Book 53: Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café

Fannie Flagg

After becoming quite familiar with this book from its reputation, I finally decided to read it. I found the book to be slightly rough going at the outset, as the framing narrative did little to draw me in: I found it to be a bit cloying and sentimental throughout and, much like the two present-day characters, would have rather preferred to spend my reading time among the bygone residents of Whistle Stop. Likewise, some elements of the main storyline can seem similarly haphazard, and the various diversions and backstories can seem either indispensible or irrelevant depending on the context and contents. The overall feeling is one of unevenness, aided little by the problematic handling of the book's Black characters. Yes, this novel intends to evoke midcentury Alabama; it was, however, written in the 1980s and Fannie Flagg should have made more of an effort to look at these characters through a more empathetic, modern lens. Despite some major flaws, the book does have a certain charm and, ironically perhaps in light of its poor treatment of race, excellent lesbian representation that feels no need to either hide nor trumpet its inclusive spirit. Idgie and Ruth's relationship is as natural to them and to the residents of Whistle Stop as any other, and while Flagg shies away from naming it outright her intent feels obvious. Representation is crucial, and it is always nice to see queer characters allowed to exist, happily, without being subject to the same five stories. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café certainly has its flaws, but its core holds a nice story of a bygone era, fully conceived and convincingly rendered, dripping in useful nostalgia.

Grade: B

Book 49: Music for Wartime

Music for Wartime

Rebecca Makkai

All short story collections are potentially susceptible to derailment due to inconsistency of subject, theme, style, and/or quality, and it is often difficult to anticipate what awaits when beginning one. This is particularly true of single-author anthologies, even those that do turn out to have a common thread running through their individual components. Comprised partially of stories focusing on Hungarians' experiences during and after World War II and partially of wholly unrelated tales, Rebecca Makkai's Music for Wartime occupies a strange middle ground between thematic unity and narrative diversity. The opening story and three additional "legends" interspersed throughout the collection are ephemeral folk tales set in rural interwar Europe (likely Hungary) that offer some context for those stories that explore the implications of the war, at the cost of making the others seem hopelessly out of place. Despite their individual and collective ability to establish a setting and evoke a particular mood, these efforts to establish a common thread and theme serve more to highlight the collection's incongruities than to unify its disparate pieces into a coherent whole.

Makkai's laudable, if imperfect, attempt to add a wrinkle to the typical anthology format betrays another of the collection's flaws: repetition that fails to construct collective meaning. Several characters seem to be recycled among the war-inspired stories without any overt connections beyond a general connection to the conflict, however far removed. Moreover, these stories are scattered among others featuring such wholly unconnected elements as a traveling circus, a reality television producer, and a time-traveling Johann Sebastian Bach. Without providing stronger connecting tissue or even ensuring their physical proximity, Makkai fails to capitalize on the war stories' potential power. Even though many individual stories shine, both within and outside of the purported theme, the collection lacks the unity it apparently craves. Powerful examinations of vivid characters and compelling philosophical questions are lost amidst the book's attempt at a unified vision that it fails to create. Music for Wartime is an eclectic collection that suffers from its hesitancy to effectively embrace either its shared themes or its more unique elements, resulting in a group of strong stories that buries its own potential.

Grade: B

Book 41: The Devil's Detective

The Devil's Detective

Simon Kurt Unsworth

I have always found the idea of stories set in Hell to be interesting, and the location certainly offers a number of possibilities for writers who dare to venture into its depths. By combining this setting with an old-fashioned mystery plot and an extremely dark, bone-dry sense of humor, Simon Kurt Unsworth made it difficult for me to resist The Devil's Detective. His vision of Hell- a vividly imagined bureaucracy several evolutions away from its roots as the fire-and-brimstone torture pit of legend- is utterly captivating and full of the hopelessness, arbitrary regulations, and inherent unfairness that seem to govern many modern lives (and, crucially, many modern nightmares). There is searing, poignant cruelty in the governing demons' decision to allow a diplomatic delegation of Heaven's angels to arbitrarily liberate a few lucky souls; for many readers, this cruelty may well resonate in ways that the book's exaggerated scenes of gruesome guts and gore do not. Moreover, Unsworth populates his hellscape with humans who have no idea why they ended up there in the first place (a special kind of torment indeed) and a range of demons who have free reign to torment them. He rarely wastes an opportunity to remind readers that Hell is, at its core, a place of eternal torment, regardless of how well its human denizens have seemed to adjust to a new sense of tortured normalcy.

That said, the narrative nuts and bolts are not always utilized as effectively as the setting. The protagonist, the aptly-named Fool, is often so clueless that it becomes nearly impossible to sympathize with him, even though it is obvious from early on that he is a mere pawn in Hell's greater machinations. This tension manifests itself most directly in a pivotal clue that very clearly identifies the criminal culprit far earlier than Fool gets around to doing so; the resulting irony, however, is the frustrating kind, and it is nearly excruciating to wait for Fool to catch up. While I appreciate other demonstrations of Unsworth's finely tuned sense of irony (his main character is, after all, a detective who must investigate criminality in a place where it is encouraged and will never go punished), he may wander too far into the land of futility. In fact, he raises the stakes only at the very end of the novel, providing an inadequate payoff even if the murderer is duly identified. It's not all bad: the chase scenes are terrific and the violence is about as gruesome as it gets, occasionally becoming too much for me (even though, in hindsight, I probably should have expected it in a story set in a dreadfully realistic version of Hell). The characterization and overall plot, however, leave a bit to be desired.

Happily, these flaws do not prevent the book from having a shockingly appropriate ending, despite a reduced emotional impact. The various criminal threads are wrapped up as neatly as you would expect in a traditional detective story, and the secret is kept long (and well) enough to lend an air of intrigue for much of the book, even if Fool's blundering and the transparent narrative devices employed to keep him on the path often make for a rocky road. But the ending, a brutal twist that is wholly appropriate yet strangely unpredictable, is so brilliant, in its way, that it almost mitigates all of the book's other problems. I certainly expected a different conclusion and was pleasantly surprised to find that Unsworth chose a different ending, one that more closely fits the sense of futility that he so deliberately (and effectively) crafts throughout the novel. The Devil's Detective may not fully succeed as a detective story, but its vision of Hell is worth exploring for those interested in a surprisingly philosophical take on the subject.

Grade: B

Book 38: Kitchen Confidential

Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

Anthony Bourdain

I've enjoyed Anthony Bourdain's somewhat cynical take on the celebrity chef phenomenon- of which, make no mistake, he is a significant beneficiary- and decided that I might as well pick up a copy of the memoir that started it all for him (in an updated edition). In one sense, the book offers everything you might expect from Bourdain: filthy language, a bone-dry sense of humor, and frank assessments of himself, his coworkers, and the culinary industry. It is, however, a bit less successful as an exposé and a memoir. The former can, perhaps, be chalked up to time, especially as the pronouncements in the most prominent gross-out chapter, "From Our Kitchen to Your Table", have become common knowledge by this point. Many of Bourdain's big reveals simply don't stand the test of time; ironically, this is largely the case because of the book's success and subsequent impact on the culinary world. Thus, the memoir's tell-all aspects of Kitchen Confidential are more important within the context of the book's publication rather than they are on their own for contemporary readers. There is, of course, more behind the curtain than is generally known, but the book's shock factor, a significant part of its initial appeal, has largely diminished over time.

Bourdain, however, can hardly be blamed for this, and the book is, at its core, a memoir as well as an insider's view of the culinary industry. Here too, however, the book ultimately gets the better of itself. Bits and pieces of Bourdain's history are sprinkled throughout the narrative and his larger proclamations about the industry, and while the chapters are well integrated with one another the overall chronology often gets blurred, causing the book to essentially fail as a coherent narrative of Bourdain's time in the culinary industry. It is not Bourdain's use of techniques such as foreshadowing and callbacks that sink the ship, but rather the order in which information is generally presented: despite reading small snippets here and there, readers leave with no clue how to fit the events of the "Bigfoot" chapter into the general narrative. The chapter itself is well-written, engaging, and memorable for its depiction of a ruthless character who set the tone for much of Bourdain's subsequent life (even if the reader can't quite figure out when this occurred). That the author's redemption from the depravities of addiction is not placed in any sort of temporal context is frustrating and makes his turnaround far less impressive, or indeed engaging, as it would be within the proper context. This is a shame, as I'm sure that, given his general propensity to call it like it is and his exquisitely tuned bullshit detector, Bourdain could have provided a refreshingly honest, frank story of addiction and recovery. But that story, for whatever reasons, disappears below the surface as the book's now-dated (and therefore currently less interesting) exposé elements take center stage.

Likewise, Bourdain is more prone to proclaim his passion for cooking than to actually illustrate it; while there is no doubt in my mind that food is, and has long been, the driving force in Bourdain's life, that fact tends to get lost amid his gleeful descent into the grimy underworld that exists beneath even some of the most highly regarded restaurants. This is all the more disappointing given Bourdain's excellent ear for language and his hilarious, seemingly honest characterizations of himself and his various coworkers. He recounts numerous criminal and otherwise questionable activities with glee and pulls no punches whatsoever about the grimy underworld that lies beneath the shimmering surface of even some of the most highly rated restaurants. That said, and however fun it can be to recognize that chefs are some of the most foul-mouthed and dirty-minded members of society, Bourdain's attitude toward sexual harassment occasionally led me to set the book down in disgust. Though Bourdain pays lip service to the dangers of sexism, even going so far as to praise the women (and, less often, the men) who survive and thrive in such a caustic environment, his implicit acceptance of the status quo as a situation that the weak-minded should just be expected to deal with is problematic, to say the least. In riding the fine line between praising the culture and criticizing it, Bourdain falls on the wrong side on too many occasions.

For all of its faults, however, the book retains a certain kind of rough-around-the-edges appeal, and it certainly exhibits the take-no-prisoners attitude one expects of Bourdain. Kitchen Confidential may suffer from the effects of aging and missed opportunities to craft a compelling narrative, but it retains enough of Bourdain's trademark cynicism that it should please his fans when taken with a significant grain of salt.

Grade: B

Book 36: Upgraded

Upgraded: A Cyborg Anthology

Edited by Neil Clarke

All short-story anthologies are, by nature, hit-and-miss propositions; within every collection, be it the work of a single author, a thematic group, or a "best of" collection, each tale will affect each reader differently. Even with that in mind, however, I found the variance within Upgraded to be greater than in many anthologies. I suspect that this may be due, at least in part, to the broad spectrum of stories that fall under its surprisingly vague "cyborg" theme. Indeed, the collection's breadth is its greatest strength, and I appreciated the opportunity to read widely across science fiction subgenres, finding that the hits and misses weren't confined to single styles, themes, or interpretations of who- or what- cyborgs might be. In this way, the collection pleasantly challenged my own assumptions; I encountered brilliant stories in genres that I usually shrug off and found myself disappointed in stories that I would have otherwise expected to love. The collection has it all, from the galaxy-spanning space opera and dystopian cyberpunk nightmares you'd expect to less stereotypical intimate personal monologues and even a wholly satisfying mystery (Ken Liu's "The Regular") that wouldn't feel horribly out of place in a modern detective anthology.

For all of its inherent variety, however, Upgraded isn't constructed in a way that efficiently exploits the stories' similarities and differences. Recycled themes show up erratically and seemingly without purpose, and the vast gulf between adjoining stories often creates an unwelcome sense of whiplash, particularly when stories engaging similar themes (or even similar interpretations of the term "cyborg") appear too closely together. Similarly, I often found that the stronger of two (or more) similar stories was placed first, making the following efforts pale in comparison. Much of this is based on my subjective reading experience, but the collection's sometimes uneven structure seems to invite and encourage the kind of direct comparisons that highlight stories' relative strengths and weaknesses. The best and worst stories may starkly stand out against the background, but the background itself becomes dull and ill-defined in the process. Overall, it is disappointing and distracting to be flung violently between stories that effortlessly immerse readers in the chosen context and those that remain unsettled even after ten or twenty pages.

Much as the stories explore strikingly different interpretations of the technology behind, and the meaning(s) of, the integration of machine and biological parts, there is a significant gap between those that immerse readers immediately and those that rely heavily on the authors' presumption of readers' preexisting familiarity with various tropes. At times, it is difficult to determine who the target audience is: while devoted science fiction fans will certainly find much to love (and to stretch the boundaries of the meaning and possibilities of the genre as broadly constructed, which is not unimportant when considering the background static of the current Hugo debacle), too many stories are unclear even to readers accustomed to the genre's most popular, well-worn conceptions. Likewise, I was impressed by the balance between stories that stressed a gee whiz element, focusing on the technology, and those that focused more narrowly on personal lived experience and/or more broadly on themes as important as the meaning of humanity and the gains and losses engendered by fusing biology and technology. Plenty of the collection's authors are eager to pose the questions and provide a framework for exploring them; thankfully, few become too pedantic in offering answers. Upgraded may be a bit frustrating when considering its harsh transitions and uneven pacing, but its theme is coherent and there is much to be admired within, in the shape of a wide range of quality fictional gems waiting to be discovered by the right readers.

Grade: B

Book 26: Astoria to Zion

Astoria to Zion: 26 Stories of Risk and Abandon from Ecotone's First Decade

Edited by Ben Fountain

According to editor Ben Fountain's introduction, the stories in Astoria to Zion are all included (at least in part) for their examinations of the idea of place. Though this stated theme is not always evident in each of the collection's 26 tales, many do explore the varied meanings of physical (or even mental) location and presence, whether as an anchor or as a jumping-off point for further musing. The most successful works are, unsurprisingly, those that are most inextricably linked to their locales and those that embrace plot as a way to move story, characters, and readers alike along the path to a conclusion, however inconclusive. Several authors, however, fall into the quintessential trap of modern literary fiction, refusing to knit their observations into something meaningful and, in the process, forsaking interest for the sake of creating art that, without sustaining the audience's interest, becomes meaningless. This makes the collection somewhat uneven, as runs of two or three engaging stories are inevitably cut short by a dull foray into the worst kind of litfic. As a whole, the balance tips ever so slightly, and ever so precariously, to the good, meaning that the book may be best enjoyed in small doses, as the reader is unsure from one entry to the next what type of experience lies ahead.

It is to Fountain's credit that the collection embraces standout fiction that manages to be both literary and, in a word, interesting, providing a platform for many talented writers to consider how we alter, and are altered by, the places we inhabit, visit, and abandon. I've read Kevin Brockmeier's "The Year of Silence" a few times before, but its inclusion here invited me to revisit it in a different light, allowing it to resonate with me in a way it hadn't before. This, indeed, is the power of a good anthology, where the theme enhances already excellent stories by inviting reconsideration and a providing a particular frame of reference. Likewise, Astoria to Zion's best historical fiction (the stories by George Makana Clark, Miha Mazzini, David Means, and Ben Stroud) works on several levels, asking readers to think deeply about the meanings and ramifications of both temporal and physical location while vividly depicting relatable visions of the past. Nor does the general focus on location inhibit authors from exploring their ideas in variegated ways. Benjamin Percy, Rick Bass, and Kevin Wilson all set their stories in snowy forests, but each tackles it is a unique way; the settings, while similar, evolve in these skilled hands and come to represent something much more than a story's incidental location.

While each of the authors at least nominally relies on a set idea of place, some are more wedded to the concept than others; even the better stories that employ a more tenuous connection to locale, such as Bill Roorbach and Lauren Groff, somehow pay tribute to its importance. Indeed, the collection's least successful offerings are those that feel untethered while struggling to define their settings, motivate their characters, and/or embrace the power and near necessity of plot. Contrast this with its most moving stories, which carry great depth and resonate beyond their final pages; it is no coincidence, I Think, that all rely on movement and change, whether positive or negative. Something happens in these stories, and it happens somewhere, as the book's theme would imply. Astoria to Zion is an interesting microcosm of modern short fiction, with its best stories evenly matched or exceeding the very best of the field and its worst embodying its most unwelcome trends; in the end, its great pleasures exceed, however tentatively, its perilous pitfalls.

Grade: B

Book 25: Channel Blue

Channel Blue

Jay Martel

The blurbs for this book promise serious science-fiction comedy in the vein of Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut, and while Jay Martel generally does his literary influences justice, Channel Blue lacks the precise combination and balance of subtlety and absurdity that makes his predecessors so successful and enduring. From its main character (a middle-aged has-been screw-up) and plot (the Earth is soon to be destroyed by aliens who no longer have a use for it) to its primary satirical targets (reality television and the gleeful schadenfreude it engenders), the book relies too heavily on clichés to make a significant impact. Martel's good instincts are overwhelmed by his tendency toward heavy-handedness, and he doesn't often display the kind of restraint that this type of bitter, biting satire requires. Many potentially funny plot points, supporting characters, and odd encounters fall victim to his earnestness, though it is to the author's credit that the book never becomes overly preachy and remains an enjoyable experience for the duration. Still, for all of its bright moments (make no mistake, I did laugh out loud several times while reading the book), one gets the impression that Martel tries just a bit too hard to make his points for the majority of them to effectively resonate with readers.

The result of Martel's eagerness is a book whose tone and humor are uneven, helped little by largely unoriginal nuts and bolts elements. While the Earth-as-reality-television conceit is a clever one, the plot and characters suffer from a surprising lack of imagination and development. Despite a few unexpected twists and turns in the details, none of the narrative developments are particularly surprising, to the point of feeling repetitive and contrived. The book's most shocking- and, perhaps not coincidentally, its most interesting- revelation is placed too close to its end for its ramifications to be satisfactorily explored in either a serious or silly context. This isn't the kind of book that I would necessarily expect to be heavy on the moral implications of its satire, but I can't help but feel as though Martel undersells his abilities and ignores numerous opportunities to add depth and meaning to the book's humor, which rests instead primarily on the surface. Channel Blue offers quite a bit of food for thought, but doesn't allow readers ample space in which to consider the questions it poses, opting instead for the easier route time and again.

While it is fair to say that I was somewhat disappointed with the book, I should reiterate that it, like other books that may fail to fully explore and exploit their inherent potential, still provides an enjoyable reading experience. The characters would have benefited from more actual development, rather than a constant barrage of untenable events that drags them kicking and screaming into change, and the plot lacks moments of true tension, but both are serviceable. Martel's prose is easily digestible and, indeed, sometimes very funny. The book contains enough food for thought to sustain readers' interest even in its duller moments, though the rewards are slim in the end. Channel Blue may not be a truly worthy successor to the sci-fi comedians of yore, but it is sufficiently capable at eliciting a few laughs; it is, indeed, mostly harmless.

Grade: B

Book 20: The Illusionists

The Illusionists

Rosie Thomas

I've found myself particularly drawn to stories about stage magic recently, for no obvious reason that I can discern, and it wasn't a difficult decision to pick up The Illusionists based on the cover and the jacket flap summary. The story leaps off of the blocks immediately, immersing readers in the impoverished alleys and variety theaters of late-Victorian London. The atmospherics are a wonder to behold, with the city brought to life in vibrant detail; this is a novel that plants images and ideas directly in the reader's mind, and as it relies heavily on tone this is one of its great strengths. Despite this, Rosie Thomas occasionally falters; her references to homosexuality and Jack the Ripper, although undoubtedly well-intentioned, add little to the novel and betray a clumsiness that overtakes the book in its final third. Nonetheless, she is usually on point, revealing just enough details to make the book's illusions, complete with elaborate staging and framing narratives, spring to life while retaining the requisite air of mystery. Her decision to utilize an omniscient third-person narrator is reminiscent of the sprawling novels of the time, and she handles it better than many of her predecessors or contemporaries, deftly transitioning between her characters' different perspectives.

The book's several protagonists revolve around the charming, yet slippery, Devil Wix, a capable stage magician with grand ambitions who often occupies the gray areas between hero and antihero. The compelling supporting cast includes Carlo Boldoni, an ever-contrarian dwarf with magical skill that greatly eclipses Devil's own and Eliza Dunlop, a prematurely liberated and forthright woman who is compelling despite being more a product of the author's era than of her own. They, and the minor characters alike, remain convincingly in character for most of the novel, lending it an additional air of plausibility. Some references to Devil's past are handled a bit too forcefully, and Eliza's gradual softening does her a great disservice despite its inherent philosophical potential, but readers can enjoy seeing the characters cooperate, argue, and evolve in realistic ways.

All of this should make for a thoroughly excellent book, but everything unravels after the climactic ending to its second act. The narrative arcs of parts one and two are expertly managed, driven by Thomas's strong characters if not by any particular narrative ingenuity; Devil's ascent is a pleasure to witness, and the thriller that follows provides an emotionally riveting finale. Unfortunately, the book's coda is a drawn-out, boring affair, a hundred extra and utterly unnecessary pages affixed to what would otherwise be a gripping, complete novel. I understand Thomas's desire to provide a sprawling portrait of Devil, Eliza, Carlo, and company, but her attempt to cook up a sufficient plot falls flat despite the barest hints of potential. Her plodding insistence on dragging out the story of the character's dull existence dampens the emotional resonance of their previous accomplishments and escapes. The story itself loses its sense of wonder, a fate that Devil recognizes in himself and belatedly, halfheartedly seeks to correct. The denouement simply fails to capture the atmosphere, excitement, and interest that drives the majority of the book, and does its characters, author, and readers alike a great disservice.

Rosie Thomas's great, and apparently natural, talent is evident in The Illusionists, and its strengths are great and evident, even in its disappointing conclusion. The fact that its flaws are compressed into an interminable ending renders it impossible to recapture the occasionally breathless entertainment offered in its first two-thirds. It is, despite its ill-conceived appendix, a good novel, even if it is ultimately unrewarding. The Illusionists is, to a great extent, a wonderfully executed novel of Victorian London for all but its final third, a conclusion that is all the more lamentable for the sheer quality of the pages that preceded it.

Grade: B

Book 12: The Numbers Game

The Numbers Game: Why Everything You Know About Soccer Is Wrong

Chris Anderson and David Sally

While I've found these aggressively contrarian statistical investigations into aspects of modern life to be somewhat hit and miss, I saw no obvious reason not to at least try The Numbers Game when I found it sitting on a shelf at the library. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, I found it to be a hit and miss volume itself, offering both the clever insights and egregious oversights (to say nothing of simplifications) I've come to expect in this type of book. Its basic framework is, as usual, fairly solid: Anderson and Sally are clearly keenly aware of what they are doing, leaving little room for doubt with their frequent references to the history of analytics-fueled Moneyball in various sports, but take less overt, annoying glee in their counter-intuitive findings than some of their more insufferable peers. Their book flows at a reasonable pace, and their findings likewise pop up in a sequence that not only makes sense but also allows authors and readers alike to build on insights implied by previous statistics. There is a narrative here, despite some of the more standalone aspects of this kind of work, and the authors' propensity to keep the big-picture story in mind during each of the book's many brief investigations ensures that it is accessible despite the math that drives it. Moreover, Anderson and Sally seem to strike a decent balance between getting lost in the statistics and interpreting them for readers (like myself) who haven't seen a regression analysis since high school.

It is, however, somewhat unclear whether the authors occasionally ignore their obvious knowledge of soccer in the pursuit of a particularly contentious claim. Despite their success in generating and maintaining the readers' interest, however, they are sometimes liable to fall into the familiar traps of corollary/causation confusion, and self-importance that plague their peers. Many of their calculations and resulting insights revolve around the typical binary win/loss system that soccer so uniquely avoids with the prevalence- and relative importance- of the draw. Though the authors do investigate some aspects of draws, they seem to ignore this third possible match outcome entirely at points where it appeared to me to be particularly relevant. Likewise, I was disappointed to find that the authors (and a former goalkeeper among them!) so casually dismissed the importance of high goal totals without even considering the implications of the goal differential as soccer's first-tier tiebreaker over competitions with multiple legs. Championships, relegations, and participation in continent-wide superleagues are routinely decided by those games where teams got or conceded what turned out to be a pivotal 4th or 5th goal, as irrelevant as it may have been (statistically or otherwise) within the context of the game at hand. That said, however, the authors' investigations of the relative importance and weight of goals were easily some of the most interesting, and relevant, parts of the book.

More pivotal, however, is the book's various treatments of what proves to be its central question (even if it is unacknowledged as such): is it better to play to win or to play not to lose? Anderson and Sally tackle this question from a variety of expected and unusual angles, eventually leaning toward a defensive-minded mindset (again with the goalkeeper's influence, no doubt) that they acknowledge is far from a hard-set rule. In doing so, they provide an interesting framework that spectators might consider when watching their favorite (or most hated) sides on and off the pitch, but do so without being excessively dogmatic or smug. Though the book is certainly susceptible to the usual pitfalls of its genre, the authors show a great deal of respect for their subject by weaving relevant historical facts into their narrative and providing examples from a variety of eras, countries, and leagues.

Some pitfalls, however, cannot be avoided, and one gets the sense that the authors do indulge in a fair bit of hand-waving throughout the book. As a rule, it lacks true transparency, and I'm not completely convinced that all of the more random-looking scatterplots do, in fact, indicate the trends the authors try to draw out of them. I left the book convinced that Anderson and Sally should have made more of an effort to explain the statistical methods behind their findings and conclusions, and that they possessed the skill to do so without bogging down the narrative or overwhelming their less scientifically inclined readership. The book may not be condescending, but inquisitive readers couldn't be faulted for wondering whether it might have been a bit more open to scrutiny from statisticians and laypersons alike. That said, however, the book is still a highly readable look into the potential implications of advanced analytics on a sport that may be even more hopelessly mired in tradition than the peers who have already embraced the revolution. The Numbers Game may be a product of its time and genre, but it will yield interesting insights to those readers who are willing to embrace analytics with a certain grain of salt.

Grade: B

Book 11: We Are Not Ourselves

We Are Not Ourselves

Matthew Thomas

This novel has received a number of positive reviews from the usual outlets, and I was intrigued by the possibility of a sweeping, but intimate, look at a family's experiences throughout the mid- to late-20th century. While that is exactly what We Are Not Ourselves does provide, I couldn't help but feel that the book was just there, successful with regard to its apparent ambitions but ultimately forgettable in its ordinariness. A lack of outright flaws, paired with this general sense of mere existence, makes it somewhat difficult to dissect the book and determine what makes it tick. The story, which follows the life of second-generation Irish-American Eileen Leary (née Tumulty) in New York City and its environs, is relatively straightforward, as is its cast of characters. Thomas touches lightly on worn stereotypes- the older generation is full of drunken, but hardworking and reliable Irishmen and -women- but does so in a way that feels surprisingly honest. Indeed, the novel's utter emotional honesty, and the forthright way in which it comes to the fore, is its greatest strength, and likely the cause of its undoing. We Are Not Ourselves so aptly reflects a certain kind of American experience that it no longer stands out as art, becoming relegated instead to the dull memory of lived experience. This reflects no small amount of skill on Thomas's part, but it does make for a reading experience that ultimately feels unnecessary; with nothing particularly compelling or unusual about these characters or their situation, it becomes difficult to justify spending 600-plus pages with them.

Then again, those aspects of the novel that stand out are quite remarkable. What does set the Learys apart, to an extent, is the uncomfortable and inescapable presence of Alzheimer's for much of the book. Like in real life, it begins as the reader's sneaky suspicion before being reluctantly named and then quickly blossoming into an all-consuming beast that overshadows everything else. Its effect on Ed (Eileen's husband, the afflicted), on Eileen's upwardly mobile ambitions and marriage, and on their son Connell is immediate, lasting, and as devastating as you'd expect. I found myself increasingly sympathetic to Eileen's and Connell's plight(s), even though I often had little patience for either or both at any given moment. To experience the gradual, and suddenly rapid, decline of Edmund Leary is, I suspect, to replicate in a small but accurate way the actual lived experience of those who have suffered the same knock-on effects of this and other diseases.

There can be no doubt, then, that Matthew Thomas is a skilled writer, and that he possesses a keen eye for the types of detail that render this novel so unmistakably believable. Unfortunately, what he has produced is a book that somehow lacks focus despite its narrow, well-defined scope. The first few perspective changes from Eileen to Connell are unexpected, and Thomas does not wholly capitalize on the different aspects of the story that each can provide; too often, such a jump is immediately forgotten, the narrative moving forward where a bit of reflection may have enhanced the story in a way that pure plot never could. Likewise, the plot lurches forward in unexpected bursts, and the reader is never quite sure when, in calendar time, the events are occurring. The book makes it unnecessarily difficult for readers to gain their chronologically minded bearings, which is distracting and detracts from the overall reading experience; we cannot begin to sense changes in the characters' lives if we cannot understand the ever-shifting context in which they occur.

Likewise, though Thomas brings his readers convincingly into his viewpoint characters' minds, he still fails to make them unique. Eileen and Connell may be well-defined, but- much like the supporting cast- they are defined in ways that border precariously on stereotypes; Thomas is rescued time and again by his attention to the tiny details that make the Learys incrementally more interesting than typical stock characters. Stereotyped or not, however, they are drawn so accurately from real life that they often become tiresome. In this way, they reflect the book's greatest strength and its ultimate weakness. The book is too convincing, and too real, to provide a particularly compelling reading experience; at the end of the day, it's just another series of days in the life. The book, for me, lacks any one exceptional characteristic that would make it stand out. We Are Not Ourselves is, as it intends to be, a sweeping, generalized, and believable look at the experiences of an upwardly mobile middle-class family in the 20th-century United States, but even the looming presence and lingering effects of Alzheimer's- brilliantly rendered here, make no mistake- aren't enough to make the book particularly compelling or memorable.

Grade: B

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 4: The Vacationers

The Vacationers

Emma Straub

I'm usually somewhat skeptical of this kind of fiction, which lies somewhere between the beach read and the serious literary novel, but I decided to give The Vacationers a go anyway after seeing it recommended on several summer reading lists (yeah, I'm a bit late to that party). For most of the novel, I found myself pleasantly surprised by the quality of the writing and my emotional investment despite the characters' abundant flaws. The setup (a nuclear family, plus one of their children's live-in girlfriend and a gay couple who are friends of the family, is stuck together during a foreign vacation) is well-worn but also well-chosen, and Straub keeps it interesting despite treading over very little new ground. It is, in fact, remarkable how enjoyable the novel is despite the many clichés on which it relies. The gang's all here: the husband who has just been caught with a young editorial assistant, his insipid and overbearing wife, their spoiled good-for-nothing son, the gay best friend and his sensitive husband, and the teenager who just wants to get laid by her hot tutor. Somehow, Straub makes her readers care about these people, or at least elicits their curiosity about how, precisely, the inevitable character arcs will unfold.

I suspect that the novel's success is due to the author's effortless writing. The metaphors and dialogue are equally apt, and the language is usually spot on: evocative without being unduly showy and effective without becoming trite. Straub avoids the kind of self-serving poetic excess that plagues so many novels like this without being afraid to inject a bit of higher-minded prose; she has excellent intuition and a willingness to embrace restraint that makes her more flowery prose all the more effective. Even more impressively, the book moves seamlessly between various characters' points of view without having to rely solely on section or chapter breaks to signify shifts in perspective. This allows readers to come to know the characters intimately as individuals despite the familiar foundations on which they are built, and Straub's ability to convincingly get inside the mind of each of the protagonists is no mean feat.

It's a damn shame that all of this goodwill is nuked to hell during the book's closing chapters. Straub opts for each and every one of the most obvious conclusions to each character's story, to the point where any and all credibility she had cultivated is immediately, completely, and irrevocably lost. Of course x happens, the reader thinks, no matter how unlikely or utterly ridiculous x may be for these characters in this novel. Characters suddenly gain new personalities at the author's whim, apparently because it was convenient to ensure that the book- marketed, remember, as an upmarket beach read- had a happy ending. This is more than maddening; frankly, it's insulting to assume that readers will suddenly forgive and forget as easily as the characters apparently do. Straub takes so much care to expose each character's subtle strengths and flaws throughout most of the book, only to resort to the path of least resistance in each and every possible case.

Is the terrible ending enough to ruin the whole experience? Probably not, and I presume that a lot of readers will be satisfied with the gooey happy Post family that remains after the final page, rather than a version that is tethered more closely- and thus more uncomfortably- to the reality that Straub is so willing to acknowledge and explore throughout the rest of the novel. In the end, the book reduces itself to its lowest common denominator, and an ordinary story made compelling in the hands of a skilled author becomes another boring, sappy testament to whiny rich white people's problems. That kind of book can be interesting and, indeed, worth reading, but this particular example could have been so much more; in the end it is left to languish in the shadow of its own wasted potential. The Vacationers is a partially excellent book that succumbs to outside pressure, worth reading for some of its insights but ultimately disappointing because, like so many other books, it comes so tantalizingly close to being something much more meaningful.

Grade: B

Book 2: Bewildered

Bewildered: Stories

Carla Panciera

I have long been a fan of the short fiction format, though it is more by accident than anything else that my first two books of 2015 have been story compilations. Whereas the stories in Redeployment benefit from the book's clear collective mission and vision, readers must dig a bit deeper to find the coherence in Carla Panciera's Bewildered. Panciera has a decidedly literary outlook, tending to be light on plot, and her stories sometime suffer for it; on more than one occasion, I was left wanting more. As an engaged reader, I don't mind being asked to do some of the heavy philosophical lifting, but I do wish that some of the book's offerings had a bit more meat on their bones. There's a disenfranchised housewife here, a moody, insufficient husband there, and too little to make them- or their plights- resonate after a final sentence, suspended as if in midair. If there is a theme to Bewildered's contents, it is the various discontents that lie below the surface of (seemingly) comfortable suburban lives.

The trials that Panciera's characters face tend toward the banal- marital affairs, the various challenges of parenthood, coming to terms with recent or imminent loss (the last, perhaps, more inherently meaningful than the others)- but it is to her credit that her characters are drawn sympathetically enough to elicit the reader's compassion, even when they may not deserve it. The collection has a certain lyricism about it that rarely gets in the way of storytelling, and one only wishes that Panciera had more of an eye for the absurd, the astounding, and the memorable, rather than sticking to well-worn scenes and scenarios. In a collection defined by the author's seeming unwillingness to draw conclusions, the most powerful stories are those that effectively evoke the effects of regret and grief, emotions that leave their sufferers as unresolved as Panciera's stories often are. The collection's opener ("All of a Sudden") powerfully gives voice to the ever-changing nature and maturation of childhood friendships, and "Weight" is a moving exploration of lingering grief, though one wishes that it had done more to define its protagonist early on- it is a fundamentally different story depending on the character's gender and age. "End of Story" is a suitably melancholy reflective piece that has a surprising- but welcome- take on its point-of-view character; not quite damning but not wholly sympathetic, either, it seems to be more or less what he deserves.

"Bewildered" seems, at first, to be a standard story of a husband's discontent but slyly incorporates elements of the psychological thriller; one only wishes that the author had embraced this turn, stoking a sense of uncomfortable doubt rather than laying the whole thing bare and presenting it as straightforward. In light of this missed opportunity, it is Panciera's final offering, "On Being Lonely and Other Theories", that is probably her strongest. The characters and setting are fully realized and its events, though somewhat exaggerated, come with a set of appropriate- and sometimes unexpected- consequences. One development is more or less telegraphed, but the story ends with an unsettling air of ambiguity that, for once, suits it; things are up in the air, unresolved, and one gets the feeling that they should be. This collection is very much in the vein of modern literary fiction, somewhat reluctant to rely on plot but still somehow conveying something meaningful about modern life. I may have wanted a bit more from these stories, but Carla Panciera excels at atmospherics and some of the stories- or at least the feelings of regret and sympathy they elicited in me- may stick with me for a while. Bewildered isn't comprised of life-changing or particularly notable short fiction, but its stories do offer interesting peeks behind the curtain of self-satisfied suburbia.

Grade: B

Book 37: Caribou

Caribou

Charles Wright

I don't have much of a history with poetry, and certainly not modern poetry, but as I now find myself in charge of some significant archival collections pertaining to American poets I figured that there's no time like the present to reacquaint myself with the poetic. I was intrigued by the promises and quotes on Caribou's jacket and picked it up. I was, alas, somewhat disappointed, finding a few gems but largely feeling that the poems suffered from a lack of consistency, both internally and throughout the collection. Some motifs, such as Wright's reliance on nature as the source of recurring metaphors, are consistent throughout the book, but it often proves difficult to move from one poem to the next- or even one stanza to another. Some poems are seemingly at odds with their titles in ways that did not enhance my understanding or experience of the poetry, and others seem to shift without warning or a poetic purpose that I (in my admittedly limited experience and knowledge) could discern. That said, there are a few truly beautiful standouts in this collection. Wright is at his best when pondering the transcendent nature of life, whether in short bursts such as "Whatever Happened to Al Lee?" or longer, almost narrative pieces like "Little Elegy for an Old Friend". There is occasionally a thrilling beauty to be found in lines that leap off the page, even within some of the poems that, taken as a whole, grasp unconvincingly at coherence. At its best, Wright's poetry explores life from an existentialist outlook, grabbing readers with sharp observations; even at its worst, it is far from incomprehensible or indulgent for its own sake. The majority of the poems, even those I didn't quite get, offered me some intellectual fodder, which is, in a way, all you can really ask of a poetry collection. Nothing drastically altered my outlook on life, but there are a few lines and shorter stanzas that lend themselves well to repeated rumination. Overall, I found Caribou to be an interesting collection containing a lot of beauty, meaning, and wisely stated truths for those who are willing to overlook some of its weaker points and pan for its gold.

Grade: B

Book 33: California

California

Edan Lepucki

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

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

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

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

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

Grade: B

Book 28: The Adjacent

The Adjacent

Christopher Priest

I've never read a Christopher Priest book before, though I'm familiar with The Prestige, but I had high hopes coming into and while reading this novel. Unfortunately, The Adjacent never quite lives up to its own expectations. This is a shame, as Priest displays a multitude of talents throughout the book, moving seamlessly between third- and first-person narration and adapting several narrative voices to their circumstances. He evokes World War I's Western Front, a World War II-era English airbase, a plausible future Britain haunted by the consequences of global warming and advanced terrorist weaponry, and a wholly invented island society with equal vigor, but cannot quite weave them together into a single story, coherent or otherwise. To a certain extent, this is the point; The Adjacent obviously revels in the possibilities of parallel and complementary timelines, and to expect a linear story would be to mischaracterize the book's own goals. I do, however, wish that the necessary juggling was handled better, with a discernible point beyond the kind-of-twist ending on offer. The various timelines book includes numerous coincidences and crosswalks, which form part of its charm, but when some of these elements come together in the end, the effect is to distort realism so thoroughly that the entire book becomes a bit of a sham. The big finale is surprisingly conventional, particularly for an author who proves elsewhere that experimentation and departures from linearity (and, indeed, from a single notion of reality, even a fictional one) can be enthralling. The effect is one of unmitigated disappointment- surely the author capable of the novel's heights could come up with a more satisfying, appropriate ending?

Though I left The Adjacent feeling quite disappointed, it is only because the book often employs its tricks to enchanting effect. The highlight, for me, was a pair of stories about an ill-fated magician's trick; together, they recall Akutagawa's In a Grove, updated for the quantum age. The chapters that take place during World Wars I and II are wonderful bits of writing; either could stand alone as a short story and, indeed, the first probably should have, as it bears little relation to the remaining text beyond some hints of shared imagery and relies too heavily on a show-offish cameo that does little to enhance the small or larger stories at hand. The World War II-era narrative provides a surprising and welcome focal point, uniting threads from the near-future and the island stories, although it, too, becomes muddled by the end. Much of what Priest does simply seems unnecessary, focusing on less interesting ideas and characters at the expense of the good stories he tells effectively. As science fiction, The Adjacent explores some interesting ideas about quantum theory. Though these aren't quite explained to full effect they do offer tantalizing- but woefully underexplored- possibilities. In one of the novel's strongest bits- which hints at a resolution and sense of consistency that never, alas, come to fruition- we follow a character in real time only to discover that he might, perhaps, have been somewhere else all along. Yet Priest stops there, quickly moving on to another half-baked application of his solid basic ideas. That, in essence, was my experience with The Adjacent: it is a novel full of interesting riffs on an excellent, unique idea, with top-notch worldbuilding thrown in for good measure, that can't quite put everything together in a meaningful way.

Grade: B

Book 20: Chicago Blues

Chicago Blues

Edited by Libby Fischer Hellmann

Though I will only be calling Chicago home for another week or so, there is something about the city that has drawn me in and captivated me. New York and Los Angeles may be larger, but Chicago has a culture and a sprawling history all its own. Libby Fischer Hellmann may not have taken a drastic logical leap when realizing that the city in its various forms provides a perfect, ready-made backdrop for mystery stories- or when suggesting that this atmosphere is also particularly conducive to blues music- but the resulting volume, Chicago Blues, is a fitting ode to the city's darker moods. The stories themselves are a bit uneven and rarely helped by Hellmann's decision to group them thematically; the editor's heavy hand is most evident, perhaps fittingly, in the first and final sections. Though readers familiar with blues music and Chicago's importance to the genre will feel immediately at home, this opening salvo can easily turn off readers who are less well versed in this aspect of the city's history; the first few stories seem to require an unspoken knowledge and readers cannot be blamed for wondering whether the remainder of the volume will be the same. Similarly, while it is amusing that two authors contributed stories that take place on Lower Wacker Drive, placing them in direct succession at the book's end does a disservice to both. Both Brian Pinkerton's "Lower Wacker Blues" and Barbara D'Amato's "The Lower Wacker Hilton" do an excellent job of evoking the spookiness of their unique shared locale, but they seem to fade into one another despite being entirely different types of stories, leaving the reader unsatisfied and forcing the collection to go out with a disappointing whimper.

Editorial mistakes aside, this is a strong and varied collection that includes both the expected police procedurals and more contemplative stories that use crime and criminality as a jumping-off point rather than a central theme. The more typical stories, most of which are executed well enough to keep readers interested during the act of reading them, are punctuated by a few standout stories that resonate, largely due to excellent finales: Michael A. Black's "Chasing the Blues" brilliantly hides its emotional core in a solemn last line following a series of brash recollections by a long-serving cop; Sam Hill's "The Sin-eater" gradually reveals its true nature to its protagonist and reader at a similar slow-burning pace; and Sam Reaves's mafia-infused "The Test" keeps readers hooked despite (or perhaps because of) its reliance on old mafioso stereotypes. Many of the other stories may be relatively humdrum examples of their particular genre, but that genre begins from a point of strength with its focus on plot, and only one or two of the stories herein are truly bad.

For a collection with few distinguishing characteristics and fewer truly remarkable stories, Chicago Blues is noteworthy for its authors' clear understanding of- and affection for- the city. As natives and/or residents of Chicagoland, they don't limit themselves to the city's more iconic locales, which gives their contributions a kind of gritty credibility. As a recent transplant myself, I was pleased to see successful cameos by the Chicago Cubs, Jack Ruby, and my (marginal) local L stop. The characters, like the city's residents, run the gamut from old-timey syndicate criminals to high-powered executives, and though the plots may feel recycled at times most crime aficionados and casual readers alike should find enough within to sustain their interest. Chicago Blues may not be an exceptionally well-curated collection, but it does offer several welcome glimpses into the city's criminal tendencies.

Grade: B

Book 7: All Your Base Are Belong to Us

All Your Base Are Belong to Us: How Fifty Years of Videogames Conquered Pop Culture

Harold Goldberg

It should be obvious from this book's title that Harold Goldberg's audience is a certain kind of videogame enthusiast, one who recognizes the badly butchered English of a poor (but iconic) translation. The catchy phrase pairs nicely with the subtitle, which purports to be- but never actually becomes- the book's thesis, but it should serve as a kind of warning. Despite possible overtures to the contrary, this book about the rise of the videogame industry seems to be meant for readers who have a fairly solid grasp of videogame history. My own experience with the medium is scattershot and largely confined to a particular era (I prefer the SNES and N64 to newer systems and suck at first-person shooters), and I found it difficult to follow the book as it described systems that I have never played (particularly in the early chapters) and games that I have never seen. Likewise, the game-based similes are charming at first, but they soon become a bit tiresome and wordy, as though Goldberg is showing his own familiarity with the subject matter rather than attempting to construct a useful literary comparison. These missteps and assumptions, which are especially pronounced in the first chapters for younger readers who have little or no firsthand experience with the earliest gaming systems, can be alienating and, ironically, undermine Goldberg's supposed thesis regarding games' rise to ubiquity.

And about that would-be thesis. All You Base Are Belong to Us purports to both dive into some of the most interesting developments in the gaming industry- and the games and/or developers who spawned them- and show how these moments contributed to a pop culture sensibility that is largely influenced by (and composed of) games. Goldberg largely succeeds on the first point: his retellings of pivotal moments are compelling and are clearly based on first-hand knowledge and, crucially, genuine passion. He clearly has respect for the industry's pioneers and appears to have chosen some of the most important, if not always the most popular, games and systems to illustrate the medium's rapid growth. The stories he tells are always interesting and always obviously important, but these anecdotes are rarely placed into their proper context. Not only is it often difficult to figure out when events are happening (both in actual and relative time), but there is rarely any exploration of the time between these signature moments or the industry-specific context surrounding them. Goldberg occasionally hints at drawing conclusions within and even (rarely) between various chapters, explaining how a particular innovation changed videogames, but this context is usually dropped as soon as the next chapter begins. A few segments are paired nicely, such as essays on EverQuest and its direct successor, World of Warcraft, but more often the book becomes less of a history and more of a group of interesting, loosely linked essays.

The essays are, again, interesting throughout, and obviously crafted by someone who has a very deep and personal appreciation of videogames. Goldberg has a knack for discovering and conveying the human stories beyond the bits and bytes, though the writing can occasionally stray into technicality a bit beyond the casual reader. Though it can be difficult to figure out why particular innovations were as earth-shattering as the author claims (particularly in the chapter about Grand Theft Auto III, which implies that it was the first open-world game in 3D but confusingly refers to other preexisting 3D titles), the book's descriptions of gameplay are accessible for those who have never played the games in question. Goldberg's writing can be mesmerizing at times and should easily convince skeptics that videogames are, indeed, a multifaceted art form with a unique history. He is hampered by the subtitle's stated objective and his failure to adequately present a cohesive story between chapters: he nails who, what, where, and (to a lesser extent) when, but struggles to always explain why the industry is where it is today and why the innovations he describes were truly revolutionary.

There are hints of a greater theme throughout the book, but too often Goldberg hits a warp pipe instead of playing through the levels: the reader finds themselves transported to World 8 without knowledge of most of Worlds 2-7. The writing itself is solid, aside from some ill-informed, strained, and self-aggrandizing analogies and a weird overuse of the word "nerd" that seems more disparaging than Goldberg surely intended, and I would be remiss if I didn't mention the charming design elements: each chapter opens on a page illustrated like a Pac-Man maze and section breaks are formed from a group of blocks straight out of Super Mario Bros. At the end of the day, though, All Your Base Are Belong to Us is a kind of echo chamber for gamers who already know the basics and Goldberg, despite clearly possessing the knowledge and ability to do so, fails to construct a compelling narrative about the videogame industry, settling instead for a series of compelling- but inherently disconnected- essays.

Grade: B

Book 4: Inherit the Mob

Inherit the Mob

Zev Chafets

Here is a prime example of a book that suffers greatly from an inaccurate jacket description (or perhaps a cautionary tale about reading jacket descriptions before the book itself). The blurbs promise a madcap romp and an over-the-top send-up of the old-school mafia, and while Inherit the Mob does have more than a few moments of levity and does contain a thoroughly modern twist, it read to me lie slightly comedic noir. Despite failing to live up to the advertisers' expectations, the book is enjoyable, if a bit contrived. It is easy to recognize protagonist William Gordon, intrepid Pulitzer-winning reporter, and his sidekick John Flanagan as stock characters and possible stand-ins for the author, and they do become frustrating and tiresome at times. More damaging from a modern perspective is the treatment of a queer character who repeatedly claims lesbianism when pursued by the author, only to eagerly hop into bed with another male character as a convenient (but unnecessary) plot device. While this book doesn't need to be a forum for an in-depth exploration of the flexibility of human sexuality, the character's lack of in-plot development (she does get a realistic backstory in one of the middle chapters) and general treatment are disappointing at best and outright offensive at worst. That said, however, there are some very welcome late additions to an admittedly bloated cast and, if nothing else, most characters maintain consistent personalities that serve the story.

The treatment of the cast, however, betrays the novel's greatest flaw: Chafets creates functional (if stereotypical) characters (and even subconsciously acknowledges his reliance on old tropes in a character's aside) and drops them into a plot with enough originality to keep readers hooked, but he cannot for the life of him rely on any hint of subtlety. Everything in this book is over-explained, usually in lengthy expository reveals. The extras may have compelling histories, but the book is weighed down by irrelevant details about bit players, seemingly puffing up the word count without real regard to plot development, and many of the main characters' biographies show up relatively late in the book, long after their optimum period of utility or explanation. It's a sign of lazy writing- why not at least bother to attempt to dress up the (ultimately unnecessary) exposition in dialogue or internal monologue? Chafets clearly put a lot of thought into the novel, its internal history, and its protagonists, but these rich details become clumsy and actually detract from any sense of suspense that accumulates between the (frequent) asides.

That said, however, Inherit the Mob is strangely enjoyable. The show does go on, despite sustained periods of inaction, and Chafets showcases an admirable ability to follow up on the law of Chekhov's gun. Aside from the cumbersome backstories, which rarely become relevant to the story at hand, most details (however awkwardly revealed) do come back, sometimes in completely surprising ways. Though it fails to deliver on the jacket copy, which itself contains a fairly important spoiler, the book does offer a somewhat sly take on the old mafia and creates enough suspense to keep readers hooked. It's not a thriller by any means, but it's compelling enough to make readers wonder how Chafets intends to resolve the mess he creates. Inherit the Mob is not by any means a great novel, but it is entertaining enough, particularly in its final third, to warrant an afternoon or two.

Grade: B