Book 55: The Shore

The Shore

Sara Taylor

The first thing to note about this book is its structure; though advertised as a novel, The Shore is a collection of short stories that follow the lives of several generations (particularly women) of a family living on the Virginia Barrier Islands. The stories do link up nicely, even if readers must frequently refer to the family tree that Taylor provides at the front of the book, and certain themes weave their way throughout the collection. The interconnectedness is deliberate and easy to spot, yet feels natural as secondary characters in one story come to the fore in another. Most crucial is the legend of matriarch Medora, whose story is told directly but becomes (understandably) distorted over the generations, in a nice and relatively subtle metafictional nod to the power of story and the peculiarities of family legends. Each story feels complete while connecting to the greater whole, though one story- that of someone who left the islands- seems to be missing, leaving a gap in the otherwise tight mosaic. Other stories, particularly the final quartet, diverge slightly from the previous formula, following characters who are not Medora's direct descendants and only given a more direct connection to the remainder at the end of the book. Individual stories work well in isolation and their variation showcases Taylor's array of skills as she utilizes different narrative voices, tenses, and moods, making the characters come alive and distinguishing them individually and temporally. These stories truly feel like they are taking place in their own times, even if Taylor stumbles a bit in her attempt to include non sequitur plague fiction; this particular effort feels a bit forced and introduces some thematic elements that Taylor fails to exploit usefully. Despite this and some other minor stumbles, The Shore is an intriguing and engrossing portrait of a place, told through the various lenses of a single family and the diverse experiences they have, from poverty to profit and everywhere in between.

Grade: A-

Book 51: Masked

Masked

Edited by Lou Anders

I may not have read many superhero comics, but I nonetheless find the concept of powered individuals incredibly intriguing and rife with possibilities. Masked collects fifteen stories of superheroes and supervillains with a pleasantly wide variety of styles, subjects, and, yes, superpowers. Though the anthology is a bit uneven, as they tend to be, I appreciated each author's attempt to reinvent a trope that often seems to have worn out its room for originality and growth. The originality never ceased to impress me, particularly in Bill Willingham's "A to Z in the Ultimate Big Company Superhero Universe (Villains Too)". Willingham brilliantly utilizes a nursery rhyme structure to introduce a roster of 26 alphabetically categorized super characters, while simultaneously keeping his story moving at a fine clip. It is a silly conceit, to be sure, but the format feels appropriate and functions as both a (gentle) skewering of and love letter to the genre (which, to be fair, often relies on a good deal of silliness in all of its formats). More serious, but equally enjoyable, is Chris Roberson's "A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows", which introduces The Wraith in an adventure with thematic depth, written in a convincingly journalistic style that befits its mid-1940s setting; I only wish that I could read about more of his adventures. Other stories achieve varying levels of success, but each author offers an interesting take on the idea of the superhero, a draw that makes Masked as compelling as the very ideas it celebrates and thrives on.

Grade: A-

Book 46: The Sisters Brothers

The Sisters Brothers

Patrick deWitt

I picked this book up on a whim, with a faint recollection of having heard of it before but mostly with a view toward exploring the modern Western, a genre that I haven't really experienced. Coincidentally (or perhaps not, given that the novel was a staff selection), author Patrick deWitt now has a new novel coming out; I arrived just in time to scout him out. Despite being largely unfamiliar with Westerns aside from the traditional stereotypes, I thoroughly enjoyed The Sisters Brothers for both its mood and execution. The relatively straightforward plot follows a pair of feared fraternal assassins as they seek a particularly slippery target, but subtle touches firmly establish his strong characters in a convincing narrative arc that is disrupted only by a few unnecessary romantic subplots and clumsy interludes. Eli and Charlie's development and growth feel natural and allow for the book's climax to have its maximum emotional impact without excessive authorial meddling or moralization. While the brothers' maturation does make me yearn for a prequel featuring the acts that earned their ferocious reputation, it renders them sympathetic and likable even when traces of their former selves appear.

One of the book's interesting aspects is its relaxed tone, which is all the more surprising given the plot's time-sensitive nature. Even the action scenes glide at a leisurely pace, yet without sacrificing suspense in the bargain. I continually longed to read further, to find out whether the Sisters brothers would encounter their quarry and what they, as changed and ever-changing men, would do when they did. The shifting dynamics of their relationship also contribute to the novel's forward thrust, which is carried ever onward by occasional twists and surprises such as temporary love interests, scams of several descriptions, and chaotic encounters with local toughs. The fights are as convincingly portrayed as the characters and atmospherics, evoking a captivating vision of the Gold Rush-era West, from Oregon's forests to 49ers' camps and the suddenly bustling metropolis of San Francisco.

The Sisters Brothers is a difficult book to nail down, flourishing within its Western paradigm but failing to fully capitalize on its strengths. The brothers' remarkable growth forms the novel's emotional- and, ultimately, its narrative- core, but it is difficult to fully grasp or, indeed, believe their fearsome reputation without the assistance of flashbacks or other hard evidence about their past. They are sufficiently amoral to function within the scope of the novel's plot, but it is unclear whether they fully deserve to inspire the fear that they apparently do; if this uncertainty exists to prove a thematic point, it is ineffective and instead slightly aggravating. The novel is also hampered by a group of interludes that do little but distract from the core story. Altogether, though, the story feels complete, being robust without becoming burdened by unnecessary information. The thoroughly realized Charlie and Eli Sisters drive The Sisters Brothers, forming the backbone of a thoroughly enjoyable novel that only suffers slightly from the vague sense that, somehow, it could have been just a little bit better.

Grade: A-

Book 44: The Water Knife

The Water Knife

Paolo Baciagalupi

Having recently read a book whose action takes place in a waterlogged version of New York City, I decided that it was only proper that I should balance it out with The Water Knife, set in the parched deserts and lush luxury towers of future Arizona and Nevada. Paolo Baciagalupi's politicized point of view is immediately evident in the great care he takes to imagine, establish, and describe his (frighteningly) plausible vision of the (frighteningly) near future. His devotion is evident in full force from the book's first pages to its conclusion, permeating every inch of the narrative but lending the setting and situations a vivid sense of realism that few dystopias- especially those making very pointed references to current practices- manage to achieve. I am, however, inclined to give Baciagalupi the benefit of the doubt when encountering the grotesque economic inequalities, vicious interstate regionalism and xenophobia, and rampant human rights abuses that create the book's central conflicts. Nonetheless, while the thoroughness of Baciagalupi's vision is admirable and its sheer vividness rarely surpassed, it occasionally gets in the way of his storytelling. Egregious incidents include a few particularly annoying references to Cadillac Desert, with characters repeatedly referring directly to its prescience; surely Baciagalupi could have gotten his point across in a slightly subtler manner, allowing the message to speak for itself. By this point in the novel, we readers get it; and most emphatically so.

Despite the author's somewhat smug reliance on overt references to our contemporary climate crisis, the rich details of the setting are alone enough to convey his environmentally conscious lessons. Certain typical, if not outright cliché, dystopian elements help ground the story, and Baciagalupi adds enough unique wrinkles to make the book continually interesting and his setting genuinely complex without being inconsistent or confusing. He is an author on a mission, using traditional setting and story elements to good effect and blending the better elements of dystopian literature and fast-paced thrillers to create a compelling narrative that perpetually drives the action forward, even in this novel of ideas. Even if he can (rightly, I think) be accused of producing heavy-handed message fiction, at least it is built on a solid narrative framework.

Moreover, his use of three vastly different narrative perspectives provides a complete view of the situation, from the luxurious fountains found in sprawling residential towers to the crowded communal water pumps that cannot possibly sate the poor masses' thirst. All the while, each contributes its fair share of suspense before and after the three parallel plots (inevitably) intersect. Baciagalupi seamlessly fosters great sympathy for his point-of-view characters, even those who behave somewhat amorally, and it is genuinely moving to see one character's sudden growth at the novel's climax- a moment that fosters genuine surprise without seeming somehow out of place with the preceding pages. Indeed, it is a masterful moment of meaningful character development that may sometimes be lacking in the pulpier genres.

If, then, the dystopian and moral elements of the novel are solidly in place, how is The Water Knife as a thriller? This is the element in which I was most acutely disappointed, likely because I (correctly) predicted the location of a vital clue during its first (unlabeled, but relatively obvious) appearance and could thus track its movements amid the escalating tension. This prevented me from becoming completely emotionally invested in the narrative, but the set pieces were nonetheless well executed and enjoyable. The story is played for the highest stakes- nothing less than the destination of the Colorado River, one of the last remaining water sources for the Southwest and California- and I was sufficiently invested in the main characters to care about their fates and the region's alike. The Water Knife may alienate some readers for its over-reliance on heavy-handed political platitudes, but its vision of a rain-starved Southwest provides a compelling, and eerily plausible, setting for the well-constructed thriller laid over the exquisite framework.

Grade: A-

Book 37: All Involved

All Involved

Ryan Gattis

Given the recent resurgence of civil rights activism, this novel's arrival on my public library's shelves felt particularly timely. Focusing, as it does, on the 1992 L.A. riots, All Involved offers a unique opportunity for Ryan Gattis, and the middle-class readers his book appeals to, to draw back the curtain and catch a fleeting glimpse of life as it may have been lived in some of the country's most dangerous neighborhoods during some of their most volatile moments. While Gattis certainly doesn't shy away from depicting the raw, constant violence that defines and drives life in this environment, he resists the urge to turn his book into a gruesome spectacle, choosing instead to focus on each character's individual humanity. And while the inner monologues that comprise the book's many narrative threads may at times reach slightly beyond the characters' likely literary capabilities, his decision to personalize the core story by viewing it from several different angles and through an array of equally vivid (if not equally plausible) voices humanizes the neighborhood's inhabitants more effectively than any amount of moral proselytizing ever could. Each narrator offers, in turn, a compelling story about their lives inside, outside, and adjacent to an anonymous gang's operations in a Hispanic area of south-central Los Angeles, and in doing so emphasizes a fact that is so easy to forget in the whirlwind news coverage of similar gang-related crimes: like it or not, and as violent as they are, the perpetrators and victims are people who hope, fear, and suffer just as the rest of us do. Indeed, it is one of the book's great accomplishments that its characters only resort occasionally to stereotypes; even when they are used, the uncompromising context implies that they are not clichés but somber facts of everyday life. Gattis goes through great- but rarely pained- effort to make his characters sympathetic, even as they plot cold-blooded murders and more justified, but nonetheless horrifically violent, revenge.

This rich characterization is built on a tightly knit plot that serves as more than mere scaffolding. With the glaring exception of the final chapter, each segment adds depth and complexity to the whole as Gattis gradually weaves a multi-layered portrait of a city in crisis. Some of the perspectives are surprising, including a pair of alternate perspectives from members of law enforcement agencies. Indeed, while the book is hardly short on violence, its most shocking scene illustrates just how effectively Gattis portrays his primary subjects and draws the reader's sympathies toward them. Simultaneously, the book provides a poignant illustration of the zero-sum nature of gang warfare and the ways in which life in these environments revolves around a culture of all-pervasive violence, whether one is all involved or an innocent bystander. The murder that launches the over-arching plot is far from an isolated tragedy, but is instead indicative of a whole other way of life lurking just beneath the surface.

Equally intriguing, then, is the author's decision to pit his story against the backdrop of, but not directly within the scope of, the Rodney King riots. The African-American community makes a few cameo appearances, and the surrounding chaos is certainly a central part of the story, but Gattis is more interested in the unnoticed consequences on some of the city's other forgotten quarters. His vision of L.A. is akin to a fare more violent Wild West, sans sheriff and with the addition of far more powerful, and plentiful, firearms. In some ways, the general (but, importantly, not complete) absence of (justifiably) distracted law enforcement personnel allows Gattis to imagine the neighborhood at its worst, to exaggerate the violence to proportions that should seem caricatured but instead carry a discouraging ring of truth. I am so very far removed from the scenes depicted in the book, but Gattis immediately makes sense of the (not-so-?)twisted logic that drives his characters' decisions- logic that is uncomfortably similar to that which more affluent readers may use in their own everyday situations, even if it usually carries significantly different stakes. All Involved unapologetically and seamlessly invites readers into a world so different from their own that it may as well be a different country, and his deft humanistic touches, along with the story's resonant emotional core, illustrate the fundamental humanity and shocking ruthlessness of life when a largely lawless land sees the last vestiges of order fade into utter chaos, if only for a moment.

Grade: A-

Book 32: Fiction River: Pulse Pounders

Fiction River: Pulse Pounders

Edited by Kevin J. Anderson

Writing a compelling, well-paced thriller is difficult enough when the intended output is novel-length, and to succeed in shorter formats is nothing short of exceptional. Achieving the proper proportions of characterization, action, and stakes is a delicate balancing act, but the possibilities and rewards are almost limitless when everything clicks. Each of the stories in Pulse Pounders is calculated and crafted to offer a mix of action and intrigue, and editor Kevin J. Anderson has selected a varied assortment of short fiction pieces that showcase a number of different approaches to the genre. Stories utilizing science fiction and fantasy elements are interspersed among more realistic tales of suspense and derring-do, but the combination enhances the reading experience. The collection's strength is enhanced by its intuitive order, which stations similar stories throughout the book rather than piling them together; remarkably, Anderson accomplishes this without inducing whiplash. Certain similarities inevitably arise, as do differences in quality, but Pulse Pounders is remarkably even and entertaining throughout.

Despite the authors' general, and expected, reliance on straightforward prose and their shared tendency to rely on more direct exposition than is strictly necessary, neither do they become bogged down by ill-fitting forays into literary aspiration. Pulse Pounders is intended to entertain, and for the most part it does. Even those stories that are situated within extant or intended series are easily accessible to newcomers, and each conveys its own sense of originality. Those that rely most heavily on elements of speculative fiction are as inviting as the more strictly realistic tales, focusing as they do on adrenaline-fueled plots that fit within the collection's stated theme. In many cases, these elements effectively heighten the tension; the foreboding ending of Peter J. Wacks and Kevin J. Anderson's "Change of Mind" or the emotional impact of Kristine Kathryn Rusch's "Sole Survivor" simply wouldn't be as effective were the stakes not raised by the settings, despite a somewhat cliché approach to some narrative elements. "Fraternization," by Ron Collins, is easily the most emotionally resonant story, due in no small part to the effects of a scientific breakthrough and its effect on the protagonist.

The book's pair of time travel tales is excellent, with each successfully navigating the trope's inherent difficulties while providing a thrilling, time-sensitive sequence of events. Thomas K. Carpenter's "Tower One" may not convincingly convey the emotional depth to which it aspires, but its vision of September 11 and overtures toward exploring the nature of regret and the effects of loss and grief are nonetheless compelling. One senses that a truly great story lurks somewhere in the margins, even if it succeeds more as a leaping-off point than as a standalone narrative. Chuck Heintzelman's "Three Strikes" is much more compelling, relying as it does on a countdown that effectively mimics real time without slowing the story down and on flash-forwards that ratchet up the emotional tension. As the book's strongest offering, it provides a more than worthy conclusion. Pulse Pounders may not contain life-altering flights of literary fancy, but it does include a plethora of interesting ideas and thrilling adventures that accomplish their goal of entertaining interested readers.

Grade: A-

Book 21: Orange Is the New Black

Orange Is the New Black: My Year in a Women's Prison

Piper Kerman

I'd like to think that I would have been drawn to this book even if I had never seen (and enjoyed!) the eponymous Netflix show, but with the new season still a few months away I was spurred to get my fix from the book that started it all. Experiencing Piper Kerman's story backwards, in a sense, was a bit disorienting, as many of the characters from the show are modeled after (or share names with) Kerman's fellow prisoners, but without overlapping directly. The storylines merge, diverge, and weave through one another in different ways, and I often found myself unable to reconcile the characters in my head (from the adaptation) with those on the page. This is, of course, my fault rather than Kerman's, and I've tried to keep that in mind while reading and thinking about the book. Television or no, however, Orange Is the New Black is undoubtedly an important work, for many of the same reasons that make it inherently problematic.

For all of her bad decisions, Piper Kerman is an awful lot like me: white, well-educated, and with all of the attendant benefits that come from being brought up in an economically stable middle-class household. It is, I suspect, for this reason that she wrote the book and has subsequently garnered so much attention for doing so: in Orange Is the New Black, Kerman brings the world of the very not-white, very uneducated, and very not-monied imprisoned population into the consciousness of those who are much more like her. It is a relief that Kerman only occasionally lapses into feeling sorry for herself and that, when she does, she is often quick to check herself and reexamine the relevant instincts. This privilege, alternately acknowledged and implicit, forms an undercurrent throughout the whole book, occasionally lending itself to thoughtful meditations on the meanings and effects of imprisonment as practiced in the modern United States and, more broadly, the catastrophic effects of the War on Drugs. These passages, however, often feel abbreviated and are, more often than not, indicative of the book's general tendency toward episodic anarchy. One gets the feeling that there is much more to be said, and much more meaning to be wrangled from Kerman's experiences, if only she would dig a bit deeper into the uncomfortable truths where she only scratches the surface.

The anecdotes and thinkpiece segments do, in some sense, form a coherent whole; the narrative flows smoothly from Kerman's infraction to her incarceration and, ultimately, her release. It can, however, be a bit difficult to remember who is who and to keep a grasp on the passage of time, even with the benefit of the visuals provided by an acquaintance with the Netflix series (and sometimes, perhaps, in spite of them). The prose is relatively straightforward and entirely adequate to the task, but, as I noted above, some of the incidents and observations pop up out of nowhere. Chapters that revolve around a particular theme will suddenly switch gears for a page or two, only to devolve back into the original train of thought, and the ending is far too abrupt to offer any reasonable sense of closure. Sure, Kerman stops at an appropriate point in the story, but surely she could have offered some meaningful, summarizing reflections on her time of prison to offer a sense of closure. Then again, perhaps this isn't authorial or editorial clumsiness; perhaps the reader's disorientation is meant to echo Kerman's, as she suddenly finds herself confronted with a freedom that she can't quite comprehend after more than a year of incarceration.

Nonetheless, the book's ending undermines some of the meditative goodwill Kerman strives to build while musing on everything from the difficulties and heartbreak of trying to reconcile imprisonment with motherhood to the simple joy that comes from finding community in even the most adverse circumstances. Kerman delivers a warts-and-all vision of the prison experience, but it is notable how much time she spends examining the types of community and solidarity that develop between women who are behind bars. Most importantly, she offers a humanizing portrait of those who, as she notes time and again, we are brutally inclined to cast off as the detritus of society, whose humanity we rob by labeling them insufficient and casting them away from view, with no resources to sustain them or (perish the thought) allow them to successfully reenter (or, in many cases, first become a part of) law-abiding society. Though Kerman's experience necessarily originates from a very particular point of view, it is this through this lens that she makes the prison experience understandable to those who are, in most ways (save, one hopes, for the drug money laundering bit) much like her. Orange Is the New Black is an enlightening, though necessarily flawed, exposé of the United States prison system, an overburdened, underfunded, and woefully inadequate revolving door for those whom society lets down time and again; if it takes a middle-class white woman to get us to pay attention, well, at least now we're listening.

Grade: A-

Book 18: Super Stories of Heroes & Villains

Super Stories of Heroes & Villains

Edited by Claude Lumière

Despite my very spotty knowledge of traditional superhero comics, I'm a sucker for a good superhero (or supervillain) story. For me, much of the appeal lies in the genre's embrace of the outlandish in its quest to explore what it means to make the choices we do; these stories are far removed from the black-and-white characterizations that once drove the comics, and many stories unapologetically tackle difficult moral questions head-on. The stories embody the collapsing distinctions between science fiction, fantasy, and mainstream fiction; even seemingly mundane heroes like Sherlock Holmes display an aptitude for superhuman achievements, and in these postmodern times heroes, villains, and those who fall in between appear in a variety of guises. Super Stories of Heroes & Villains, while focusing on humans (or, rarely, suspiciously humanoid aliens) who have enhanced physical and/or mental abilities, offers far more variety than newcomers might expect. Herein are stories that construct heroes built on familiar paradigms, resurrect some recognizable comic book stalwarts, and deconstruct and reexamine the ways in which we seem to expect the superpowered to behave. It is this diversity that makes the collection so compelling, a product of the included authors' impressive imaginations and editor Claude Lumière's decision to showcase pieces from an array of genres and thematic approaches. The stories are, by turn, triumphant and tragic, the protagonists heroic and haunted, and the reader is greeted with new perspectives on every page.

Thematic anthologies like this one can easily become repetitive, relying on retreads of a common theme, and Lumière's selections reflect both his extensive familiarity with and his enthusiasm for the superhero subgenre. Though his introductions to the collection and to the individual stories are often clumsy at best, his selections are generally accessible to readers who are approaching this type of story for the first time. Even "Übermensch!", "The Nuckelavee: A Hellboy Story", and "The Death Trap of Dr. Nefario", which rely most heavily on preexisting literature, will reward those with the most basic passing familiarity with the traditional canon. Lumière does, I believe, err in including Win Scott Eckert's essay and Jess Nevins's "The Zeppelin Pulps"- the former would be far better suited to a passing reference in the collection's introduction and the latter only makes sense because of the editor's wink and nudge in his preface- and, moreover, exacerbates the problem by placing them back to back. Even so, he generally avoids clumping similar stories, and the book largely preserves a nice, consistent momentum from one selection to the next.

This is all to say very little of the stories themselves; so many of them are outstanding by so many different measures that it would almost require a story-by-story analysis to properly rate the collection. Even the less successful stories, not coincidentally those that are least directly engaged with the superhero theme, at least force the reader to critically reconsider the subgenre. Stories like "Grandma", "The Biggest", and "The Rememberer" share a rich melancholy tone and a devotion to realism, insofar as superheroes can be realistic, that balances some of the more traditional swashbuckling adventures, and the collection has triumph and tragedy in nearly equal measure. Together, the book's stories encompass a complete narrative arc, from glorified origin stories and dazzling mid-career highs to meditations on the fleeting nature of youth, health, and fame, as well as plenty of stories that fall in between. And all of this in an array of vividly imagined settings and impossibly inventive abilities assigned to protagonists, villains, sidekicks, and bit players alike, as each author took a basic, nebulous concept and applied their own interpretation, interest, and skill. Super Stories of Heroes and Villains includes a few miscues, but the overwhelming majority of its stories are of the highest quality, a testament to the full range of vibrant possibilities inherent in some of the oldest tropes in speculative fiction.

Grade: A-

Book 40: Maud Martha

Maud Martha

Gwendolyn Brooks

As the person nominally in charge of a large collection of Gwendolyn Brooks papers at the University of Illinois, I figured that it was about time that I got around to reading some of her work. Instead of beginning with any of her many poetry collections, I started with Maud Martha, her only lengthy work of fictional prose. Calling it "fiction" and "prose" is accurate, but just barely: Maud Martha is a semi-autobiographical work that is more concerned with its language than with its characters, setting, or plot. To Brooks's credit, this language often gets one or more of those points across, though it makes for rough going at first and throughout, as the book never really gains any narrative energy. A few characters and incidents appear in repeated motifs, but the book is a set of illustrative vignettes that explore Maud Martha's experiences and surroundings rather than a proper novel about her life. These stories range from isolated to deeply emotional, particularly when issues of race are confronted head-on. Maud Martha- and, by extension, the reader- experiences the casual racism that allows a white saleswoman to casually drop the n-word in a black beauty salon and a white homeowner to presume that blacks live only in squalor. There is a visceral reality to these stories that comes across so clearly in Brooks's prose, which effortlessly places the reader into Maud Martha's shoes despite any differences of time, space, and race that might exist between author, character, and reader. That the book is compelling despite its scattershot plot is a testament to the author's enduring talents.

As a poet, Brooks naturally trades in a kind of subtlety and nuance that asks the reader to contemplate the many meanings of a chosen word or anecdote, and the book is full of small clues and brief quips that betray the author's greater comfort with sparser prose. Despite the fact that many of the vignettes in Maud Martha are compelling, they do not, as a whole, offer a nuanced exploration of the characters, which appears to be at least part of the point. Maud Martha is at once an everywoman and a representation of Brooks herself, which makes the book alternately interesting and bland. Brooks undoubtedly possesses a master's command of the English language, bending it to her will, but the book is much more valuable as a historical artifact, a time capsule, than a story in and of itself; I feel fortunate to have encountered it as part of a multi-generational reading group rather than in a solo venture. Maud Martha feels like Brooks's attempt to explore the nuances of the particular time and place in which she grew up and became a young woman; as such, it is a crucially important and well-executed, though somewhat limited, firsthand depiction of the lives of young black women in mid-20th-century Chicago.

Grade: A-

Book 31: Tigerman

Tigerman

Nick Harkaway

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

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 29: Spheres of Disturbance

Spheres of Disturbance

Amy Schutzer

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 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 24: The Amazing Harvey

The Amazing Harvey

Don Passman

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

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 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 9: The Revisionists

The Revisionists

Thomas Mullen

One of the most common themes in time travel literature is the mutability of the past and the ripple effects of changes large and small. The Revisionists considers these themes from a familiar angle- agents from the future set out to preserve their past- but spins its story with a suspense writer's sensibility. The result is a book that is part science fiction, part political thriller, and wholly engrossing, despite these dual identities. Between the first-person present narration of its time-traveler, Zed, and an omniscient third-person view of the present-day protagonists in Washington, D.C., the novel wryly offers a comment on the nature of time, as seen from Zed's perspective. This trick is a bit more understated than other philosophical aspects of the book; though Mullen confronts several issues head-on, for which he should be commended, his characters occasionally veer into the realm of caricature. While it is obvious that Mullen (and, by extension, his characters), appreciates ambiguity, he often offers only the distinction between various extremities, rather than exploring the space between. Though the main characters are usually aware that withdrawing entirely to one side or the other is too simplistic for the vagaries of the modern world, the book careens off of an ethical cliff throughout its climax, where previous noble attempts to draw attention to the gray areas between the equally murky and (often) unethical objectives and actions of superliberal antigovernment activists and superconservative corporate defense contractors are reduced to a heroes-and-villains morality play. And to think, only a few chapters before Mullen was essentially breaking the fourth wall and asking readers to consider whether such a story really could have such clear-cut players.

The sudden moral awakening (so to speak) of the ending does not, however, severely dampen the general tenor of the book. Mullen does an excellent, though sometimes heavy-handed, job of introducing readers to Zed's own present, and his flashbacks reveal his own story at a steady pace that mirrors and complements his personal development. Here, too, Mullen tends to explain rather than organically demonstrate, a sin magnified by his frequent (and effective) use of dialogue and other means to introduce facts and themes. I also appreciated the integration of science fiction elements into a traditional spy-vs.-spy framework, with plenty of surprises throughout. Mullen may resort to a typical progression when describing and undermining his vision of the future (frequent readers of dystopian and other future literature will recognize much of this arc), but that vision itself is compelling in its way and allows the author to construct the suspense novel that the book becomes. Less forgivable is the book's tendency to forget various moral dilemmas introduced as part of the science fiction conceit. They need not (and probably could not satisfactorily be) resolved, but the novel comes tantalizingly close to having a compelling moral core relevant to both its future and present settings, only to allow the science fiction to fade. The latter chapters contain echoes of this ambiguity, voiced through Zed's growing doubts, but one feels that there could be more to the end than the more-or-less pure action that almost undermines the lengthy setup.

Mullen does, however, have an obvious aptitude for writing thrillers, and he effectively juggle and integrate various plot lines throughout the book, though readers may occasionally need to mentally take stock as the stories begin to intertwine. More impressive is the reader's genuine suspense throughout the book, related not only to events but, more importantly, to the characters, their complex motivations, and their shifting relationships with one another. It is a shame that Mullen seems to drop several potentially interesting thematic threads- by the end of the book, it is almost incidental that Zed is an agent from the future- instead of further exploring them, as the book gradually sheds its philosophical skin in favor of a conclusion befitting the best of airport thrillers. The thematic importance of the possibility and morality of revisionism is but a shadow as the book concludes, though its final line pays fine tribute to its more philosophical elements. The Revisionists is a rare book that is almost entirely satisfying despite seeming to discard its vast potential, and it serves as a pleasant reminder of science fiction's potential to elevate and evolve with other genres.

Grade: A-

Book 6: Neverwhere

Neverwhere

Neil Gaiman

This is my first experience reading a Gaiman solo effort, and as I now reflect on Good Omens, I have strong suspicions regarding which aspects of the novel were Gaiman's. First and foremost, his pure literary talents are astounding. Here is an author with a natural knack for creating spellbinding sentences that draw you in, whether their purpose is reflective, ironic, or simply functional. This ability to effortlessly draw the reader in with prose alone serves Gaiman well in the modern-day and parallel Londons his characters explore; it is easy to accept the quirks and fantastic elements when they are described so matter-of-factly that they wouldn't, but for the content (no big deal, right?), feel out of place in a Dickens novel. Yet Gaiman's voice and novel are all his own, displaying a very modern and peculiarly English sensibility, often laced with heavy doses of delicious irony and subtle humor that are rendered more effective by the often silly subject matter. By drawing attention to the unlikelihood of the fantastic elements he introduces, new to the reader and protagonist alike, the narrative rationalizes them and reassures readers that, yes, strange things lie between these covers.

The fantastic parallel London that Gaiman conjures has a unique history and culture to flesh it out, but is revealed to the reader just a bit too slowly. On many occasions, I found myself flipping backwards to check for a background fact that had never appeared and wondering when certain hints would rocket into the foreground. The protagonist's guides make it clear on numerous occasions that there is more to London Below (as opposed to London Above, our city) than even the plot that drives this story, but these undercurrents never quite grab hold of the characters. Whether they exist to serve as a half-baked, unrealized red herring, as sequel fodder, or as an attempt at background enrichment, their continued irrelevance becomes distracting and can lead readers to wonder whether there's something missing. Though the reader's knowledge progresses along with that of the protagonist, heretofore a denizen of London Above, there is much about London Below that remains mysterious at the end of the book, and though over-explanation and tacky exposition (nowhere to be found in this novel) doom many a genre novel, Gaiman errs slightly too far toward understatement and innuendo. As matters escalate, it can be difficult for readers to find a foothold.

Regardless of his occasional inability to describe or utilize them to the best effect, Gaiman's Londons and, more importantly, his characters are compelling. Neverwhere has as primary antagonists two of the creepiest characters I have encountered in any medium, sinister and calm despite their distinctly antisocial tendencies (to put it mildly). Their dry dialogue contribute to the generally gloomy atmospherics that envelop novel and reader alike. Gaiman's utter mastery of language and ability to conjure and sustain a mood mask the fact that the story is, at its heart, a fairly predictable quest narrative. Yet somehow, London Below is so compelling that the familiar plot twists come as a surprise. It is not, therefore, surprising that a disappointing climax fizzles into a boring, drawn-out ending when the setting returns to London Above. The finale makes sense within the context of the book and is a relatively subtle evocation of character development, but it pales in comparison to the remainder of the novel; one gets the feeling that the same events could occur but in a way much more befitting of the book as a whole.

Final disappointment aside, however, and despite its flaws, Neverwhere is an incredibly compelling work of urban fantasy and a testament to Gaiman's raw talent. The prose is of the highest quality, the humor belies some fairly disturbing sequences, and the setting is vivid. Indeed, the book's best trick is hiding its central metaphor for an impressively long time; while London Below is most definitely the world of those who fall through the cracks, the satirical elements are understated and tragic, rather than glaring and grandly moralizing. In fact, some of the most interesting, humorous, and emotionally devastating elements of the story occur when the two Londons directly interact. Neverwhere is a great and compelling book that doesn't misfire so much as fail to fully realize its potential, leaving me the slightest bit annoyed but only because it is obvious that Gaiman is more than capable of fixing the (minor) problems.

Grade: A-

Book 5: Gravity

Gravity

Tess Gerritsen

When I picked up Gravity at my local library, I did so because I had heard about Tess Gerritsen's lawsuit regarding the eponymous movie, which (as far as I know) is more or less about an astronaut getting stranded in space. What I ended up reading is another epidemic novel, which is great (I love the genre), except for the fact that I happened to reach the dramatic climax just after discovering a bedbug in my apartment. Our scare turned out to be more hysterics than anything, thankfully, but it's hard to tell how much of the book's effect on me was due to solid storytelling and how much can be attributed to my alert mental state. Regardless of my personal distractions, however, Gravity remains a compelling thriller.

I often find that books like Gravity are difficult to write about, because I become so intrigued by the fast-paced, engrossing plots that I forget to note details about, say, character development. That, perhaps, is the greatest compliment I could hope to bestow on a writer like Gerritsen: the story is so good that the typical "literary" considerations are, at the very worst, irrelevant as readers barrel through the plot. That is not to say, however, that there aren't a few glaring flaws in the book. The two main characters' shared development arc is laughably predictable, to the point where Gerritsen doesn't even seem to bother to develop the relationship organically. She relies instead on the implicit understanding that this is bound to happen whenever such characters, with such a relationship at the start, are introduced. Their story, with regard to each other, just kind of happens, and it's easy enough to take it for granted; the lazy development doesn't end up hurting the story, but the thought may arise in the reader's mind from time to time. Likewise with a major plot development that would be subtle, except for an early aside that is so unrelated to the plot at hand that its incongruity basically demands that the reader mentally skip ahead and figure out what would otherwise be a twist.

That said, however, these two aspects of the book are the only parts that are particularly predictable, and even that twist ended up unfolding differently than I expected. At many points throughout the book, I thought I had the gist of the thing down, only for an unexpected development to alter my expectations completely and, crucially, keep me reading at a rapid pace. The twists are far from outlandish, yet they stray far enough from standard expectations (which are easy enough to form in the course of reading the book) that the effect is that much more spellbinding. It is obvious that Gerritsen has done her homework with regard to NASA and, to a lesser extent, biology, and the scientific aspects of the book are certainly realistic enough for my (admittedly inexpert) eye. The disease itself is appropriately horrifying and the initial slow burn accelerates at just the right time. Readers know just enough to stay a step ahead of the characters, but little enough that reading on takes on an urgent necessity. Gerritsen is a master at building the kind of tension that makes a book like this really work. Her chosen science fiction tropes, epidemiology and space, make a great (and original!) pairing and the novel remains startlingly realistic and plausible 15 years after its initial publication. Stephen King's blurb for Gravity promises a compelling story, and a captivating thriller is indeed what readers can expect. I often find that I can't quite pin down what it is about a particular book that draws me in and keeps me hooked, and perhaps the best thing I can say about Gravity is that it pulled me in and kept me enthralled from cover to cover.

Grade: A-

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 1: Year's Best SF 18

Year's Best SF 18

Edited by David G. Hartwell

After an extended hiatus, I eased back into reading over the first four months of the year, and I found Year's Best SF 18 to be an excellent way to get back into reading with its strong group of (mostly) compelling stories. Editor David G. Hartwell has clearly made an attempt to reflect many of the genre's nuances by including stories of varying subgenres, styles, and length. Not all of the stories are particularly memorable (and some, of course, left me quite a bit flabbergasted for one reason or another), but the highs are very high indeed. Some of the highlights are the stories that effortlessly transport readers into their realms and explore those settings through the plot; these include Eleanor Arnason's delightful pastiche "Holmes Sherlock: A Hwarhath Mystery" and Naomi Kritzer's "Liberty's Daughter." Though the latter story ends on a bit of a cliffhanger (as it is part of a larger narrative), I was so drawn to the setting that I didn't even mind the ending; I can't wait to get my hands on the whole thing (if it comes into being). Every anthology has its duds and its stories that could be good for other readers- just not for me- but I was pleased with the overall quality of fiction here. In other contexts, I might skip the very military (but surprisingly intellectual) "The Battle of Candle Arc" by Yoon Ha Lee; instead, I read it and loved it. The story is set in a universe that is a little difficult to fully digest within the context of a single short story, but it has compelling characters and an ending that perfectly encapsulates a previously unnoticed theme running throughout the whole story. I believe, upon reflection, that it is "Weep for Day" (by Indraprimit Das) that has had the most lasting effect on me. Beautiful, elegiac, and allegorical, it is a deeply human story that serves as a fine example of the ways in which the fantastic settings, characters, and scenarios of science fiction can provide us with valuable and unexpected mirrors with which to view ourselves. Sure, there are plenty of aliens here, but Year's Best SF 18 demonstrates the vast scope of modern science fiction and offers enough variety that everyone should find at least a story or two that speaks to them.

Grade: A-

Book 10: Beat the Reaper

Beat the Reaper

Josh Bazell

At its heart, I believe, this is a novel that tries to be many things at once: a biting satire, a fast-paced Mafia story, a bit of a thriller. What's remarkable is that, to a large extent, Bazell manages to pull it off. The satirical tone is established immediately by the protagonist's highly sarcastic, matter-of-fact voice, which remains consistent throughout the novel and lends an air of believability to a succession of wild events. Not insignificant is the narration's contribution to the book's considerable humor- though dark, most jokes land successfully due to their dry delivery. The book has a serviceable plot that interacts well with character-building flashbacks and consistently builds suspense, though the climactic scene contains one of the most utterly gruesome acts I've ever come across in books, movies, or other media. Hide the children, because not only is the idea itself utterly shocking (yet strangely appropriate within the book's very dark context), it is described with enough detail for readers to picture it properly. It may turn some readers off, but I'll be damned if the crucial image doesn't stick with me for years to come. Bazell must be applauded here for his originality, both in premise and in specifics, but the secondary players fall too often into stereotypical roles. In this day and age, even the sarcasm can seem a bit run of the mill, though that is hardly Bazell's fault. All told, Beat the Reaper is a thoroughly enjoyable trip into the mind of a completely jaded ex-hitman, told effectively through a unique and compelling voice.

Grade: A-