and between plots concerning Murray, Minor, supporting characters (some of whom clearly don't deserve as much attention as they receive), and the dictionary itself, to the point where it has more conflicting and overlapping timelines than many time-travel stories I've encountered. I certainly don't believe that it is necessarily imperative to present a historically minded narrative in strictly chronological order, but the constant whiplash makes crucial cause-and-effect relationships and historical context nearly impossible to construct, understand, or follow: the book becomes a kind of postmodern jumble, isolated from meaning.

Winchester clearly has some good instincts, and it is possible to imagine the foundations of an intriguing historical tale herein, as haphazard as the book can seem. The deployment of well-chosen, straight-outta-OED definitions as the front matter for each individual chapter is effective and charming, and those portions of the book that do concentrate on coherent narratives are usually interesting and often well-told, at least until they inevitably veer into tangential territory. Both Minor and the dictionary itself prove to be compelling in their own right, and Murray provides a nice and necessary link between them. As Winchester's occasional existential, yet shallow, digressions prove, Minor's story is rife with opportunities to consider some very interesting existential questions, such as the morality of celebrating unmistakably positive events that occurred only because of a senseless murder. But the book, as it stands, is unforgivably clumsy and ultimately unrewarding, down to the marooned illustrations that the author and designer don't bother to caption or otherwise explain. Despite an interesting premise with plenty of potential, The Professor and the Madman instead conjures an ironic kind of chaos out of a story that is inescapably immersed in the history of efforts to codify and organize the world.

Grade: C

Book 5: The Map Thief

The Map Thief: The Gripping Story of an Esteemed Rare-map Dealer Who Made Millions Stealing Priceless Maps

Michael Blanding

Michael Blanding came to the library where I work a few months ago to promote this book, and, finding him to be a very engaging speaker telling a story that resonates with me personally and professionally, I decided to read his book. Though I didn't find The Map Thief to be quite as interesting as its author's talk, it is a solid example of accessible nonfiction. Blanding begins from a point of strength: the main plot of his story- a high roller in the rare map trade steals his wares from some of the country's most prestigious libraries- is immediately compelling, rife with opportunities for rich characterization and insights into the human psyche. What emerges instead is almost a parable, the story of a man whose honest enthusiasm and earnestness led him to become suffocated by his best intentions. Though Blanding does not sacrifice the integrity of his story to create a flattering portrait of its protagonist, his vivid portrayal of E. Forbes Smiley remains a less than fully realized psychological portrait; he hesitates to draw conclusions and/or to make connections that might make Smiley's story resonate beyond its immediate and obvious facts and ramifications. One gets the feeling that the book was written with a potential libel suit in mind, and Blanding carefully relies on insinuation and hearsay rather than direct accusation- though he somewhat subtly invites readers to guess what his personal opinions might be.

Such a tale, of course, cannot exist in a vacuum, and Blanding does attempt to place Smiley's crimes in their proper context, providing a brief history of some of the maps that figure prominently in the story. Though the history he provides is relevant and reasonably succinct, it relies far too heavily on lists of names and utilizes terms that may not be familiar to a general audience; I'm accustomed to thinking about this kind of thing, but I often found myself lost in a sea of facts without context. It is hard enough to remember which mapmakers owe what to who, and harder still to presume what aspects of this lineage- if any- fit into Smiley's tale, and how. Thus, these chapters and asides feel disconnected from the main narrative despite containing information that is crucial to fully understanding it, and the various threads are never successfully integrated. Moreover, Blanding is also the victim of an almost impossibly terrible layout that places each and every illustration- vitally important and welcome in a book that focuses so heavily on a visual medium- far away from any textual references to it. This intolerable situation is only exacerbated by a division that includes both black-and-white illustrations within the text (numbered numerically) and a group of colored plates (numbered alphabetically); at some point, I gave up entirely on digging through the text, as the visual enhancements simply weren't worth the effort. While this admittedly isn't Blanding's fault, it exaggerates the divide between the parts of the book that deal with cartographic history and those that feel more relevant to the story at hand.

In the end, the book simply is what it apparently set out to be: a relatively straightforward account of E. Forbes Smiley, the rare map milieu in which he operated, and (to a lesser extent) the fallout from his sins. As an insider, I cannot speak to the effectiveness of Blanding's efforts to fully convey the scope and ramifications of the thefts, but I do appreciate his attempt to introduce readers to an aspect of librarianship and archival work that is (obviously) near and dear to my heart. Though he should be commended for his ability to maintain his professional composure throughout the text (which is necessary for a tale such as this one), I appreciate the glimpses of subjectivity that shine through the cracks, such as in Blanding's descriptions of one particular dealer (these passages, I suspect, are absolutely dripping with sarcasm and irony) and his discussion of (possible) thefts beyond those that Smiley admitted to. The book is reasonably lively and reflects the author's interest in- and respect for- the subject. Despite some padding and a reluctance to take a deep dive into its primary protagonist's psychology, The Map Thief provides interesting insight into the world of rare maps and the lengths that one man went to maintain appearances and his position in the market.

Grade: B

Book 27: Roll the Bones

Roll the Bones: The History of Gambling

David G. Schwartz

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 25: The Oxford History of Board Games

The Oxford History of Board Games

David Parlett

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

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

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

Grade: B+

Book 22: The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England

The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England: A Handbook for Visitors to the Fourteenth Century

Ian Mortimer

While I must admit that I was a bit disappointed to discover that this book was not, in fact, a story about a modern-day time traveler being zapped back to the 1300s, I was immediately encouraged by author Ian Mortimer's introductory notes, which promise readers a different kind of historical experience than the dry slogs that permeate the field. After all, as an unapologetic history major and a lifelong history buff myself, I can hardly stand the endless litany of history books that treat the past as something distant, dusty, and done. In his Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England, Mortimer valiantly attempts a more immersive approach, to provide a more immersive experience, reminding readers that the world of medieval England was, indeed, a real-time, lived experience much as our own. Though he occasionally succumbs to some of the tried and true flaws of history writing- and, ironically, would derive significant benefits from adopting some of them- the book is a much livelier account of a long-bygone era than many (if not most) others.

Mortimer's somewhat unique approach to historical documentation is evident throughout the book, from his intuitive use of present-tense narration to the organization and order of his chapters, which are clearly inspired by more conventional travel guides. But despite Mortimer's commitment to making history come alive as he describes the small details of medieval life, the account often bows to the pressure of precedent and becomes a litany of fact after fact. Mortimer has wisely chosen to focus broadly on only one century, the 14^th, but his subject-based approach suffers from a lack of a clear narrative or any sort of drive; the time travel conceit is a clever one but is more evident in theory than actual practice. This lack of direction is made more egregious by the lack of a timeline or other basic references for readers previously unacquainted with this period in English history; there are plenty of references to monarchs and events to provide sufficient context for the social trends that Mortimer describes, but the uninitiated will only sit and wonder where the Richards, Henrys, and Edwards fit in. Several informative charts are included, and do provide helpful information, but to exclude a basic timeline of reigns and significant historical events seems a grave error, even for a book so intent on avoiding this kind of Great Man/Great Event approach to history.

Thus appears the great contradiction in Mortimer's book. Though he obviously understands the importance of small-scale stories and the ability of everyday events to function as an effective window into the past, he is unable to fully captivate the reader without the kind of framework he consciously avoids. Snippets of narrative motion appear throughout the book, as in Mortimer's account of changing fashions and his tantalizing, yet ultimately unfulfilling, references to the vast social and political consequences of the Black Death, but it is nonetheless difficult to sustain interest as facts march by endlessly on parade. Mortimer should be commended for his attempt to enliven history, and indeed most readers should find many moments of excitement as they see themselves and their interests reflected herein; I myself found myself particularly engaged during a lively discussion and comparison of four of the era's literary geniuses. And in some respects, Mortimer does achieve his ultimate goal: it is eminently clear at the beginning, throughout, and at the end of the book that the most important thing to consider when studying history is our shared humanity. By showing us how medieval Englishmen (and –women) ate, dressed, governed, and lived on a daily basis, Mortimer allows us to imagine ourselves in their places and, in a small way, to become time travelers ourselves. The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England may not be the kind of immersive text that its author intended, but it is a useful resource for those wishing to explore what life in 14^th-century England may have been like, in a more lively manner than most historians currently offer.

Grade: B+

Book 17: Last Call

Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition

Daniel Okrent

I've been meaning to read this since a coworker recommended it to me about two jobs ago, and now that I've finally gotten around to it I must say that it was worth the wait. There's nothing earth-shattering about Daniel Okrent's thousand-foot view of Prohibition- which covers the early marginalized social movements that cascaded into a constitutional amendment, the culture and characters spawned by that legislation, and some of its lasting effects (suffice it to say that the law of unintended consequences plays a significant role in that particular chapter)- but he has successfully distilled his subject, locating and elaborating on both its most fundamental elements and those that persist in the popular imagination. Al Capone and Joe Kennedy naturally make cameo appearances (how could they not?), but the narrative (rightfully) focuses on some of the forgotten characters who defined the era in its own time, such as Mabel Willebrandt and the Bronfman family. There's an entire chapter devoted to the cultural impact of Prohibition (my personal favorite part of the book) that hews closely to the established modern perspective of the era, but Okrent focuses his book not only on the speakeasies and bootleggers but also on the (legal!) cider and "sacramental" wine that also helped to saturate the dry-in-name-only 1920s United States. This marriage of the known, the assumed, and the vital-but-nearly-lost-to-the-dustbin-of-history helps to create one of the most enlightening, yet entertaining, popular histories I've ever encountered, to say nothing of Okrent's wry sense of humor and his always sarcastic, often hilarious, and rarely intrusive asides.

Okrent's account of Prohibition is at once accessible and academic; he does not sacrifice substance for style and doesn't dumb down some of the more arcane aspects of his subject as much as relate them to the casual modern reader. A basic understanding of the constitutional history of federal versus state power, individual rights versus the government's interest in protecting the people at large, and other ongoing conflicts is crucial to fully appreciating the scope and impact of Prohibition; Okrent ignores the temptation to gloss over these battle and describes them by placing them within the context of the events in his book, illustrating both the issues themselves and the shape of the era. The result is a lucid account that informs without adopting the posturing so common to written histories, even from those that claim to appeal to the masses, and a book that meets its target readers- the casual history buff- where they are without imposing judgment. The research behind the book is evident in its thoroughness and its lengthy series of endnotes, but it permeates the book without any of the snottiness that often accompanies such books. Last Call is a rare popular history that is amusing and educational, an enjoyable book that has left me with a sense that I have a much better grasp on the Prohibition era than I did before: and, after all, what more could you possibly want from this book?

Grade: A

Book 16: Rally 'Round the Flag

Rally 'Round the Flag: Chicago and the Civil War

Theodore J. Karamanski

Though it has recently become apparent that I will soon be leaving my recently adopted town, I still feel a strong connection to Chicago and its history. After attending a library-sponsored event about Camp Douglas and realizing that I should keep up on my American history, I picked up Rally 'Round the Flag. All told, I wasn't really disappointed, which is kind of an endorsement. Though the book does have some fundamental flaws (alas), it doesn't fall prey to many of the pitfalls of that particular brand of nonfiction that aims academic inquiries toward the general public. What author Theodore J. Karamanski does is make the war era accessible, conjuring the muddy streets of Chicago and its people despite focusing on a few standout themes and individuals. Though he spends quite a bit of time focusing (probably unnecessarily so) on the Republican Party convention of 1860 and the kind of favors and bargaining that drove mid-century, he manages to do so in a way that is interesting and more or less understandable to the uninitiated. Throughout the book, Karamanski's descriptions of war-era Chicago are vivid and accessible, and he is always careful to attempt to place the people and events of his narrative in their proper historical context.

It is a shame, then, that Karamanski allows the book's thematic organization to overshadow some of the narrative threads he so carefully develops. The book is littered with non-sequiturs occurring both after and without section breaks; whether the printers simply missed a few page-ending breaks is unknown, but as a result the book often becomes choppy and confusing. Its most egregious error comes at the end of the Camp Douglas chapter, where Karamanski builds suspense (yes, nonfiction historical accounts can thrive on suspense (and the good ones often do!)) only to dissipate it by shifting abruptly away into another chapter. His thematic organization is a great idea given his general audience and does follow a general timeline that serves his story, but here he strangely adheres to chronology where he could have continued the story within the chapter or moved the chapter entirely- after all, it and the opening installment are the pieces that stand strongest on their own. Nonetheless, Karamanski is an academic who is refreshingly aware of his audience without condescending to him, and his history is explanatory without being condescending. If even I am on board with the descriptions of economic affairs, you know the author is doing something right. All told, Rally 'Round the Flag is, apart from a few non-sequiturs, a well-researched and engaging history of one of the country's fastest-emerging cities during its most troubling times.

Grade: B+

Book 13: The First Tycoon

The First Tycoon: the Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt

T. J. Stiles

Even though I've spent much of the past four years significantly immersed in 19th-century U.S. history, I realized upon picking up The First Tycoon that I knew very little about Cornelius Vanderbilt beyond a vague sense that he was one of the country's most successful robber barons. According to the pleasantly enlightening biographical note that T. J. Stiles appends to his meticulously researched biography of the transportation titan, this is partially due to the fact that Vanderbilt receives surprisingly little academic attention, especially relative to the class of magnates (the household names Carnegie, Rockefeller, and Morgan come to mind) that followed in his wake. Despite the fact that Vanderbilt has seemingly become merely an historical footnote, Stiles effectively utilizes the facts of Vanderbilt's life to highlight the sweeping economic and social changes that his subject experienced and influenced throughout his lengthy tenure as a steamship and railroad executive.

Indeed, if there is a primary complaint to be made about the book, it is that Stiles focuses almost exclusively on Vanderbilt's extensive economic endeavors, often ignoring his personal life or interrupting otherwise compelling narratives of personal feuds, corporate takeovers, and civil wars (not just ours) with non-sequitur anecdotes. Though Stiles attempts to relate these brief notes into relevant points of the greater narrative (and makes it quite clear that there exists little evidence of the man's personal life and private relationships), they often seem a bit ham-fisted; there surely could have been a more effective way of integrating them into the larger portrait of Vanderbilt. Likewise, Stiles seems fond of dropping foreshadowing hints before brief and long breaks alike, making it sometimes difficult to follow the thread of a particular story or business relationship across several chapters. His adherence to chronology does, however, give the book crucial momentum despite the inherent difficulties Stiles faces in relating stories that are strikingly similar to one another and that rely heavily on complex financial maneuvers that are almost certainly foreign to the bulk of his readership. This momentum, along with the author's consistent focus on his subject's forceful personality, make the book a strikingly readable account of business history that rarely becomes boring even to the uninitiated (such as myself).

The book's economic approach to Vanderbilt's life, though obviously warranted, necessitates frequent explanations and asides regarding the rapidly changing economic and political context of his times. Stiles handles these admirably, and the book is as enlightening for its insights into the world of 19th-century social customs and financial systems as it is for its retellings of Vanderbilt's various professional achievements. He clearly had a general audience in mind while writing the book, yet he strikes the right balance between explaining the obvious and becoming mired in tedious (and unnecessary) details. Some of the intricacies involved in stock maneuvers continue to elude my understanding in spite of his best efforts, but given my personal history with attempts to understand the period's economic theory I'm not sure it's quite fair to blame Stiles for that; in fact, he should be lauded for his success in making some of this stuff actually make sense to my notoriously business-averse mind. Those familiar with the era's politics will recognize and appreciate the ways in which Jacksonian laissez faire radicalism gradually became more stringent Democratic conservatism over the course of Vanderbilt's considerably influential career, and Stiles includes plenty of relevant context for those approaching the era decades after their high school history classes.

All told, Stiles has put together a compelling academic study of a man and his contemporary context that is far from dry, despite relying on the intricate economics of business deals for many of its most potent plot points. Somehow, in his hands the story of Cornelius Vanderbilt is continually compelling, both a vivid portrait of the man and a reasonably nonpartisan exploration of the monumental economic, political, and social changes he saw- and significantly contributed to- throughout his lifetime. The First Tycoon is a well-written, unapologetically academic, and appealing history, representing an admirable (and largely successful) attempt to understand the seemingly inextricable history of both Cornelius Vanderbilt and the economic climate of the 19th-century United States.

Grade: A-

Book 8: The Gangs of Chicago

The Gangs of Chicago: An Informal History of the Chicago Underworld

Herbert Asbury

I have always been somewhat fascinated by crime and criminals, and particularly the ways in which the parallel worlds of law and disorder coexist- and often interact. And though The Gangs of Chicago (originally published as Gem of the Prairie) is nearly 75 years old at this writing, it is a vibrant look at some of the seedier elements of Chicago's first century. Asbury's own proximity to some of the events described is occasionally jarring- he mentions several figures from the 1890s who were still alive as of the book's initial publication- but his book retains an almost academic, detached air that is at once readable and frustrating. Though the prose is always accessible to the average reader and the footnotes are infrequent and unobtrusive, the book lacks a coherent narrative and, more crucially, context. Certain portions of the book are merely catalogs of characters, even introduced as mere lists, and many biographies blend together in an endless litany of sameness; though Asbury occasionally focuses on truly exceptional individuals and locales, much of the book consists of the same stories told without distinction. This might make the book an excellent starting point for further studies and does contribute to a general understanding of the reality of Chicago's vice districts, but it often makes for dull reading.

When Asbury narrows his focus, however, the prose leaps to life with its visceral depictions of life in Chicago's underworld. Descriptions of cheap brothels and the high-class Everleigh Club can make readers feel as though they are walking the streets of the 1890s-era Levee, despite redundancy among the descriptions of the lower houses, and a chapter on gambling "resorts" and the owners' collusion with politicians flirts with narrative consistency. Likewise, the chapters about serial killers and (to a lesser extent) Prohibition-era gangs identify and delve deeply into the histories of a few extraordinary and captivating individuals, surrounding the stories with the kind of atmospherics that are sorely needed to tell the types of stories that The Gangs of Chicago focuses on. Despite a few moments of clarity, however, the book is often bogged down by Asbury's desire to focus on the quantity, rather than quality, of his descriptions.

Though a survey of Chicago crime is a worthy pursuit and (obviously) contains quite a bit of inherent potential, Asbury rarely focuses on context and hardly bothers to construct narrative frameworks. Important characters (particularly politicians) are introduced in passing, as though readers are expected to already be familiar with their role in the story, and suddenly become the focus of a paragraph or section pages later, often when the effects of their wrongdoings have already been described or implied. Readers looking for political intrigue are advised to look primarily elsewhere, as Chicago's corrupt policemen and elected officials are only bit players here, despite their complicity making the already compelling story much more robust. Even if Asbury intended to focus on more overtly criminal actions, such as robbery, murder, and general vices (particularly drinking, prostitution, and gambling), the story of Chicago crime can hardly be distinguished from the story of its corruption, and it is misleading to refer to the politicians as indirectly as Asbury does.

Yet the worse sin is surely the book's ending, which offers a redefinition of the term "abrupt." Al Capone gets arrested and, oh, by the way, Chicago's population kept expanding throughout Prohibition and end scene. I'm glad that the book tends to stay away from grand moral pronouncements, though it is certainly a product of its time, but surely some kind of conclusion is warranted, some summary of the life and times of Chicago's criminals is certainly warranted and would help tie the whole story together. And though this kind of reflection is elusive throughout the book, the ending is abrupt to the point of hilarity- I actually laughed out loud, seeing nothing but a bibliography on the next page. Modern readers will also see the charm in Asbury's frequent and unironic use of the terms "harlot" and "strumpet," though the book also uses racial epithets and refers to homosexuals as "degenerates." Perhaps, then, it is for the best that Asbury limited his work to fairly objective historical snippets, though his personal judgments occasionally shine through. Despite its limitations, however, The Gangs of Chicago is a worthwhile survey of early Chicago crime, a remarkably readable history that serves as an acceptable, though not exceptional, introduction to the subject.

Grade: B+

Book 3: Into the Silence

Into the Silence: The Great War, Mallory, and the Conquest of Everest

Wade Davis

The story of George Mallory, would-be and possible first (known) conqueror of the world's tallest mountain, is perhaps easily forgotten in the age of Mount Everest's ever-increasing commercialization. In the wake of recent tragedies, however, it seems wise and timely to remember that ascending the mountain has always been an exceptionally difficult task. In Into the Silence, Wade Davis provides detailed descriptions of the first three British expeditions to this particular region of the Himalaya and attempts to place those attempts into the context of the interwar period. He succeeds quite admirably on the first account but, sadly, falls a bit short of the second.

The author's attempts to recall the war do offer informative insights into the psyches of the men who took part in the reconnaissance and climbing efforts of 1921, 1922, and 1924, but they tend to stand apart, interspersed with the main story yet simultaneously outside of it. These capsule biographies- which often focus on the war- appear throughout the volume, usually accompanying an early mention of a major figure, but seem to taper off toward the end of the volume, even as new (pivotal) characters make their initial appearances. They also have the annoying propensity to blend together, making it easy to forget who was who and driving the reader to lump all of the biographies together as something akin to "terrible experiences at the front." Davis has an uncanny ability to evoke the sights and sounds of the Western Front, as well as the attitudes that led to widespread British support of the war effort and the appallingly outdated tactics that effectively doomed a generation, but he never effectively links the war to the Everest expeditions. Sure, he states outright several times that there was a connection, and indeed it is evident in some of the personalities he describes, but he never actually ties them together. As a reader, I don't mind doing some of the legwork myself, but when the thesis is essentially the title of the book- and mentioned repeatedly throughout, no less- I expect a bit more active effort on behalf of the author.

Davis, does, however, create a compelling narrative, one obviously based on extensive historical research with the best of all possible primary resources, the explorers' letters and diaries. It is obvious that he tries to draw conclusions only when they are supported by available evidence, and he is usually upfront when making conjectures. That he does this in unobtrusive fashion is a credit to him and a great relief to readers. Despite creating biographies that all-too-often run together, he is able to bring these men to life, a feat made all the more remarkable by a lack of dialogue. The story itself is powerful simply because of its nature as one of Britain's final grand imperial gestures (which readers will recognize despite the author's seeming reluctance to actually connect the dots), but Davis presents it as an ongoing adventure into the unknown as the British walked, as one explorer put it, "off the map." The monasteries and people of Tibet come alive and, though readers will need to repeatedly consult the book's helpful maps to keep the geography straight, the mountain looms over all. Remarkably, Davis also manages to keep an aura of mystery and suspense in his telling of the story, though the ultimate outcome has long since been determined.

The writing itself is, at its best, remarkably vivid, respectful, and emotional, but I would be remiss if I didn't mention its primary flaw. Davis relies so heavily on the phrase even as that I began noticing every occurrence- and believe me, there are a lot of them- only a few pages into the book. Worse, he doesn't seem to be aware what the phrase actually means and implies, using it constantly as a substitute for the simple, yet accurate, as. That phrase does not mean what he thinks it means, and it often makes the text burdensome.

Grammatical gripe aside, however, the book is quite compelling from start to end. Davis's decision to include a sketched history of British interaction with Everest from the Survey of India's first sightings to the treatment of Mallory's corpse in 1999, as well as additional context about the history of Tibet and relevant figures and legends of Tibetan Buddhism, does place the early-20s expeditions in context, though some of that context does suffer from heavy implication and light actual treatment. Overall, Into the Silence is an excellent and engaging history of the Mallory expeditions.

Grade: A-

Book 32: Out of the Past

Out of the Past: Gay and Lesbian History from 1869 to the Present

Neil Miller

Gay and lesbian history is still very much in flux in the contemporary United States, as evidenced by recent and foreseeable election results and court cases. Neil Miller's attempt to distill American and, to a lesser extent, western queer history is admirable in its scope, even if that scope is primarily limited to the period between 1870 and the mid-1990s. Though he focuses on the United States, Miller occasionally (but perhaps too-briefly) forays into Europe and, in one welcome instance, Japan, allowing the reader to glimpse other gay cultures and the influence they had on one another. One major problem in writing the history of a subculture, especially one as consistently castigated as various gay communities, is the temptation to retroactively define various individuals' sexualities. He admirably acknowledges the difficulties inherent in labeling those who never labeled themselves, and when focusing on particular individuals (as he often does), he presents contextual evidence for the assumptions he, alongside others, has made. His history is less of an effort to claim famous historical figures or events for homosexuality and more of an attempt to trace the development of homosexual community and societies' views thereof. Importantly, the book tracks different definitions of homosexuality, often in conjunction with greater contextual histories that capture the feel, gay and otherwise, of settings such as the Old West, interwar Europe, and San Francisco after World War II. Miller includes both grand histories of gay movements and intimate personal biographies of queer figures (suspected, admitted, or otherwise) that personalize his book, which avoids the dry, de-personalized, and sanitized feel of most sweeping histories. Equally accessible to history majors and more casual readers, Miller's book is peppered with literary excerpts and first-hand accounts that serve as useful suggestions for further reading and as miniature glimpses into the history that Miller recaptures throughout his book. Out of the Past presents a thorough and accessible overview of gay and lesbian history; though not without its flaws, it certainly is a more than adequate introduction to the topic for gays and straights alike.

Grade: A

Book 28: Titanic: The Long Night

Titanic: The Long Night

Diane Hoh

The story of the Titanic is one of historical fact that lends itself especially well to works of fiction. The grand contrast between the wealthy on the promenade deck and the nearly penniless immigrants on E Deck, the arrogance of the Gilded Age, and the well-known and lasting images of the ship's final hours all provide perfect story fodder, all without the necessity of adding anything original. This provides an interesting challenge for writers aspiring to set their stories on the liner, requiring enough originality to stimulate the imagination, but enough fealty to the well-known storylines to maintain credibility. Titanic: The Long Night errs on the side of familiarity both with regard to the ship's story and its characters, and though the book doesn't particularly suffer for it, what emerges is an oft-told tragic tale of young love. Hoh makes the usual rounds, visiting many of the usual sights around first class and a riotous party in the third class common room. The stories and characters are familiar, but compelling enough to maintain readers' attention throughout the novel, and there is a very real sense of suspense throughout, aided by the possibility that the main players might well die by the end of the novel. Though there are naturally some losses, none are particularly surprising, and the ultimate conclusion is a fitting, if expected. There are times when Hoh tries too hard to shoehorn modern politics into an earlier context, though this does make the novel more relatable for teens, who are its most appropriate, and likely its intended, audience. Despite the fact that the book treads a well-worn path, Hoh is skilled enough to create a compelling story, and the characters rise enough above stock level- though only just in many cases- to allow readers to care. In the end, the book is precisely what it aspires to be: Titanic: The Long Night is a satisfying, middle-of-the-line romantic story that efficiently utilizes the well-known facts of its setting to appeal to a modern audience.

Grade: B+

Book 21: Marking Time

Marking Time: The Epic Quest to Invent the Perfect Calendar

Duncan Steel

Calendars and timekeeping systems may seem at first an odd choice of subject for a book, but upon further reflection, few things impact our daily lives more strongly than time. After all, each workday begins with the tolling of a bell and the hands of the clock govern much more than we would probably like to admit. Thus is Duncan Steel's attempt at an accessible history of calendars and, to a lesser extent, time itself most welcome. Unfortunately, Steel, while apparently being an expert in his field, is also one of the most pompous, peacocks it has ever been my misfortune to read. There is good information buried deep within his purple prose, but the authorial presence is so strong within this book that I defy anyone to put up with more than a few pages before wishing to throw it and begin screaming. A harsh assessment, perhaps, but one that I think is more than justified for many reasons. First, I don't think Mr. Steel is intentionally off-putting, and I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. However, his attempts to strike up a conversational tone with readers fall flat at best and encourage, well, unseemly thoughts at worst. Where he attempts to be conversational, he comes across only as condescending, time and again reminding his readers that it is he, indeed, who is the expert and, by the way, did you do your homework?

For Steel is not merely content to cram his narrative as chock-full of alienating math as possible (after an infuriating attempt at sarcasm denouncing the very notion of arithmetic-laden popular works!), but he has included three appendices that go into far greater depth about concepts which are, in fact, crucial to an understanding of the book. This causes several problems. First is his irritating assertion in an introductory chapter that the following concepts will be beyond the poor, pitiable reader's feeble mind unless we refer to his appendices. This, however, is usurped entirely by later passages that accuse readers of skipping the so-called "supplementary" information. If this additional information, which is indeed difficult to grasp for the mathematical layperson, is so necessary, why didn't the author or, perish the thought, the editor plunk it down in the middle of the narrative? Or why not craft a book that is actually accessible to the uninformed public, as is the stated assertion? This hints at a greater problem: the book is woefully organized, with non-sequitur pieces of unrelated trivia becoming sadly expected- though no less groan-worthy- because of their constant infiltration. The idea of introducing a complex concept by outlining the following theses and main points, which Steel maddeningly finds necessary to explain in and of itself, is admirable but highly unnecessary in a book with well-labeled chapters and named subsections. All it serves is to bore readers with a kind of repetition that is rampant throughout the book, wherein examples are flogged to death in multiple chapters and ideas are dropped simply because they might- but usually don't- fit better in another chapter. This makes the book extremely disjointed, and readers have to stop and reset almost every time a new idea is approached; this, despite the fact that hardly any of the ideas are new by the time Steel deigns to actually explain them in any depth.

All of this, plus the inexcusable condescension in nearly every sentence and abundance of insulting exclamation points, makes the book nearly unreadable. Should one venture beyond the language, there is some valuable historical and scientific information to be had, though woe betide the poor scholar tempted to wrangle with Steel's idea of a historical argument. He may be, and apparently is, a brilliant scientist, but a historian capable of convincing argumentation he is not, a problem that directly impacts many of his frankly bizarre historical assertions. There may be a hint of truth to the idea that the date of Easter was a major sticking point between the Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox churches, and I am inclined to trust his retro-calculation of the possible date of Jesus's birth, but the assertion that the English wished to colonize Virginia because it lies on some sort of magical latitude line is so patently absurd and poorly supported that I actually laughed out loud, even after hearing him out. Coincidences may provide fodder for interesting and even heretical thoughts, but Steel seems so focused on his novel hypothesis that he ignores, oh, pretty much every other hint of historical context. Mix this with his obvious contempt for religion, and it's difficult to take him quite so seriously, bringing us back to a preening narrative with very little actual substance. I wanted to like this book. Oh, how I wanted to enjoy the book and, perhaps, learn something. I hate to be so harsh but, unfortunately, Making Time is so heavily clogged with the author's unfriendly self-awareness that it is nearly useless in a practical sense, with every possible redeeming quality mercilessly squeezed out by needless pompousness and unrelated trivia.

Grade: D+

Book 20: Doomsday Book

Doomsday Book

Connie Willis

Connie Willis pulled out all the stops for this dynamo of a novel, utilizing such ordinarily disparate elements as a post-quasi-apocalypse near future, a deadly contagion, and time travel. Yet though its narrative action is divided between two fairly disparate temporal settings, Doomsday Book maintains a fairly urgent sense of suspense, a remarkable feat to accomplish in any 550-page book. Though there are times when the pace slows considerably, Willis is careful to pull back and switch settings, always seeming to change just when the current story becomes the slightest bit tiresome or when the reader begins to get curious about the concurrent story. Willis also does a good job of handling narrative synchronicity, vital when juggling stories that take place in a future present and in the Middle Ages, where an intrepid time traveler has managed to go while on winter holiday at Oxford. Though any time travel system has its peculiar quirks, the one in this particular book has its rules fairly clearly outlined early enough that readers are inclined to believe it, and to accept a strange intertwining of past and present events, which crucially move along at a similar rate. And though the thematic link between the historical destination and the future is more obvious than insightful, it packs a dramatic wallop. Willis also explores the potential difficulties faced by a time traveler and- not so subtly, mind- highlights some of the necessary impossibilities faced by any historians, allowing her temporal voyage to highlight both the differences and similarities between our times and those past. That she manages to do this without becoming preachy is a testament to the author's restraint and, in another way, to the strength of her characters. Not everyone is likeable, but these seem to be living humans, not caricatures, and they all serve their respective purposes superbly. Even more remarkable is the strength of the medieval characters, and the author's ability to make them seem both of their times and relatable to ours, again without too much pomp or undue over-attention. Though the story can seem to drag at times, the book simultaneously seems to read quickly, and the accelerated pace of the third book is much appreciated after a not-so-suspenseful attempt at a Big Reveal. Regardless, everything about the book is executed nicely, with effective prose and obvious- and appreciated- deliberation. Doomsday Book can be a bit of a slog in the middle, but it is a remarkably executed hybrid novel well deserving of its many accolades.

Grade: A-

Book 14: A Night to Remember

A Night to Remember

Walter Lord

As a major fan of the 1997 movie, I couldn't let the 100th anniversary of the Titanic's sinking go by unnoticed, and I considered Walter Lord's classic post-sinking recap A Night to Remember a good place to start. From the start, it's obvious that the author did his homework: the book is built on a solid research foundation, though a number of inconsistencies in survivors' testimonies prove that the memory is fragile as a source of fact. Lord, however, wisely does not shy away from this fact, and though he tends to put the vast majority of his faith in these tales, 40 years old or more, he has few other options and does choose to briefly address the issues, though he quickly returns to parroting firsthand accounts. The main problem with the book, then, is not in the potential flaws in its story, unavoidable in an age without mobile video and in a story that has only its survivors available to tell the tale, but rather in its execution, for which Lord can be rightfully blamed. Faced with a huge number of precious firsthand anecdotes and primary documents about one of the most fascinating stories of the post-Gilded Era, one that in many ways serves as a microcosm of the whole period, Lord resorts to a bored, stifled prose driven not by narrative force but by his need to add just one more interesting tidbit. While we do follow certain survivors and famous casualties around the ship on that fateful night, the story (such as it is) doesn't so much "begin" or "open" as "commence," and the tragedies are reduced to newsflash microparagraphs, with related story after related story hitting in such quick succession that they quickly blend together. The effects can occasionally prove haunting, as a rapid-fire freeze frame of a crucial moment, but the entire night is reduced to a string of bite-sized pieces, dehumanized through too-intense magnification. What's worse, Lord butchers his attempt to place the sinking in its historical and historiographic contexts, placing his ruminative comments neither at the beginning nor end of the text, but rather right between the sinking and the rescue by the Carpathia. This dilutes the effect of the story, rather than enhancing it in the way I presume Lord intended, and though his thoughts are coherent and his points poignant, they get lost amidst the suspense of the suspended narrative. Nonetheless, while many of the finer points will be handily recognized by fans of Cameron's movie, the book is worth reading and does provide some moving insight into the sinking. Walter Lord is a capable writer, if not a particularly compelling one, and the story never stagnates of wallows, though it sometimes proceeds too rapidly to be truly effective. It is a bare-bones story told adequately but without exceptional literary skill. A Night to Remember is a solid condensing of survivor stories from one of the world's most captivating shipwrecks, and a good place to start for those looking for a firsthand glimpse of the ship's final, fateful hours.

Grade: B+

Book 9: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
Seth Grahame-Smith

This is a book where you know you're getting exactly what's on the box: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter takes the standard biography of Abraham Lincoln and inserts the unholy undead. It's a clever- and fun- conceit, one that is both the book's greatest asset (somewhat obviously, perhaps) and its largest liability. The promise seems great at first, with a present-day introduction ripped straight out of Hawthorne and a sly twist on Lincoln's early biography that sets up the main idea of the narrative. Unfortunately, however, that twist- namely, and this will surprise no one, that vampires are real- becomes the novel's only surprise, and every insertion of vampires into the standard lore surrounding Lincoln's life weakens the novel considerably. By the time the fourth or fifth Great Crisis has been re-attributed to vampires, readers can be forgiven for thinking the author rather more lazy than creative; sure, the idea of re-crafting one of our finest leaders into a menace to the undead is creative, but simply adding vampires where it is convenient is not. Why vampires? What does this say about our re-fashioned Honest Abe? I hardly expected the book to be a pinnacle of insightful literature, but without even an attempt at these deeper questions of meaning, the book's conceit quickly becomes tiresome, even as the tension increases and the nation plunges ahead toward Civil War. It's not like Grahame-Smith was unaware of the promising ambiguities littered throughout the text; indeed, he even attempts to introduce such moral grappling into his text as different vampires choose sides and begin to spar. Instead of exploring the moral questions raised by this development, which have implications that impact the novel to its very final line, Grahame-Smith seems content to rest on his laurels, which are trifling indeed. His complacency turns a novel from a seemingly slam-dunk romp into a tedious recapitulation of well-trod history. With vampires.

Yet even when he adds vampires in ways more intriguing than "this pivotal death in Lincoln's life was a result of vampire poisoning," Grahame-Smith can't quite pull it all together. I applaud the attempt to weave vampires' unquestioned evils with those of the South, but simply stating a proposition does not a case make. There is so much more that can be done with this premise, and while I understand that the book is meant to be just surface fun, its flippant ability to raise intriguing propositions while instantly proceeding to ignore- or even outright undermine- them is downright maddening. The book so frequently shows potential, only to ignore it for easy laughs that simply stop coming after the first 50 pages or so. That the author does not seem entirely bereft of talent only makes things worse. His grasp on straight-up horror writing is firm, and some scenes are truly chilling, particularly when juxtaposed with what seems at first a silly premise and with hilariously altered photographs and other illustrations. I may question, and be subsequently annoyed by, the choice to refer to Lincoln as a folksy "Abe" throughout the entire narrative, but it does effectively render the famous President far more accessible than more formal histories might. Likewise, a clever usage of dreams is effective, but as similarly over-used, overwrought, and worn as the remainder of the novel's greatest tricks; it's great the first time, but any subsequent reappearances should have been consigned to the cutting-room coffin. Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is not meant to be a serious novel, but its intimations of serious implications raise expectations that simply aren't met; the book is fun for a while, but the charm wears off, and instead it is a clever, but ultimately futile, endeavor, exactly what one would expect from the box.

Grade: B-

Book 3: Mother Tongue

The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way

Bill Bryson

This book bills itself as a funny general introduction to the history, and some of the resulting peculiarities, of the English language, and it serves this purpose well for the uninitiated, though those with any sort of background in the subject won't find much new information here. After beginning with some brief musings on the state of English in the modern world, and its rising importance, providing a good setup for what is essentially a series of quasi-linked essays about different facets of the language, including its ancient and recent history as well as some of its salient features. Though the history is brief and feels at times a bit rushed and jumbled, it flows logically enough and carries some of Bryson's trademark humor; most importantly, it provides sufficient background information without getting too technical, allowing him to make relevant observations later without alienating readers early on. Unfortunately, however, this lucid and entertaining, if brisk and a bit shallow, history is followed by a mix of wry observations and lists of illustrative terms that is far too greatly weighted to the latter. I enjoy a few good puns and appreciate examples as much as the next person, but Bryson devotes too much space to these, joyful though they are, and they make the text so unreadable that even I skimmed paragraphs filled with italics. The occasional lists are appreciated as a change of pace, but Bryson is sadly unable to weave these sufficiently into the narrative to capture, and much less hold, readers' wandering attention; after all, this isn't meant to be a textbook, rather an overview for general readers. To make matters worse, there is a surprising lack of consistency within the text, ranging from a change between parenthetical citations and footnotes (bafflingly split between the first chapters and the final few) and in the repetition of examples, to the point where the book's final section so closely echoes the first as to make it hardly worth reading. This is sloppy writing but, worse, sloppy editing, and at times can be so frustrating as to overshadow the book's clarity and, indeed, its fun. Chapters on wordplay and, yes, swearing are appreciated even though they seem a bit like an afterthought, and help highlight some of the fun of language, maintaining the book's lighthearted feeling and keeping it from feeling too much like a textbook. Likewise, the book holds up well 20 years after its publication, with the main problems coming from omissions impossible to foresee; it is indeed quite fun to note that Bryson's criticism of George Bush would be equally well applied to his son, who made the same nuclear/nu-ku-ler mistake the author himself cites earlier in the text. Bryson's clear delight in the contradictory, the absurd, and the British shines through here as in much of his other work, and The Mother Tongue is, despite its stumbles, a solid and entertaining introduction to the English language and its many charms and absurdities.

Grade: A-

Book 42: Atlantic

Atlantic: Great Sea Battles, Heroic Discoveries, Titanic Storms, and a Vast Ocean of a Million Stories
Simon Winchester

I picked this up both based on the author's reputation and on my own belief that it would be a nice, well-written history of the remarkable Atlantic Ocean from a number of different perspectives and, to some extent, that's what Simon Winchester delivers in Atlantic. To another, however, he talks about this bit without actually defining what it is about the Atlantic Ocean that makes it, well, the Atlantic and not the Pacific or Indian or either of the polar seas; his text is littered throughout with references to a kind of Atlantic-ness, but never once does he address this contention, and the book suffers, condemned to flail rather than cohere. Without the appearance of this much-needed overarching theme, the chapters, arranged in a somewhat bizarre homage to Shakespeare's "All the world's a stage" speech (no, really) make little sense in relation to each other and even less within themselves. The idea of casting the waters as a being with several stages of life is less clever than cutesy, and while grouping developments such as exploration, war, and environmentalism into their own chapters makes sense, the cuts Winchester makes between them are divisive, and the individual parts are never allowed to coalesce into a single, intricate picture. He misses the ocean for the individual molecules of di-hydrogen monoxide. Even these, however, frequently become misplaced, and the book is littered with irrelevant anecdotes and irredeemably uninteresting, disruptive, and downright pointless footnotes that often have nothing at all to do with the subject at hand.

A lack of greater strategic planning is evident on a paragraph-by-paragraph level, as well, as the author seems to introduce an idea only to discard it entirely after the next indent, without so much as a line break or, heaven forbid, three dividing asterisks. All of this makes the book slightly maddening before its information is even digested, and repetition, likely borne of the deceptively haphazard organizational scheme, makes the book even more cumbersome. With all of this said, however, the book isn't all bad; it certainly contains quite a lot of interesting, if not entirely riveting, information, and Winchester does touch on several different aspects of life in, around, and on this mighty ocean. For all its faults, the book has a sense of grandiose perspective, and when the author turns his attentions to geology or the effects of modern industrialism, this sense of magnitude helps him create a persuasive argument for respect; it is also quite evident that this is, fundamentally, a love story between man and water.

Unfortunately, however, these pure instincts are also corrupted throughout the text, which is woefully anglocentric. While it seems a reasonable bet that the reason the Atlantic so captivates our intrepid author and, indeed, his intended audience, is the fact that European and North American countries (currently) exert such international prowess, there seems little excuse to ignore Africa when it isn't, you know, spawning civilization or, more criminally, the Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking Americas when Great Britain isn't fighting to retain that shadow of its former empire cast in the Falkland Islands. Even worse, he makes assertions that are patently untrue and which offended even my far-from-delicate sensibilities; at one point, Winchester seriously suggests- no, asserts- that the Atlantic was the first of the world's oceans to be crossed. This is mind-numbingly stupid at its very best, as the Pacific Islands were discovered, explored, and settled long before Columbus. And it is not only this galling lapse that betrays a myopic devotion to the Atlantic that hampers Winchester's ode and actually works to diminish the Atlantic as readers frantically search to undermine the author's interminable single-mindedness. Here, then, is a case of tragically wasted potential, a book that I wanted to be engrossed by but which only served to frustrate and actively foil my attempts to like or engage with it. There is good information here, to be sure; there are excellent stories, and despite Winchester's mishandling, the idea of telling the story of the Atlantic as a, or perhaps even the, formative ocean of the modern world remains compelling. It's just a shame that Atlantic can't quite do the subject justice.

Grade: C+

Book 39: The Last Full Measure

The Last Full Measure
Jeff Shaara

From Gettysburg to Appomattox (and a slight ways beyond), thus concludes the Shaaras' Civil War trilogy, and the younger of the pair has penned a fitting conclusion, though overshadowed by its predecessor. Because, by now, the general idea of the series is familiar, and because the book follows successfully enough the example of its predecessors, there is little to add. This particular installment of the series displays many of the problems evinced in its opener; that is, the timeline is unevenly spaced and occasionally poorly marked, with the additional frustration of misplaced maps appearing far before, or slightly after, their optimal position with regard to the text. This can make everything a bit confusing for non-Civil War aficionados, but the in-depth portraiture continues throughout the novel, and Shaara truly excels when channeling the emotions of Robert E. Lee as his army inevitably embarks on a disastrous final cat-and-mouse chase across central Virginia. This is some of the most effective, riveting, and moving characterization in a series who takes personalization as its, well, point, and because of this the novel is one of the most effective looks at the final excruciating days of an excruciating conflict. That said, however, there are some grammatical quirks that mar Shaara's emotional achievements. His over-use of ellipses is only rarely effective and more often simply becomes…stunting, as does the unfortunate application of "gotcha" gimmicks (on the day of his death, Lincoln makes a point of telling Grant he's going to the theater- cute, but poorly executed). The deliberation this evokes is even more striking in contrast to the author's near-religious avoidance of the use of "and" when describing several actions undertaken by a person. The effect can cause the action to become unnecessarily jumbled and, at its worst, makes the writer seem inexperienced and can dull the reader's ability to clearly picture what is taking place. This, then, is the embodiment of the crucial contradiction within the series: while it so clearly portrays character and emotion, it still must rely on action, and Jeff Shaara's contributions miss some crucial pacing both within the technical aspects of the prose and across the larger movements of the army. Regardless, however, the Shaaras' Civil War series is a remarkable achievement, and in both its strengths and its flaws, The Last Full Measure creates a fitting conclusion and solidifies the books as an important tribute to those who witnessed the horrors of the nation's worst days.

Grade: A-