Book 27: Roll the Bones

Roll the Bones: The History of Gambling

David G. Schwartz

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 26: The Lie

The Lie

Helen Dunmore

It is no surprise, perhaps, that the First World War's centenary has occasioned the release of a glut of novels and other books examining what is, in the United States at least, a largely forgotten war. Yet as Helen Dunmore shows in The Lie, the war has always been balanced precariously between the realms of memory and willful forgetfulness. This is a thoughtful, deliberate book that wanders from plot point to plot point, caring not so much about what happens as it does about how the few things that do happen affect the war-addled narrator, a British veteran who neither peacefully lives with nor seems particularly keen to discard the memories that continually haunt him. It's as though Daniel Branwell is still caught out in no man's land as he attempts to settle back into life in his native Cornwall; the sights, sounds, and the smells of the war continue to swirl around him as he drifts in and out of consciousness and connectedness with his actual surroundings. The book constantly shifts between past and present, usually without prelude or warning, but the changes are slow and subtle, provoking only a gentle disorientation that softly places readers into Daniel's shoes. The resulting sense of general aimlessness suits the book in the end, I think, although it can make for rough going at the beginning, which provides little indication that the story will build toward anything at all. Yet the story does build, as Daniel slowly comes to confront more and more elements of his past both before and within the context of the war, and it picks up pace nicely as it rolls toward a conclusion that seems sadly inevitable, though cathartic for reader and narrator alike.

This isn't a book about what happens so much as it is a book about what has happened, a subtle difference born out of a modern understanding of the effects of shell-shock. Despite this somewhat modern sensibility, however, the book usually feels appropriate to the immediate postwar period and, more importantly, to its rural setting, which provides ample room for contemplation. Dunmore's poetic prose blurs the lines between Daniel's alternate realities, her words bobbing in and out of both worlds as Daniel does, enhanced (but not pretentiously) by well-chosen quotations from the likes of Arnold, Byron, and Coleridge. Daniel's reluctance to make his presence known is echoed by the book's slow burn, as is his (very) slow reintroduction to some of the people he previously half-knew and the reader's gradual appreciation of the past that weighs so heavily on Daniel. Dunmore is (mercifully) confident enough in her abilities to allow the book's nuances to flow and to speak for themselves, allowing for an organic glimpse into the minds of those who went away and those who survived, both in the trenches and at home. The residents of Daniel's hometown seem themselves torn between deep- yet intensely private- depression and a kind of unemotional avoidance that can only be intentional.

The book may seem unassuming, focusing as it does on one man's experiences in a sparsely populated corner of England, but as it explores the ability of trauma to forever alter the mind, it takes on a larger scope. It is not only Daniel Branwell's story that we are reading; it is the story of any number of the millions whose lives were shattered so thoroughly by a phenomenon so deeply beyond the realm of comprehension that willful ignorance almost seems a justifiably sane way to attempt to deal with it. What results is a deeply poignant book about love and loss without any of the bombastic overtures that often undermine similar attempts to come to grips with the effects of war. The book stays rooted to its small-scale story and, in doing so, somehow comes to represent the whole. Daniel's relationship with his best friend Frederick, which drives the book, is at once unique and universal, as is Daniel's desire to do justice to Frederick long after the decisive moment has passed. So, too, is his subsequent attempt to find solace in the company of Frederick's sister, Felicia, who suffers herself from the knock-on effects of love and loss. But there is no peace to be found, it seems, in a world so profoundly changed from the one they knew before

The book might thus be unsatisfying to some, meandering along as it does without offering any solace of its own, but it feels so real and so true, hinging on the small regrets and white lies that can slowly, but easily, come to overpower an individual human spirit. It is unclear which of its many untruths comprises the book's titular lie, but perhaps this refers, instead, to the falsehood whose effects permeate every page of the novel, the unspoken promise that Daniel and the world alongside him could somehow return to a life where the trenches seemed impossible, the realities of the war too horrific to contemplate. Instead, they returned with the scent of French mud lingering in their nostrils, with ghosts whose presence is at once welcome and disconcerting, with futile hope born out of desperation. In the end the lies- all of them- catch up with Daniel, and there is but one way forward. The Lie is an elegantly crafted, if occasionally slow-moving, glimpse into the effects of war, a subtle exploration of love, loss, and the world the Great War left in its wake.

Grade: A

Book 25: The Oxford History of Board Games

The Oxford History of Board Games

David Parlett

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

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

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

Grade: B+

Book 24: The Amazing Harvey

The Amazing Harvey

Don Passman

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

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 23: Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Thomas Sweterlitsch

I'm a sucker for a good apocalypse story, and when I picked up Tomorrow and Tomorrow, knowing that that it hinged on a post-nuclear Pittsburgh, I expected that that's what I was going to get. Instead, I ended up reading a very well conceived blend of cyberpunk and mystery, with a bit of dystopia thrown in for good measure. Though the novel is ultimately driven by a suitably winding plot and effective emotional angst, its core lies in its wonderfully lifelike, fully realized setting, where a constantly connected society accesses an invasive, ad-laden Internet directly through brain and corresponding retinal implants. Other aspects of this near-future society include the aforementioned bombed-out Pittsburgh, an overly cynical (and cynically overplayed) extrapolation of reality TV trends, and a characteristically dystopian political structure. Yet despite the familiarity of these near-future tropes, Thomas Sweterlitsch somehow manages to create a meaningful society that reflects and expands upon our own while enhancing the story at hand and allowing for natural character development. Hero Dominic's fascination with archived images of pre-bomb Pittsburgh, available to refugees, researchers, and curious outsiders alike, is more than an info dump about the types of technology available in this imagined future (and, likewise, more than a not-so-subtle statement about our own increasing use of surveillance in purely civilian contexts); it exposes a crucial element of his character and allows him to be sympathetic, frustrating, and all-too-familiarly human. One cannot rightfully accuse Sweterlitsch of being a master of subtlety, but Tomorrow and Tomorrow contains enough nuance and fresh ideas to balance its bludgeoned stereotypes.

Even the plot carefully- and successfully- straddles this line. It is at times unclear whether characters (and readers alike) have plunged into a murder mystery, political conspiracy, or techno-thriller, and some seemingly played-out tropes are happily undermined (or at least counteracted) throughout the book. Whether this is intentional or not is up to debate, but what remains is a novel that is enjoyable despite its reliance on a number of well-worn ideas and twists. That said, however, the book does fail to thoroughly engage and/or expand upon many of the ideas within. This isn't a problem of over-saturation; though the book is packed with ideas, they all jive, with the exception of the weird way that irrelevant brands permeate the narrative. They only rarely provide insights that are nonetheless immediately undermined by the relentless, pointless parade of mentions that precede the few relevant points. Likewise, seasoned readers may shrug at yet another book that attempts to exploit a perceived societal descent into increasingly depraved tastes; while this kind of commentary is welcome and certainly not wholly irrelevant, it can be difficult to accept a society that begins to rate the "fuckability" of murder victims as soon as their mutilated bodies are discovered (though Sweterlitsch must be commended for absolutely nailing the word choice on that one). There are other times, however, where yet another overripe trope leads in an unexpected direction, usually without the author beating it to death either in its appearance or in its ultimate change in direction.

Perhaps most disappointing is the book's failure to provide the kind of emotional resonance than it should. This is partially due to uneven plot pacing, where thinly masked foreshadowing and subplots disappear long enough to distract readers but reappear too quickly to be true surprise sleeper elements, and to too-frequent deployment of world-building. While the world of Tomorrow and Tomorrow is rich, it is unclear where certain plot threads are supposed to lead; why, for example, make damaging insinuations about the government without properly following through? While the last thing the genre needs is yet another dystopian book pitting One Normal Guy (or, of late, One Normal, Insecure Teenage Girl) against the Evil Government, the novel's brief, implied appeal to Greater Stakes is, in the end, a disappointing feint dismissed out of hand at the conclusion, which itself is too quick, relies too heavily on implications, and still strangely drawn out. Even more egregiously, the relationship between survivors and those they lost in the bombing- which unquestionably forms the emotional core of the novel and allows it to resonate- becomes almost an afterthought at the end. The effect is to transform a profound novel about the power of loss into yet another thriller that happens to be set in the future.

Thus, Tomorrow and Tomorrow is defined to a large extent by a number of missed opportunities: I firmly believe that there is a truly great novel, perhaps a classic, hiding in here somewhere, though it seems we must settle (for now) for a satisfying book that shows the great promise of its author (who is, it bears mentioning, a first-time novelist). It is often easier to notice and dissect aspects of books that fail, but I feel like this does a bit of a disservice to Sweterlitsch, who by and large manages the complexities of his near-future quite deftly. He manages to effectively unite several genres without adhering too strictly to the expected and without becoming bogged down in any of them, and his characters are as compelling and complex as his setting. There is so much inherent and unassuming promise in this book, which comes tantalizingly close to providing meaningful, transcendent explorations of the depths of loss, love, and forgiveness for the unforgivable, and I eagerly anticipate the author's next foray into fiction. That said, Tomorrow and Tomorrow still falls slightly short of the mark, providing a compelling future setting, compelling characters, and a compelling plot, but failing to fully capitalize on the emotional power that lies somewhere within its core.

Grade: B+

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

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

Ian Mortimer

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

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

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

Grade: B+

Book 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 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 19: The Giver

The Giver

Lois Lowry

The Giver is undoubtedly my favorite book of all time, and it has been since I first read its incomparable final sentence. I revisited it after a long absence after reading a number of articles about the recent movie adaptation and I was, as expected, just as enthralled as I was as a preteen in the late '90s. The movie that runs in my own head is the same as the one I first envisioned so long ago, the characters as familiar to me as any from the books I've read more recently. As with most books that completely blow you out of the water, it's hard to say what, exactly, it is that makes The Giver so great, both as a gateway book into the world(s) of dystopian fiction and as a novel in its own right. Upon reflection, I think that the great power of the book lies in its simplicity, which sets it apart from the glut of similar stories. There is something to be said for the subtle cruelty Lowry's imagined community of Sameness and the way she presents it; who is the story's villain when it seems that the people have done this to themselves? More importantly, though, would the people make the same choice if they knew that they even had a choice to make in the first place? Lowry's great talent is that she writes accessible fiction for preteens and young teenagers that doesn't shy away from tangled ambiguities that are capable of tantalizing an adult mind accustomed to such stories, worlds, and problems.

Unlike many of its peers, The Giver doesn't rely on excessive moralization or on polarized views of Right and Wrong; though we have a hero in Jonas, it's not quite clear who the villains should be, or if they are even to blame for their misdeeds. More importantly, Jonas is a relatable dystopian hero, a boy of twelve who acts like a boy of twelve might in a similar situation, reflecting a younger readership's desire to file things neatly away despite the real world's reluctance to be so easily compressed and understood. As he experiences the greater complexity of the world beyond all that he has ever known, Jonas tends to approach problems first as black and white (ha), though they are always far more complex than the easiest, most comfortable conclusions might suggest. Lowry balances Jonas's (and the reader's) shoot-from-the-hip assumptions with the Giver's hard-earned wisdom, which forces Jonas (and reader alike) to fully appreciate the difficulty and depth of the problems he confronts. Rather than presenting a dystopia with a clear sense of good and bad and ugly, she writes about a future world that is just as messy as the one we currently occupy. Lowry's not one to pull punches, either, and the book includes fully realized depictions of physical and emotional pain, to say nothing of heart-wrenching tales of Release and examples of Jonas becoming quickly ostracized from his community, forced to play a role that is unexpectedly thrust upon him.

I think a large part of the book's greatness and a the fundamental reason for the enduring impression it has left on many readers is Lowry's refusal to condescend to her readership and her reliance on- and trust in- her readers' intelligence. The book's community is defined not with the broad strokes of expository authorial meddling but rather with a careful use of language and real-time examples. It is no accident that the book opens with Jonas carefully distinguishing fear and apprehension, and even when linguistic mishaps are played for laughs they reveal much about the way the characters- and the communities around them- operate. The language Jonas, his family, and friends use explains so much about the way they (have been taught to) view the world around them, and it offers even young readers quick and easy insight into the community's values and structure. And, importantly, our introduction to the community is as pleasant as Jonas's; on some level, it does seem like a pleasant place to live, again unlike the easy-to-hate hells that populate similar books.

If, then, the great strength of The Giver is the ambiguity that fuels its world-building, character development, and plot, there is no greater testament to its genius than its final sentence. It is a haunting, piercing piece of prose that so perfectly encapsulates all that came before it, though it alternately leaves the impression of the happiest and most tragic possible outcomes. Within the context of the book alone, it is, after all, impossible to know what really happened to Jonas, and each of the most popular interpretations offers a satisfying conclusion. Whether or not this final ambiguity is as intentional as the other examples found throughout the book, it is as fitting a conclusion as I've read, up there with (but existing as a sort of counterpoint to) the eerie finality of 1984's parting words. I don't for a minute believe that it is literary nostalgia alone that draws me back to this book time and again; perhaps its great power lies in the careful weight of every incident, every example, every carefully chosen word, or perhaps it is the book's unflinching devotion to hard truths and its resulting emotional core that drew me in and keep me there. Perhaps it is something else entirely. Regardless, it is, and remains, my perennial favorite. For me, The Giver simply is, as it always has been...back and back and back. 

Grade: A

Book 18: All the Light We Cannot See

All the Light We Cannot See

Anthony Doerr

I just finished this book moments ago and, while I'm sure that I loved it, I'm not quite sure what can be said about it; after all, I usually hate books like this, books that so prize style that plot falls by the wayside, forgotten. Not so with All the Light We Cannot See, in which Anthony Doerr proves that high-minded, poetic prose is, in fact, quite compatible with a compelling plot, fully realized characters, and the numerous other qualities that make the best novels rise above the remainder and lodge themselves permanently in your brain. Immediately after finishing this book, I wanted to pick it up and begin all over again, to lose myself again in Doerr's haunting prose that so perfectly captures both the depth of the darkness that fell over Europe in the 1930s and 1940s and the small beams of hope, of humanity that somehow managed to shine through, however tenuous their gleam. All of the standard clichés apply here and words like "transcendent" wouldn't seem ill-applied to this novel, whose lyrical, haunting prose lingers in my mind. Every sentence is a poem, yet, unlike so many other books with similar aspirations, the words combine to conjure characters the reader can care about and a plot that provides the story with essential motion, particularly through the use of carefully weighted cliffhangers.

All the Light We Cannot See could go wrong in so many ways, but somehow Doerr manages to use every potential pitfall to his advantage. Though book's brief chapters quickly alternate between Nazi Germany and pre- and post-occupation France, the twin stories are easy to follow, anchored firmly by the use of integrated flash-forwards to (or perhaps flashbacks from?) a few pivotal days in August 1944, which provide the novel's emotional and thematic climax. Time progresses at uncertain intervals, racing along and stalling at the author's whim, but Doerr provides just the right amount of context to keep everything from running together. Perhaps Doerr's most remarkable feat is his successful deployment of present-tense prose; though the book begins in 1944 and looks backward and forward and backward again, every moment feels suspended in its own time- aided, no doubt, by the sheer poetic weight carried by every word. I cannot say for certain how the risky narrative choice achieves its desired effect, but somehow the tense of urgency slows this story down and allows readers to be present in every moment.

Fundamentally, what Doerr has done in All the Light We Cannot See is not new- it is a World War II story that places the fundamental question of morality at its beating center, looking deep into the heart of a Wehrmacht soldier's path to France and at a young Parisian refugee's experiences on the Brittany coast- but somehow every page bears revelations that somehow feel new despite decades of literature exploring and re-exploring seemingly every aspect of the war. The twin themes of light and darkness are further illuminated by Doerr's rather blunt decision to make one of his main characters medically blind and his far more subtle explorations of willful blindness; wisps of metaphor are planted throughout the book, stronger than suggestions but mercifully left for the reader to discover and parse. Even the book's more cliché elements become new again in Doerr's hands, and the remarkable coincidence that ties the book's disparate threads together seems perfectly suited for an era so adequately defined by the thoroughness of its chaos.

All the Light We Cannot See contains elements of this chaos but is grounded and ordered by its author's formidable literary talents. Even after trying to rationalize my complete and utter fascination with this book and the trance it held over me, I can't say what, exactly, makes the book succeed. Even an ending that feels drawn out and unnecessarily (if not quite garishly) sentimental against the backdrop of the rest of the novel failed to break the hold it had (and even still has) over me. At its core, the book is a war novel that is deeply concerned with human kindness but that overcomes the base sentimentality that often chokes similar forays into the redeemable aspects of the human spirit; it is a quick-moving story told at an elegiac pace, ruminating and demanding careful attention as it moves readers forward; it is the embodiment of what literary fiction aspires to be while remaining accessible; it asks readers to consider the big questions but is never for a moment condescending. And, most importantly, All the Light We Cannot See possesses that bit of literary magic that somehow obscures the source of its greatness.

Grade: A