Book 52: Fortune Smiles

Fortune Smiles

Adam Johnson

First and foremost, a content warning: the story "Dark Meadow" centers on a pedophile and treats this character sympathetically; proceed with caution. While I believe that this story effectively accomplishes its goals, reading it is a profoundly disturbing experience, insofar as it plants the reader firmly in this character's mind. Johnson (and, indeed, his editor(s)) may have had good intentions when including this story in the collection, but it is unsavory and would have better been left out.

Otherwise, this is an interesting short story collection that operates primarily in a familiar mode: it consists mostly of "literary" fiction with a few hints of sci-fi-inspired intrigue that are always a little too ashamed to cross over directly into genre writing. This is not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself, but Johnson seems too willing to go along with the traditional strictures of litfic rather than exploring the inventive elements that would otherwise lend this collection some desperately needed originality. Several stories simply fail to capitalize on the author's grand ideas, whether by coming into them with too little interest too late in the story ("Nirvana") or by failing to connect the fantastic elements effectively to the story's other themes ("Fortune Smiles"). Interestingly enough, the most effective stories are the realistically minded "Hurricanes Anonymous" and "George Orwell Was a Friend of Mine", both of which are grounded in strong, compelling characters who carry the narratives even when nothing much is actually happening to or around them; the latter story, especially, is a masterclass in engendering readers' sympathy for an unsavory character, offering as it does an exploration into the idea of the banality of evil without excessive moralizing or unaffected indifference. Overall, Fortune Smiles is full of excellent writing and grapples with several interesting themes, but fails to capitalize on its most intriguing ideas, settling instead for typical aimless litfic fare.

Grade: B-

Book 40: In the Stacks

In the Stacks: Short Stories About Libraries and Librarians

Edited by Michael Cart

As someone whose two professional jobs have been in academic libraries, how could I possibly pass over In the Stacks when I stumbled across it, and I promise that this is absolutely true, in the stacks? The simple answer is that I couldn't, and I picked it up hoping to find a selection of stories that illustrate and explore some of the inherent variety of my chosen profession. Although some of the authors do engage relevant themes, I was disappointed to find that the authors use librarians and librarians almost incidentally; and while this certainly a valid way to construct a story (I hardly expect every story to laud everything that I happen to find important), this tendency is more than a little disingenuous in a collection whose stated purpose is to collect stories on that theme. Sure, each story includes at least one library or librarian, but only a handful are particularly concerned with their impact or meaning. This is even more baffling when considering that editor Michael Cart deliberately chose preexisting publications, rather than being forced to work with new submissions.

The collection is further limited by a noticeable lack of editorial context: Cart provides no introductory notes, and it can often be difficult to discern when and where, exactly, a particular story is supposed to be taking place. This creates an unpleasant sense of confusion and contributes to the difficulty in distinguishing between many of the stories, even immediately after reading them. Relatively simple solutions, such as an obvious organizing principle, individual introductory notes, or endnotes that actually mention the selected stories, are, alas, absent. Cart somewhat compounds the problem in his introductory remarks, which bafflingly characterize Ursula K. LeGuin's excellent "The Phoenix" as "impossible to classify", despite the fact that it is a relatively straightforward thought experiment that takes place in a vaguely European city that conforms largely to our expectations of reality (even if the setting itself is, strictly speaking, a fictional one). I was, however, pleased to find a traditional detective story (Anthony Boucher's "QL 696.C9"), although it hinges on a supposedly mysterious clue that should be immediately obvious to anyone who has used a college library, let alone worked in one. More entertaining is "Ed Has His Mind Improved" by Walter R. Brooks, which features the droll wit of everyone's favorite talking horse. I even appreciated some of the stories that rely on more stereotypical portrayals of librarians, such as Zona Gale's "The Cobweb", when they featured these characters in a meaningful way. But though some may be wonderful in their own right, they feel woefully out of place here, cheapening the collection and the profession in the process.

Nonetheless, the collection's generally blasé attitude doesn't entirely detract from the power of its best stories, which (perhaps unsurprisingly) tend to be those that focus on librarians' devotion to their work. "The Phoenix" is as powerful a meditation on the librarian's charge as Italo Calvino's now-canonical "A General in the Library", and I appreciate the way that these authors, along with Isaac Babel (whose "The Public Library" is similar, but less subtle), prominently feature libraries and examine the librarians' various roles within their communities. It is surely unsurprising that Ray Bradbury's "Exchange" is easily the best of the lot, gently guiding and then altering the reader's view of the librarian in question, ultimately drawing tears in its simple, understated beauty and appreciation for the very best librarians. And so every short story anthology has a few standout stories at either end of the spectrum, but the greatest failure of this particular attempt is the large number of stories that are instantly forgettable. In the Stacks seems destined to disappoint, both because of the generally underwhelming quality of the stories within and those stories' disappointing lack of engagement with the book's stated theme.

Grade: B-

Book 22: 100 Places You Will Never Visit

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

Daniel Smith

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

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

Grade: B-

Book 15: Coming Out to Play

Coming Out to Play

Robbie Rogers

As someone who is independently interested in LGBTQ issues and soccer, it seemed only natural that I should read this memoir by Robbie Rogers, the first openly gay male athlete to play in one of the United States's five major professional sports leagues. I knew little about Rogers coming into the book, save that he had temporarily retired before coming out and subsequently joining the L.A. Galaxy, and it was interesting to get inside the head of a successful professional athlete, although the book does its subject few favors in the end. It is difficult to discern how much of the tone- which, for its many faults, is at least consistent throughout the book- should be attributed to Rogers and how much belongs to his coauthor, Eric Marcus. Nonetheless, I found it to be somewhat defensive and surprisingly maudlin, to the point where I felt little sympathy for Rogers despite understanding much of what he went through as a closeted gay person in the 1990s and early 2000s.

Unsurprisingly, much of the book is devoted to standard memoir fodder, which is handled more or less adequately. It's exactly the sort of story you'd expect, an obviously well-off kid growing up in an area where he could nurture his obvious talent, forging the kind of professional connections that served him well afterward. The blockquote passages from his mother and sister are a bit too frequent and too long, taking the focus off of the obviously shy subject but magnifying his reticence, yet the book's sections about faith and family provide many of its most poignant and emotionally resonant moments (though the latter are few and far between). Rogers has a tendency to rely on platitudes, particularly when discussing the process of coming out and the subsequent attention he has received since doing so, but they are harmless and largely humdrum. Overall, the book gives the impression that it simply had to be written because of Rogers's monumental achievement, and even if it doesn't set the world on fire it does at least offer a comforting tale of a paranoid, closeted gay man coming out to find an open, loving embrace from all quarters. Its base narrative is somewhat rote, but none the worse for it; what sets the book apart is its constantly apologetic, overly paranoid tone.

It is, of course, appropriate that the book should dwell on Rogers's overwhelming self-doubt and the intense negative impact it had on seemingly every aspect of his life, both personal and professional. I don't fault the authors for making these emotions a central part of the book; to the contrary, I applaud them for at least attempting to rise above the tone of constant joyous celebration that can leave those of us who struggle(d) in similar situations feeling woefully inadequate. That is not, however, to say that the book offers a particularly pleasant- or even a particularly edifying- reading experience. Rogers's story feels real, but the editorial decision to make the negativity so inherent to the book's central voice results in a rather unpleasant reliance on on repeated and redundant complaints. The memoir may offer a realistic portrayal of Rogers's shifting emotions, but its constant defensive tone and ceaseless apologies tend to undermine the concluding message of hope and acceptance.

I hate to be so negative about the book, and it is somewhat refreshing to see a celebrity memoir that so honestly confronts its subject's deepest fears and faults. I can't imagine it was anything but agonizing for Rogers to confront the hyper-masculine world of professional sports on a daily basis throughout the formative years of his life. The book comes agonizingly close to meaningfully confronting some important issues, such as the distinction between those who use homophobic language and those who are actually homophobic (Rogers reports that many of the players who would casually employ the familiar epithets are now among his biggest supporters), but in his eagerness to please Rogers largely squanders his opportunities to place his experiences in a larger societal context. His perspective is certainly interesting, and valuable, and I have no doubt that the book will do a good deal of good for teenagers who (like myself at a younger age) might relate to much of Rogers's story. Regardless, even brutally honest memoirs such as this one must strike a balance between deification and demonization, a balance that this book fails to achieve. Coming Out to Play is an honest look at the inner turmoil that plagued a pioneer gay athlete, but the relentless focus on that turmoil makes it a rough and repetitive reading experience that casts its subject in an unnecessarily negative and shallow light.

Grade: B-

Book 42: Chop Chop

Chop Chop

Simon Wroe

If I'm being totally honest, I must confess to watching a healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) amount of reality television that involves cooking, and to a few employment experiences in the (very) low-rent end of the culinary world. This book, with its promised blend of sarcasm, profanity, and insight into London's culinary underworld, seemed like a good option for lighthearted, modern book to counter the more serious classics I've been reading in the past few weeks. Irreverent, Chop Chop most certainly is; as for the rest of it, I'm not quite convinced. It's clear from the first page, which kicks off a visceral description of a culinary process involving pork (not for the squeamish!), that Wroe intends to pull no punches, and indeed he doesn't. The language is unapologetically brutal as our protagonist-narrator- dubbed Monocle on account of his English degree- reluctantly joins the staff of a somewhat aspirational restaurant, The Swan, in Camden. Wroe immediately and convincingly drops readers directly into the world of high stakes restaurants, profane chefs, questionable sanitation practices, underpaid and mistreated assistants, and the underemployed.

It is here that Wroe truly shines. He offers an uncompromising, and quite unflattering, peek behind the curtain, and his kitchen is full of unsavory characters who are, despite the exaggerations that drive their descriptions, uncomfortably believable. The cursing may become a bit uncomfortably misogynistic and homophobic at times, but it does effectively create and maintain appropriate atmospherics and can largely be forgiven. The book does contain a few truly disturbing scenes that are, perhaps, a bit too amoral and upsetting, though I acknowledge that they are effective displays of a villain's utter depravity. Many of the book's punches are delivered with a dry, English wit that suits the book's somewhat bleak- yet strangely hopeful- outlook; there's some subtlety and craft at work, and the restaurant-based portions of the book establish and maintain a strong tone that carries the plot quite effectively. Add this to a lively ensemble cast that runs the gamut from the head chef's relentless cruelty to the sex-obsessed Ramilov and the aptly named, musical-loving Racist Dave, and it's a recipe for success. The book isn't, perhaps, as continuously funny as it aspires to be, but the restaurant parts offer a solid, evolving plot, interpersonal intrigue, and hijinks galore.

Wroe, however, aspires to more than satire, and these more lofty goals tend to derail, rather than strengthen, the book. Too much of the book focuses on Monocle's relentless (and annoying) self-doubt, and we witness too little change too late to salvage the story of his emotional maturation; readers are constantly a few steps ahead of him and can be forgiven for losing their patience as he remains stagnant for page after page. The book also suffers from uneven pacing and plot; somehow, it seems bloated despite its relatively small size (276 pages in my hardback edition), and it loses much of its momentum permanently after the first act. Though Wroe has Monocle's personal and professional stories to juggle, the family- and restaurant-centric chapters barely seem to influence each other and never achieve a proper sense of balance. The stories don't quite come together, despite the author's best intentions, and each thread's respective resolution leaves a lingering note of dissatisfaction. The novel is, by turns, appropriately and effectively humorous and serious, but it cannot quite reconcile its two moods.

Wroe also errs in making Monocle's narration a bit too self-aware, hinting that two of the book's major players have access to the text throughout its creation. Rather than offering readers this external commentary and context (with one notable, and successful, exception), Wroe filters their comments through Monocle, resulting in a sense of self-indulgence that adds nothing constructive to the book. The editors' impact is ambiguous at best, and Monocle's only clear indication of their influence is a statement blatantly ignoring it at the story's climax. Offering alternate perspectives could be a clever narrative trick, if the author made a legitimate attempt to do it, but as they are these references cheapen the novel and make it seem patently artificial- almost certainly the opposite effect than what was intended. Even more egregious are the author's constant reminders that Monocle is, in effect, writing an ex post facto memoir; the reader doesn't need to be told- repeatedly!- that the plot will thicken, the events will escalate, and things will get very interesting indeed. At some point, the story needs to speak for itself, and the author's lack of confidence inspires little in the reader. One gets the feeling that Wroe would do well to rely on his talents, which are many and evident, and not on his tricks.

Chop Chop is an interesting novel, but it is plagued by too many faults to be considered great; it ultimately suffers from its glut of good intentions. In attempting to write a coming-of-age story wrapped in a rollicking satire, Wroe loses the far more interesting plot at hand and creates a bit of a muddle. The characterization and satirical elements are often top-notch, as are many of the book's metaphors, and there are a few truly touching points of emotional resonance that betray the author's talents. Monocle's lingering guilt over his brother's childhood death, long past, feels viscerally real, as do the death's pivotal effects on the family, but at some point even these raw emotional observations become lost in the noise. In another novel, perhaps, they would ring clearly. Chop Chop contains the makings of a few good novels within it, but its ingredients never quite come together to make a satisfying dish.

Grade: B-

Book 39: Forest of Fortune

Forest of Fortune

Jim Ruland

This book is billed as a novel that tracks three individuals who are- in one way or another- down on their luck, laced with just a hint of the supernatural. It is, in fact, much more of the former than the latter, a hardboiled book without the mystery and a series of three loosely linked portraits that never quite come together as the author seems to intend. The premise- all three protagonists are linked to an Indian casino in the California desert- is solid, and it is clear that Ruland knows his way around the casino industry. But for all of his canny understanding of casinos and the various people who are drawn to them- whether by the lure of lady luck, desperation, or a bit of both or neither- Ruland isn't quite able to fully embrace the possibilities that his concept promises. Each of his three main characters is compelling in their own way, but they remain largely the same people throughout the book. Sure, things happen to them, and they wobble and waver like all people do, but each character's pivotal point comes far too late in the novel to provide a meaningful opportunity to engage with the ramifications of these realizations and events. Likewise, the supporting cast drifts in and out according to the author's whims, which do not always align with the book's own inertia; their personalities, along with the protagonists', lend the novel a gritty credibility, but their convenient appearances and disappearances often ring untrue. Ruland can't quite manage the distinction between showing and telling the reader about aspects of his characters' personalities, though there are certainly times when he admirably manages both.

Though the novel fails to arrive at the deeper, meaningful understanding of its characters that it seems to strive for, it is nonetheless compelling. Ruland's prose is well-suited to the novel he has written, neither too flashy nor too dumb and full of intriguing metaphors and refreshingly realistic dialogue in a variety of unique, distinguishable voices. Moreover, Ruland successfully juggles his three loosely related, but usually distinct, stories, displaying a remarkably keen intuition for when to drop one for another and when to move on. His use of a framing narrative comes off as a bit hokey and ultimately predictable, but it, too, fits into the structure of the book, appearing at its beginning, at its end, and between the four distinct sections; the main fault I found with it was an ending that not only predictable but also completely unconnected to the relevant character's narrative arc. This highlights the book's main fault: it has interesting characters and interesting plotlines for each of them, but fails to derive any deeper meaning; something is always just a bit out of reach.

Similarly, the novel teeters at the edge of fantasy but can't quite commit, much to my dismay. Whether or not there is actually some kind of spirit, malevolent or not, haunting the casino is beside the point; Ruland refuses to commit one way or the other, and the novel suffers for it. These are more than hints, and they occur to more than one character; surely it isn't too much to ask Ruland to actually go somewhere with the idea. The fantastic aspect, alas, becomes another unfulfilled promise as we watch Ruland's characters continue down their destructive paths. It must be said, however, that the book remains an enjoyable read despite its inability to be either entirely shallow or entirely deep. I tend to dislike books that refuse to decide what they are, but there are enough redeeming characteristics to Forest of Fortune that I didn't mind. Ruland's prose is remarkably visual and incredibly effective; I immediately felt immersed in the story and in its settings, which range from a beach-side suburb to a downtrodden trailer park in a downtrodden town to the flashy, but decaying, casino floor itself. The book displays Ruland's keen understanding of hard luck and his keen sense of humor, often wry and cynical but very well suited to the book and its characters. In the end, Forest of Fortune is a book that just is what it is: a well-developed, but ultimately shallow, portrait of the types of lost souls lured to the Thunderclap casino, with sufficient plot, prose, and themes that hint at- but don't quite showcase- the author's potential.

Grade: B-

Book 30: Deep

Deep: Freediving, Renegade Science, and What the Ocean Tells Us About Ourselves

James Nestor

I recently watched a documentary about freediving, so it seemed only natural that I should pick up this book when I saw it at the library. From his chosen subtitle to the book's final imagery, James Nestor certainly doesn't hold back: it is clear throughout that the author firmly believes that he has found a fundamental truth about humanity in his experiences in the water. Unfortunately, however, he's not quite able to convince his readers of the same fact. The book- which is part memoir, part pop science- is most compelling when Nestor dives deeply (ha) into a single theme, either his experiences observing and learning the art of freediving (which function as a framing device and connecting narrative) or any of the associated subjects he explores. The framing device- while clever- doesn't quite align with the general flow of the book, which intends to go ever deeper into the ocean, beginning with the surface and ending in the planet's deepest trenches (and reaching a penultimate conclusion with a section of greatly appreciated and cleverly titled "ascents"). Worse still, it is somewhat erratically deployed, showing up in odd places and unnecessarily breaking the reader's concentration, often without adding any clarification to the main text. Though Nestor's side subjects are appropriate to his subject- and do coalesce around the general theme of humans' connection to the ocean- he cannot always link them to his own journey deeper into the sea.

These subjects, including competitive freediving, undersea research at varying depths, and the languages of sharks, dolphins, and whales, usually align with the books' chapters- cleverly numbered at various relevant depths- but it sometimes takes Nestor a while to come around to his point, leaving readers somewhat adrift. Worse still, no one normalized the measurements in the book, particularly in the passages regarding freediving: in an astonishing editorial lapse, measurements morph from meters to feet at a whim; on at least one occasion the change occurred between two lines of otherwise unbroken text(!). This was as immediately disorienting as diving into the zero-gravity stasis of deep water must have been for the author, but I'm not sure that's exactly the feeling Nestor is attempting to evoke in his readers. These and other lapses led me to revisit several passages, and it sometimes feels like the book is comprised of individually minded articles loosely tied together- the book repeats several unimportant facts unnecessarily and seems to imply that the author's most pivotal foray into deep water was both an invitation extended to him and the result of his own organization. Whether it was one or the other is not important, but the confusion engendered by this kind of editorial sloppiness adds to the book's sense of casual choppiness.

All is not doom and gloom. Nestor's text functions as a decent introduction to several interesting and loosely interrelated topics, many of which are otherwise obscure to the general public. I was pleased to learn about a theory of the origin of life that has apparently gained traction since my last biology class, the incapacitating effects of sperm whale clicks, and numerous other points of interest. In the end, however, Nestor cannot resolve the tension between his quasi-spiritual exploration of his and other divers' connection to the water and the underlying science that implies such a connection for the rest of us. He establishes a loose hypothesis firmly and clearly only pages into the book, but never connects the dots, either overtly or subtly. He presents the idea, describes his personal experiences, introduces a few dimly related fields of scientific inquiry, and then concludes that humans must, as a matter of course, be somehow at home in the deep water. The opening chapters offer some promising hints of medical evidence to these ends, but the book never quite follows through, happy to hint at a theme but ultimately comfortable with its ever-divergent narrative forks.

It's somewhat disheartening that the book feels as disjointed as it does, because the author clearly has talent and passion in abundance. He dives with gusto into his subjects, once he decides to, and it is evident that the experiences he chronicles have deeply changed him. He has a few axes to grind, to be sure, but he is usually content to allow his obvious passion make his case for him, only occasionally sliding into awkward partisanship. Nestor's deeply personal writing and easygoing style convincingly invite readers into the world he evokes, and some of the writing is truly astonishing. I repeatedly found myself gasping for air after a particularly vivid description of being underwater, whether the experience was Nestor's, another diver's, or entirely hypothetical. At times I felt like I was drifting on the ocean with the author and the day's team of researchers or renegades, and I missed at least two bus stops while reading the book- not a small accomplishment given my propensity to become easily distracted and the book's own narrative faults. In the end, however, Deep is hampered by the author's enthusiasm, which cannot quite reconcile the promised narratives of his own discoveries, scientific progress, and a fundamental medical truth he never bothers to provide true, convincing evidence for.

Grade: B-

Book 21: Survivors

Survivors

Terry Nation

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

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

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

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

Grade: B-

Book 15: Amped

Amped

Daniel H. Wilson

Despite being somewhat disappointed in Robopocalypse, I decided to give Daniel H. Wilson's novel Amped a chance, as the premise seemed solid and the narrative structure more straightforward than in the previous novel. And indeed, Amped does have a blockbuster premise, delivered with Wilson's obvious knowledge and enthusiasm: what happens when people can get brain implants to control certain medical conditions, and how does our attitude change when those same implants directly impact intellectual abilities? At first, it seems as though Amped will engage these topics in a meaningful way, given the narrator's first-hand experiences with these brain-enhancing "amps" and the inclusion of invented primary source materials (such as excerpts from Supreme Court decisions, legislation, and speeches); unfortunately, however, it all starts to come apart with Wilson's inability to effectively juggle thriller-paced plotlines with his intended level of introspection. Readers are left with a book that sits uncomfortably between genres: never quite thrilling, but not consistently philosophical enough to be particularly intellectually engaging. This is a shame; the first chapters are engrossing and, though they employ some stereotypical clichés, there is enough inherent promise in the premise to encourage readers along. After all, there's no need to reinvent the wheel in every novel.

As the book proceeds, however, it loses sight of its philosophical implications and becomes disjointed in an apparent attempt to become more action-oriented. Never mind that Wilson, whose narrator is wonderfully aware of ethical ambiguity early on, drops a bombshell that, while not unexpected, is never really engaged philosophically. This creates a kind of abrupt shift in tone and expectations; rather than a thoughtful exploration of what makes humans, well, human, the novel is reduced to the level of a brainless shooter. What's worse, Wilson maintains the pretension of philosophical engagement throughout the book, making the narrator's occasional intellectual curiosity seem at odds his actions (and, indeed, the story he's in) and creating a book that's seemingly at war with itself. Thus, while the faux-historical documentation seemed like an effective way to deal with necessary and enriching exposition between the first few chapters, it serves only to break up clumsy, unresolved cliffhangers later in the book. Far too often, readers leave a chapter with the hero dangling metaphorically on the ledge of destruction, only to discover a dry (but usually passable enough) imitation of a news report on the opposing page, dispelling any suspense. To compound his sins, Wilson often fails to adequately return to the scene of the action; most of the later chapters' cliffhangers are resolved off-screen, so to speak, resulting in a thriller that isn't thrilling at its climax and a philosophical science fiction novel that refuses to deal with the most interesting implications of its central technology. In the end, despite a strong premise, an encouraging start, and a few moments of promise, Amped falls flat and is ultimately disappointing.

Grade: B-

Book 34: Mathletics

Mathletics: A Scientist Explains 100 Amazing Things About the World of Sport

John D. Barrow

In a way, everything kind of boils down to mathematics. As someone who is normally sports-crazed, and even more so in an Olympic year, the intersection of physics and human physicality is one that has always fascinated me. When I saw Mathletics, therefore, I needed no second look to immediately yank it off of the shelf. Within, I found a group of loosely related, not-at-all organized tidbits about math and its effects on aspects of numerous sports, a marginally disappointing collection that nonetheless lived up to its billing, if a bit too literally. It's unclear who Barrow's intended audience is, and his general audience may be put off by the complex mathematical calculations and "trust me" attitude. Surely more of the math could be put in layman's terms? The frenetic pace of the book doesn’t help much, either. Though Barrow's inclination to organize the book as a series of vignettes is appreciated, readers are whipped back and forth between types of questions and types of sports, never able to gain a foothold on the subject at hand before the next approaches. And, most disappointingly, the book minimizes the magic of sports and fails to capture the intangibles that make sports so enjoyable and unpredictable. Sure, this is a book about the hard math behind human achievement, but in execution it sucks more of the life out of the subject than may have been necessary. Chapters on certain subjects, such as the real weight of individual events in sports such as the decathlon and modern pentathlon, are enlightening and intriguing, but most of the book passes by in a flurry of numbers and variables, without many conclusions actually sticking in the reader's mind. Mathletics lives up to its billing, but it's a billing that sells the subject matter short, and one that might alienate the most interested readers.

Grade: B-

Book 10: Soccernomics

Soccernomics: Why England Loses, Why Germany and Brazil Win, and Why the U. S., Japan, Australia, Turkey- and Even Iraq- Are Destined to Become the Kings of the World's Most Popular Sport
Simon Kuper and Stefan Szymanski

Well, with a title like that, the authors are certainly making quite a few promises, aren't they? First of all, there's the direct allusion to Freakonomics, and the book certainly lives up to its predecessor's legacy, promising to shake up the World As We Know It but ultimately offering some suggestions born of both common sense (don't put your club on the revolving manager carousel) and heavily massaged, selectively applied data. Though Soccernomics does fall prey to many of the same pitfalls as its namesake, however, it is a worthwhile and interesting read, if not consistently engaging or as promising as its title suggests. More frustratingly than the nod to Freakonomics, perhaps, is the promise that herein lie the secrets of future United States dominance of international soccer- a point that is touched upon in the book's concluding chapter, sure, and alluded to throughout, but which becomes almost an afterthought, an inexcusable oversight when its promise comprises 21(!) words of the book's title. This ending actually becomes laughably anticlimactic, and illustrates how the authors, including a far-too-disappointing Simon Kuper, fail to adequately navigate through their sometimes interesting data, often interesting anecdotes, and insights intriguing and silly alike. After explaining their idea of examining soccer through data, they turn to a particular case study, England, in a move cleverly designed to appeal to their core audience. Though this makes sense in a way, and illustrates several aspects of the game that can be studied through data analysis, the chapter contains several allusions to later segments and ultimately feels out of place, particularly as the remaining chapters focus on specific trends or other aspects of the game, such as club teams and international teams.

Worse still, the authors fall into another trap executed so elegantly by their inspiration, and seem to be driven by a desire to prove points rather than to look through their data and see the revelations. This type of book celebrates the counterintuitive, and while that's admirable and, in many ways, often accurate, some bold assertions aren't so bold after all. Is it truly revolutionary to presume that, as European know-how spreads throughout the world, once averse nations such as the United States will warm to soccer? Moreover, the authors base large swaths of their analysis on a self-serving circle of proof. When studying the relative success of different nations, they swear by a metric that takes population, income, and number of international games played- and then use it to prove that those three variables account for success. Why those three, particularly when problems, such as the fact that nations in a weaker federation such as, say, the AFC, play each other more often than the European giants or Brazil? Sure, the United States underachieves based on these factors, but data cannot explain everything. And yet, maddeningly, though the authors acknowledge this, they routinely undercut their data with subjective analysis, which is fine if you're basing your conclusions on the data but which does not induce much confidence when data is supposed to reign unquestionably supreme. Perhaps, then, what the book proves is that, though numerical analysis might help fans understand soccer more thoroughly and help clubs or countries perform more efficiently, the world cannot be understood solely through anecdote or data. This anticlimactic realization on the part of the reader, coupled with the authors' inept organization, ignorance of their book's own title, and repetition of certain points, makes Soccernomics disappointing, perhaps not surprisingly.

Grade: B-

Book 9: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
Seth Grahame-Smith

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

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

Grade: B-

Book 50: And Then Things Fall Apart

And Then Things Fall Apart
Arlaina Tibensky

Now, I'm not- and never have been, really- the target audience for this kind of book, built on a teenage girl's angst upon finding her world falling apart absolutely at the seams, but while I respect the good writing and some of its specific insights, it mostly failed to make an impression upon me. Heroine Karina ("Keek") is a refreshingly honest, deep, and highly literate teenage narrator, but her annoyed tone very precariously straddles the line between justifiably upset and obnoxiously self-centered, and Tibensky seems unable to lift the narrative much beyond an uninteresting retelling of the frustrating events which, in turn, mar Keek's summer. There are touching moments, to be sure, such as a surprisingly revealing conversation between the teen and her grandmother, who herself knows disappointment and depression, but these seem to be fewer and further between than they should be in a novel devoted to psychological (re-?)discovery. And while the author's efforts at exploring the psychology of a fifteen-year-old are certainly to be commended, the story, such as it exists, unfolds at a positively glacial pace, and while the lack of chronology doesn't hurt the story, the order in which events are explored doesn't particularly seem to assist in Keek's character development, and the book feels less like an exploration than a litany of complaints, a meandering not-quite-rant that doesn't develop so much as stagnate. Clearly there is something more to the book, yet it remains inaccessible as readers trudge through surface-level comparisons between Keek's situation and her favorite book, The Bell Jar. The use of Plath's novel is odd, and while I don't begrudge the idea of an advanced teenager reading the book, I hardly think it's a popular pick for Tibensky's target audience, and something about the choice seems cloying and rings false. Though blessed with a strong-voiced narrator who is often insightful, as well as decent writing, And Then Things Fall Apart lacks narrative and character-building momentum, and just falls a bit short.

Grade: B-

Book 47: Steel and Other Stories

Steel and Other Stories
Richard Matheson

I often find short story collections fairly hit-and-miss, with a few gems, a few clunkers, and a bunch of stories that fall contentedly among the middle. This collection, however, seems to fall almost entirely within the realm of mediocrity, with nothing glaringly terrible but only a few hints of magic. The story selection seems a bit uneven and, at times, downright odd; while the collection displays Matheson's remarkable range with convincing attempts at science fiction, fantasy, and westerns, each morsel appears suddenly, and the effect can be a bit jarring when any two offerings are read in sequence without a break. Again, however, the failure is only partial, and the collection's last story, "Window of Time," while a bit awkward in itself, provides a fitting ending, tackling the emotional state of a man traveling through a window of time to his younger self. This kind of introspection pops up occasionally throughout the collection, most notably perhaps in "Steel" and rather frustratingly in "Dear Diary," which has an interesting core concept but which plays it as a joke rather than exploring its potential as a penetrating glance at contentment and desire. The twin themes are similarly dealt with at only a surface level in most other stories, with the exception being "Descent," an absolutely brilliant story that blows the remainder completely out of the water, excelling in ways that the other serious tales do not and achieving a complex emotional effect while taking a slightly different tack than the reader might expect. Here the simple language displays despite its simple fashion a complex longing, and a simple portrait expands to consider some elements of what makes humanity tick- all without desperate moralizing or the distinct thuds of the Obvious Hammer. The story, though brief, is achingly complete despite the plot's seeming irresolution, offering but requiring only few specific details, appropriately chosen and well-deployed.

Much of the collection, however, appears to consist of elaborate jokes- amusing, sure, but somehow pedestrian and often failing to achieve any kind of depth or greater meaning. While Matheson mercifully avoids the overt moralizing that would seem appropriate in a story such as "To Fit the Crime," it feels nonetheless a bit empty and fleeting, though cute. "The Wedding" and "The Splendid Source" suffer from the same ailments, with the former offering a tantalizing hint of meaning or even deeper humor, but sadly failing to capitalize on its own potential; the latter plays as a farce, but the satire misses the mark and the story just kind of exists, memorable and with some chuckle-inducing puns but sadly without actual substance. The most infuriating of these half-realized visions is "The Conqueror," an otherwise convincing western that seemingly aims to tackle the role of carpetbaggers in the Wild West, but which falls flat as an otherwise intriguing and well-written story abruptly ends in an entirely expected manner, rather than attempting a character study or even a particularly thrilling climax. The disappointment is almost palpable, particularly when other stories such as "The Doll That Does Everything" and "Lemmings" can come so close to actually exploring a theme, only to wade off into the expected and retain a surface-only level of interest. Aside from "The Descent," the only one that comes close is "A Visit to Santa Claus," which is well-constructed, offers unexpected plot twists, and maintains an effective air of clouded suspense until the expected, yet strangely effective, ending. Likewise, "Dr. Morton's Folly" demonstrates that even the sillier stories, meant to be digested quickly and only on a most basic level, can be filling without being base, a mark most often missed here. Much in a similar way, the majority of Matheson's stories entertain but fail to enthrall, the science fiction satisfying but rarely revealing, and Steel and Other Stories usually close to, but not quite hitting, the mark.

Grade: B

Book 17: Maurice

Maurice
E. M. Forster

Some novels easily stand the test of time; others, less so. But there is a third category of dated books, books that illuminate their chronological surroundings though they have become, in a sense, aged and difficult to relate to. Maurice, which traces the story of a homosexual man through pre-Great War England's traditional middle class life story, is not exceptional as a work of literature, but as a contemporary work focusing positively on homosexuality it exposes in ways retrospective literature cannot how this facet of one's personality affected life and love in a previous era. Unfortunately, this accident of nature is seen through the experiences of the titular character, a far less than loveable cad whose confusion is reasonable enough given his circumstances but whose personality is constructed with little consistency or care. Forster makes clear in an afterward that he originally had a clear picture of Maurice when he set out, but the most consistent aspect of his hero is a kind of petulance that does neither character, author, nor reader any favors. Maurice slips at will from being a raging dynamo to a tender lover, and emotional confusion alone does not elucidate or explain the behavior. That the main character is weak, impressionable, and distinctly nasty does the novel's difficult subject matter few favors, and indeed other characters come across just as poorly, though less acidic in nature.

One reason for this failure of Forster to create likeable characters is his reluctance to let events and conversations run their course. While writing axioms are generally to my distaste and are of course far from universal, there is no question that Forster's writing would improve considerably were he to relax his grip a bit and let the characters wander a bit. Maurice is a novel that tells without showing, and readers who are left one time too often to take the author's word for it can be forgiven for becoming frustrated with the entire enterprise. There are moments when the author's added insights are welcome and indeed serve to make poignant observations about the nature of love and about the way in which homosexuality was viewed in Forster's time; indeed, there are good times to be had in the novel and there are moments when the narrative drives ahead in an almost gripping manner. Inevitably, however, the author comes crashing back in, making his presence known and swooping in to save readers from the tedious task of construction a judgement of character for themselves. Buried within this overbearing authorial focus is an interesting novel about love and, if nothing else, an amusing story of self exploration and discovery that just manages to cut through the bluster and emerge both subtly and through Forster's less delicate efforts. The ending, even after a number of miscues and relentlessly uneven pacing, feels proper and retrospectively unites some elements of Maurice's character and love affairs despite coming after a particularly rushed portion of the plot. Overall, Maurice is, despite its faults, an interesting (if not entirely enjoyable) artifact of an era that is happily, if gradually, receding into the distance and provides insight into homosexuality and into love that remains relevant today.

Grade: B-

Book 20: The Nice and the Good

The Nice and the Good
Iris Murdoch

I fear that my response to this book is colored by the blurbs on its back, which promise an exploration of the difference between being nice and being good- an interesting distinction that does appear, however briefly, in the book. The man difficulty with this particular novel is that none of its characters, save for a pair of precocious and hilarious twins, are particularly likeable. The suicide mystery that provides most of the plot momentum (where the plot moves at all) is solved quickly and proceeds with little suspense. Indeed, the main cause for readers' uncertainty is the ever-changing coupling that simply fails to be interesting. Without any real appeal to readers, it is difficult to care about which of the characters are (shockingly!) in unrequited love or sleeping with one another. Even though they are clearly sketched and act understandably, it is simply impossible to care about the people who populate this novel. This meandering coupling and re-coupling and petty angst flows along until an absolutely ridiculous ending which, given the 300-odd pages that precede it, seems quite unlikely from this particular group of people. Filled with straightforward prose and simple, boring dialogue, Murdoch's writing is sufficient but not particularly illuminating or able to redeem the lull of the plot. The Nice and the Good isn't a terrible book, nor is it terribly interesting for either plot or philosophical reasons; it is, ultimately, more or less forgettable.

Grade: B-

Book 14: Songbook

Songbook
Nick Hornby

I take music very seriously, in that I cannot function without music accompanying me, whether it plays as I write my assignments or silently guides my walking patterns. I love talking about music and thinking about music and, occasionally, just basking in the glory that is the perfect Lady Gaga song. To read a book like Songbook seemed a perfect fit, and while Nick Hornby has clearly crafted a labor of love, the shades of pretentiousness that seep through the gushing prose overwhelm any sense of sheer joy this collection should have rightfully achieved. The essays in this book center on a number of pop songs that illuminate different aspects of the sensibilities of "pop" music and, in some of the more personal (and moving) essays, on his life. This writing is moving and powerfully conveys the importance of music to those who cherish it and who allow music to define and shape our views of the world. Hornby invariably stumbles, however, in attempting to justify his tastes. While this self-conscious love of undeniably pop (and often as un-hip as Rod Stewart) phenomena is unbiased, Hornby's continual need to defend his choices and showcase how truly hip he really is plagues the book. In nearly every essay, Hornby finds a way to name-drop some obscure group while frantically attempting to defend his love of the simple verse/chorus/verse structure of the everyday, brilliant pop song.

It is easy to understand why Hornby would feel overly defensive about his musical tastes; this is the man, after all, who gave us High Fidelity. Having spent an entire book discussing songs that move him despite being of a different kind of quality than, say, Mozart or even the usual critical darlings, Hornby then listens to the top ten Billboard albums of July 2001 and is insultingly dismissive of Destiny's Child and Alicia Keys, as well as all of the other artists. His broad dismissal of this music confirms the reader's building suspicions, nurtured gradually throughout the book, that Hornby is, despite his most forceful objections, a music snob. Simply put, if the song means something to him, it's wonderful; a song that does not impress him, however, cannot really have any merit. This revelation also retroactively colors Hornby's past selections, which are almost deliberately subversive and, on reflection, serve to create a sense of credibility to Hornby's music taste. At its end, the book reads more like an extended apology than a love letter, a carefully calculated argument to provide the author with hipster credibility as he claims to embrace that which is lowly and popular.

This pretentiousness ultimately pervades the essays to an extent where it is far easier to deconstruct Hornby out of this book rather than construct a fresh understanding of the merits of pop songs. Though there are some wonderful song recommendations in this book and some intriguing insights into the ebb and flow of popular genres and movements throughout the years (Hornby writes with an understanding of context that illuminates his essays), Hornby's self-consciousness ultimately overwhelms the book's more literal content notes. The autobiographical notes within these essays are more often self-serving than honest, and even the interesting historical notes are presented with a holier-than-thou air of all-knowing. Songbook is a tribute to a series of important songs and moments that have influenced Nick Hornby, and there are some insights into the history of pop culture and, indeed, critical dismissal thereof that are worth finding (particularly Hornby's assertion that critics may be more effective when they are actually fans of the artist in question). Despite two passing mentions of Hanson that defend them as a worthwhile listening enterprise (which I wholeheartedly support), Songbook falls prey to the air of pretentiousness that so often clouds memoirs, essays, and music criticism.

Grade: B-

Book 10: Rock Bottom

Rock Bottom
Michael Shilling

Blurbs are usually somewhat uninformative, simply self-serving little sentences praising a work. The information available on the cover of Michael Shilling's Rock Bottom, however, is quite revealing, including blurbs from colleagues at Michigan and proclamations that, due to the fact that he was once in a Rawk Band, Shilling Totally Gets It, Dude. While there is certainly a can-do spirit about the novel, which chronicles the awesome rise and demise of a four-piece joke outfit, the over-eagerness and author's desperate search for credibility are its most striking aspects. Yes, more striking than the constant over-the-top attempts to gross-out the audience (really, the bass player's eczema is overplayed) and his brave (and annoying) attempt to use the word "fuck" in every single sentence of his book. It's very easy to see what Shilling gets wrong, from hopelessly stereotypical characters to the clear fact that the book is obviously a Mary Sue-type experience for its author, but there is some talent throughout. Shilling takes five characters who loathe each other and alternates the narrative's perspective to make each of them, except for the bass player, Bobby, more or less sympathetic in a matter of minutes. This ambiguity is the truest chord struck by the novel, which shows many sides of a situation without calling undue attention to the fact that it's doing it.

Overall, however, it's hard to really appreciate this novel. Interesting enough and with its moments of wit (and occasional good digs at showbiz), Shilling's authorial flaws simply draw too much attention to themselves. Constantly referring to his characters as "the singer" or "the guitar player" in places where names or pronouns would be more than sufficient, Shilling comes off as pretentious, an air echoed when he mangles the renegade sex-maniac drummer's Coming of Age experience. The author's desperate desires to be at once Very Cool and Hip and a Good Writer collide often in this novel, with hilariously wrong depictions of the world of rock and roll, particularly a party scene so disjointed that it seems nearly impossible Shilling has ever been to a party in his life. Strangely, however, despite its structural flaws and obvious wannabe attitude, Rock Bottom is oddly compelling. Shilling does bring to life a cast of characters who are, despite their typecasting, interesting enough to follow around Amsterdam for a day. Rock Bottom has its moments of great humor and insight, and deftly handles its multiple perspectives. This book may be laughably far away from the real thing, but there are glimpses of wit and talent and, overall, the ride isn't so bad...until the hangover.

Grade: B-

Book 6: Overclocked

Overclocked: Stories of the Future Present
Cory Doctorow

If there is one thing to be said about Cory Doctorow's fiction, let it be said that the reader is never unsure where he stands on the ethical issues he presents in his stories. From Little Brother to "Anda's Game," Doctorow draws a clear line in the sand regarding technology and digital rights. This convinction is usually admirable, but Doctorow's relentless optimism also makes his stories a bit less powerful and prevent them from packing an adequate punch, invariably becoming an unbelievable, deus-ex-machina with sunshine and a smile. This is not to say, for example, that system administrators could not rebuild a world riddled with a cacophony of simultaneous terror attacks (as in "When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth"), but that a story with some wonderfully dark moments does not automatically require a happy, pleasant ending. Doctorow's stories are compelling and feature intriguing plotlines involved the increased ability of nations and corporations to wage "infowar," but occasionally he allows his personal convictions to overwhelm the story, much to its detriment. This effect is most pronounced in "After the Seige," an otherwise moving picture of slightly futuristic lopsided warfare; though his introduction makes his allegorical ambitions clear, the reasons for the seige are presented in a fashiion reminiscient of name-dropping. Doctorow wants Overclocked and "After the Seige" to reflect something, dammit, even if he has to awkwardly cram it in.

This tendency toward the Obvious Hammer is unfortunate, because there are many interesting ideas explored and alluded to throughout the book. "Printcrime," for example, is a well-executed and brief allegory for digital content copying that actually works; instead of torturing a tangentially related plotline, Doctorow allows the technological exploration to drive the plot and, together, they create an excellent little story. "Anda's Game," likewise, manages to avoid the overly-saccharine for the bulk of its story, setting up such an interesting and obvoiusly allegorical situation that the more subjective insertions actually take away from the strength of the plot, which in this case can be trusted to stand on its own (though perhaps with some more believable dialogue). "I, Row-Boat," however, lacks some of this drive and doesn't quite accomplish the depth of meaning it aspires to, due likely to under-explained mental developments that hamper understanding. The centerpiece of Overclocked, "I, Robot," provides an excellent representation of the collection as a whole. Riffing successfully on Asimov and a bit too dramatically on Orwell, the story argues for the freedom of all information to the detriment of both the plot and the argument: it's just too sickly sweet, too perfect, to be believable. This, then, is the fundamental world of Overclocked. Cory Doctorow has many brilliant ideas and fiery opinions, but is unable to successfully utilize short fiction as a platform on which to advocate for them.

Grade: B-

Book 44: Soon I Will Be Invincible

Soon I Will Be Invincible
Austin Grossman

In a world where superheroes are real, it's incredibly difficult to step away from the shadow of the impossibly bright Watchmen, and though Soon I Will Be Invincible has some failures of its own, it does an excellent job of positing a modern-day superhero populace that is quite distinct from the caped crusaders of its predecessor. Grossman is to be commended for the ideas behind this book, the way he has initially constructed his world and his development of an X-Men-like theory of the superhero, where heroes are made by industrial accidents or the hands of men. Likewise, he deploys deft narrative skill in alternating the narrative between the world's most evil and most brilliant supervillain and that of a young cyborg just joining a recently rebooted superteam set on finding one of their own. Grossman thinks out the powers he gives to his superheroes and villains and it is obvious he has put serious thought into developing an extensive set of extras, often mentioned only briefly enough to prove to the reader that, yes, a human with those powers was conceived. This unfortunate sense of bravado pervades the book at times and leads to unnecessary and boring info-dumps, perplexing because they seem to have nothing at all to do with the narrative world.

While it is not unusual to construct an alternate history with superheroes, or one with aliens (who show up in this novel, to no small amount of reader confusion), one simply cannot just throw these elements into the World As We Know It and expect it to turn out the same. The book is alternate history, kind of, but it's more like our exact world except, wait, there were superheroes in it. I mean, it isn't necessary to take the heroes to the Vietnam War, but it's naive and jarring to expect that there were no major changes after it became obvious to the world that superpowered humans existed; you'd think at least the popular culture references, while cute, would change after the tenth time Dr. Impossible tried to take over the world. It is here that Grossman's book fails, utterly and completely; this is a shame because the book itself is interesting and fun. The heroes and villains are compelling and Dr. Impossible is amazingly rendered in 3D prose that puts the reader firmly in his corner, only to switch sides when almost-as-compelling Fatale plays narrator for a chapter. Sure, Grossman relies on some over-used cliches (the cyborg has an identity crisis, the villain was unpopular in high school), but these and the main support characters are interesting and do the job.

Even the plot of the book is different and intriguing, owing mostly, I think, to its unconventional narration. Readers are placed in the awkward position of rooting for both Good and Evil but are moved smoothly from one side to the other; I was personally rooting for Dr. Impossible but there is still a part of me that wants to be sure Fatale ends up okay as well. Dr. Impossible is, in fact, quite the nuanced character, and his constant insistence on taking over the world becomes a moving mantra about the power of perseverence instead of mere evil designs. I quite like him, in fact, but he alone cannot carry the book. The magical gimmicks are hastily and clumsily portrayed, though a few relics and technologies function well and seem to belong in this world; most impressive and coherent are the origin story for hero CoreFire and Dr. Impossible's latest Doomsday Device, which are hilariously over the top and straight out of Bond. The actual physical fights are the most believable elements, with the superheroes squaring off and showcasing their powers for the camera, as well as a particularly moving sequence in which Dr. Impossible conceives the best possible prison for each Champions member. The problem is that the world is too inconsistent and there are far too many extraneous elements: why the mysterious magic and the alien hybrids? Where are the aliens now? Why is the world exactly as we know it though it has been shaped by magical devices throughout and superheroes since at least the 1940s? These problems, along with some shoddy and clumsy writing, plague the narrative and, while the book is fun, it is far from well-written. Soon I Will Be Invincible means well and nails some elements while failing spectacularly at others; it is a novel of great ideas and a great climactic act but too little overall thought to be even fairly good.

Grade: B-