Book 38: Kitchen Confidential

Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

Anthony Bourdain

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

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

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

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

Grade: B

Book 37: All Involved

All Involved

Ryan Gattis

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

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 36: Upgraded

Upgraded: A Cyborg Anthology

Edited by Neil Clarke

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

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

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

Grade: B

Book 35: The Sculptor

The Sculptor

Scott McCloud

I'm always on the lookout for good graphic novels to read, and I was sold on this one as soon as I heard that it was a Faust story; that Scott McCloud is not only acclaimed for his knowledge of comics but is also the author of Zot! (which I loved) seemed especially serendipitous. While my personal reaction to this book isn't quite as rapturous as others' seem to be, I enjoyed McCloud's take on the typical Faustian bargain and his explorations of the meanings of (in no particular order) love, art, and life. He deserves significant credit for his successful efforts to refresh the old trope; though the basic architecture of the typical life-for-art trade is sturdy, as expected, the story often veers in unexpected directions, to say nothing of a painful pair of final twists that had me in tears as I returned to the office from a lunch break. Though The Sculptor represents, in many ways, an artist's meditation on the meaning, purpose, and effects of artistic creation, McCloud never becomes aggressively sentimental or philosophical; rather, he slyly works his way into the reader's consciousness, posing questions without stating them outright and, in the process, offering a refreshingly non-pedantic take on an ancient theme.

McCloud also puts his knowledge of graphic storytelling to good use, as the artwork consistently reinforces the story's themes. The dull color palette, which relies heavily on grays and washed-out blue hues, effortlessly establishes the novel's mournful tone while subtly reinforcing the notion that nothing about its many themes is black and white. Occupying the dual roles of writer and illustrator, McCloud utilizes innovative layouts that help guide the reader without overburdening the book with unnecessary words. That one character, for example, often finds herself outside of thick panel boundaries effortlessly illustrates something profound about her personality and her impact on the other characters. Though some of the art can revert to the simplistic side of the spectrum, particularly in large-scale set pieces, The Sculptor contains the most powerful image I have encountered in a graphic novel, splayed clay perfectly capturing the dynamic moment where the artist, having made a pact with personified Death, first fully embraces his newfound ability to mold the physical world exactly to his wishes.

The temptation may be great to treat all Faust stories with the same moralistic touch, but McCloud uses the main architecture of his plot as a springboard, eschewing the usual questions for philosophical explorations of the meaning of art and creation. The book carries with it a certain inherent poignancy, enjoyable on many different levels of intellectual and emotional engagement; I even enjoyed the somewhat ambiguous ending, which lingered far beyond the final page and still haunts me. The book works on its literary and artistic levels, embodying McCloud's esteem for the graphic novel on every single page; here is an artist devoted to his craft, his passion evident in the book's story, art, and themes. The Sculptor provides a compelling vision of the power of graphic storytelling and should appeal to longtime fans and newcomers who are intrigued by the genre's many possibilities.

Grade: A

Book 34: The Girl on the Train

The Girl on the Train

Paula Hawkins

For what are probably decent reasons, given some of the recent prospects, I often find myself hesitant to read the it book of any particular moment. When The Girl on the Train kept relentlessly popping upon my radar, however, I finally checked out a summary; this convinced me to cast aside my doubts and read the book as a thriller, if not exactly as a blockbuster publishing sensation. I was surprised (but no less impressed) by Hawkins's mastery of the form, from her succession of compelling narrators- each less reliable than the last- to the consistent suspense that kept me eagerly reading from start to finish. Despite choosing a fairly predictable crime and criminal, she entangles her characters and readers alike in a dense thicket of red herrings and false leads, to the point where one feels that almost any character, however minor, could convincingly turn out to be the culprit (or, at the very least, complicit). The numerous false leads and partial clues would be maddening in less skilled hands, but Hawkins possesses an uncanny ability to become utterly absorbed in her characters' minds, to the point where the book is as much a series of complex character studies as it is a mystery or a thriller.

Though I am always a bit skeptical of books that rely on unreliable narrators (casting aside the obvious postmodern counterclaim that no narrative viewpoint is ever truly objective, either from the author or within the context of the story), I think it's reasonable to claim that The Girl on the Train provides a classic case study for the creation and effective deployment of these types of narrators. Main protagonist Rachel's instability and penchant for lying to herself (and readers alike) contribute to the novel's permeating air of suspicion and suspense, while driving and interfering with the plot. Her growing panic is often palpable to the point of being transferred to the reader, no matter how irrational, frustrating, and utterly realistic her alcohol-addled inferences and decisions become; its ever-present effect on her judgment, even in absentia, provides a compelling portrait of the destructive power of alcoholism, trading heavily on a brand of dramatic irony that heightens the suspense.

Hawkins provides clues only haphazardly, revealing background information at a deliberate pace that suits the characters and the story. As contrived as the narration may seem, in practice it is essential to the book's tone and, indeed, its success. Alternate narrators jump in at appropriate points, providing necessary alternate perspectives that enhance and confuse the reader's understanding, as necessary; most importantly, each stands out as distinct, playing against the others and forcing the reader to confront and challenge all previous assumptions. When combined with the chilling immediacy of the present tense, the effect is, at times, stunning.

While Hawkins may not surprise seasoned genre veterans with the book's resolution and, indeed, some of its more crucial plot points along the way, the premise is remarkably original, rife with opportunities that the author does not hesitate to take advantage of. That she manages to pose and explore deep philosophical questions about our relationships to others, and our propensity for erecting little fictions as our own personal scaffolding (who, after all, has not wondered, in passing, about the lives of those we encounter only at a glance?). Her authorial sensibilities and disposition are remarkably literary, and the novel is as well-written as its voice is well-conceived and well-executed, with a structure that not only fits but also enhances its story, a complete project and in sum, a remarkable achievement. I finished the book eager to read it again, feeling that foreknowledge would only enhance my experience of the book in future encounters. Surprisingly ambitious for a book of its kind and for its sudden ubiquity, The Girl on the Train proves itself to be a specimen of that all-too-rare species, a literary blockbuster that ultimately deserves all of the positive attention that it has garnered.

Grade: A

Book 33: The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

Edited by Laura Lippman

Given its consistent high quality, it's almost easy to forget just how good the stories in the annual Best American volumes actually are, even when their relative quality dips for a year or two. Though the 2014 iteration of The Best American Mystery Stories has its fair share of disappointments, including a general sense of unevenness and a potentially poignant absence of actual mystery stories, it does offer a solid selection of excellent crime-centric fiction. The collection's most striking feature, perhaps, is its aforementioned lack of procedurals and, with them, tales that rely on the procurement and decoding of clues, red herrings, and tidy solutions. Even the closest example, Nancy Pauline Simpson's "Festered Wounds", is more of a period piece with a gotcha ending than a proper narrative of detection. Like the other stories in this volume, it is concerned more with philosophical explorations of the myriad causes and effects of crime and criminality than with the particulars of a given event.

This is not, however, to say that these stories do not traffic in suspense, twists, or other traditional genre staples. Joseph Heller's "Almost Like Christmas" and Patricia Engel's "Aida" effectively establish and exquisitely exploit dramatic tension with nearly every word; similarly, Jim Allyn's "Princess Anne" provides a twist ending that is surprising and inevitable in equal measure. Charlaine Harris's "Small Kingdoms", a fun thriller with a wicked sense of ironic, dry humor, may be the collection's most pleasant surprise, coming as it does from an author associated heavily with quite another topic indeed. Most of the contributors do pay tribute, however subtle or unspoken, to the tropes and tricks of more traditional mysteries; these allusions are rendered in different shades of subtlety to varying degrees of success. Likewise, the lofty literary ambitions that are on full display in nearly every story are about as hit-and-miss as they are in less genre-inclined environments. While some authors are able to harness the raw power and indescribable beauty of a perfectly selected turn of phrase, others spend too much time mired in a search for meaning and theme and thus pay too little attention to the intricate details of characterization and plot that ultimately determine the success or failure of any given story- mystery or not. I often found myself craving more action- a criticism that would absolutely apply if I were merely expecting good stories without any preconceived expectations of content.

As refreshing as it is to see an anthology that rewards authors for exploring the literary possibilities of genre fiction, it may be a bit of a stretch to present this collection as a group of excellent mystery stories; rather, it collects excellent stories that deal, however tangentially, with crime. The distinction may seem trivial, but as this series comes ever closer to its parent it may prove to be a distinction well worth considering. Nonetheless, it is encouraging to note that, though they may not be the types of tales expected of such a volume, many of these stories could easily go toe-to-toe with other fiction, in any genre, for sheer quality; despite my qualms about the title's (in)accuracy, the fact that the distinction between the best short fiction and the best short mystery fiction grows increasingly ambiguous every year is, to my mind, a positive development that I hope to see resonate across other oft-maligned literary niches. Insofar as it does contain a selection of stories that revolve around crime and criminality, The Best American Mystery Stories 2014 is a satisfying book, though it may not quite deliver on the promise of its title in conventional ways.

Grade: B+

Book 32: Fiction River: Pulse Pounders

Fiction River: Pulse Pounders

Edited by Kevin J. Anderson

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

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

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

Grade: A-

Book 31: The Violent Century

The Violent Century

Lavie Tidhar

I have always found stories featuring alternate and parallel histories somewhat enticing, with their visions of a past that, despite being somewhat similar to our own, is not quite right. At their best, these stories open up worlds of alternate possibilities, asking and allowing us to reexamine the ways in which we affect the world around and beyond us. Lavie Tidhar's alternate 20th century, which he aptly terms the "Violent Century", hinges on the presence of Übermenschen, ordinary humans who acquire superpowers after a mysterious quantum event in the early 1930s. Though World War II and subsequent conflicts proceed more or less as expected, the book effectively utilizes narrative tricks to evoke a sense of chaos that parallels the effect of the century's many wars. With its short (and often punchy) sentences, shifting points of view, and occasional flirtation with first- and second-person narration, to say nothing of its constant time-jumping structure, The Violent Century often provides a sense of disorientation that, somehow, doesn't feel out of place. The book quickly settles into a pattern, of sorts, and though the framing narrative and other details occasionally get lost it delivers necessary information at a reasonable pace. The book certainly rewards lengthy spells of reading, as certain bits of information become easily forgotten or lost, but it is remarkably accessible given its inherent complexity.

Some events do seem to get lost, not the least of which is the appropriate character building necessary to lend the book's central relationships an appropriate level of plausibility. Tidhar is also prone to distractions; though his visions of the various superheroes' postwar ventures are as compelling as the depictions of World War II, it is not immediately clear how they are thematically relevant. Likewise, one character's deus ex machina appearance toward the book's climax comes across as incredibly disingenuous, given the vast possibilities offered by their unique abilities; it simply beggars belief that it would not have previously been relevant, even given the novel's chaotic narrative structure. The book is jam-packed with excellent and intriguing ideas, and Tidhar employs a deft hand in bringing them to life, but the book clearly has larger philosophical aspirations that it cannot quite live up to. The questions are posed, if meekly, but the reader is never able to properly consider the implications.

Nevertheless, the book's set pieces are so convincing and impressive that it succeeds on the level of pure entertainment, experimentation aside. From the snows surrounding besieged Leningrad to the steamy jungles of Laos and the concrete maze of September 11-era New York City, the set pieces match the best in the business. Even more impressive is Tidhar's ability to seamlessly weave his Übermenschen into the fabric of oft-studied history, creating a slightly altered world that is as utterly convincing as any that I've recently encountered. What the book lacks in philosophical depth it more than makes up for in pure spectacle, his alternate 20th century a mirror on our own that invites, even if not in a wholly satisfying manner, a fair share of reflection. The book is eerily plausible in the way that it interweaves real and imagined histories, and it is a shame that the characters and their relationships cannot quite match the book's base level of surprising realism. Even if the story is ultimately disappointing, the worldbuilding deserves utmost admiration. The Violent Century may not deliver on all of its aspirations or promises, but it does invite readers to carefully consider the nature of heroism and, besides, offers a compelling alternate history that at times feels far more real than the actual chain of events that led us to today.

Grade: B+

Book 30: Soccer and Philosophy

Soccer and Philosophy: Beautiful Thoughts on the Beautiful Game

Edited by Ted Richards

With the women's World Cup currently underway in Canada, I figured that now was as good a time as any to grab Soccer and Philosophy. Having read the series installment about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I had an idea of what to expect: a surprisingly successful blend of serious philosophy and pop-culture passion. This is, much to the editor's credit, precisely what the book delivers, with very few exceptions. Ted Richards balances a healthy number of heavily academic papers with more casual offerings, increasing the book's appeal to a broad audience; indeed, the myriad references to soccer's most famous personalities, teams, and games may provide a greater barrier to entry than similar references to philosophers or particular schools of thought. This sense of purpose and passion, combined with a sensible thematic organization, results in an academic book that is welcoming and remarkably readable, particularly considering the inherent complexity of many of the ideas explored within.

Whether by editorial direction or their own benevolence, most of the contributors manage to introduce and engage serious philosophical inquiries without overwhelming the uninitiated or resorting to condescension. Their universal appreciation of soccer is evident throughout their work, and the book is doubtless better for it. One senses that each chapter is, in its way, a labor of love, and numerous references to personal experience serve to humanize and illustrate concepts that are otherwise entirely abstract. It is clear that each author plays, watches, and thinks deeply about the beautiful game just as their audience does, and it is a pleasure to examine it alongside them. This is, perhaps unexpectedly, most evident in the biographies that follow the primary text. To say that they are wildly entertaining would be a tragic understatement, at best, and if this is the philosopher's idea of a serious academic biography I fear that I have chosen the wrong field.

Intended more for philosophically minded soccer fans than for those who don't understand the appeal of a game with so little scoring (and not infrequently none at all), the book rewards close reading and consideration even in its drier moments. Plenty of famous thinkers, from Plato to Nietzsche, make cameo appearances, often in several different chapters, and the net effect is to render philosophy accessible to readers who may identify first and foremost as sports fans. Neither lightweight nor impossibly obtuse, the book examines such weighty concepts as the role of the individual and state in determining and enforcing the law, the literally revolutionary impact of the Magical Magyars, and the ways in which soccer reflects the entirety of human experience and, in its way, life itself. In seeking to answer the most basic and most complex questions about our engagement with this of all sports, Soccer and Philosophy offers an engaging experience for fans who want to dig deeper, to question the obvious, and to share their appreciation for the beautiful game.

Grade: A

Book 29: Touch

Touch

Claire North

One of the things that I find absolutely electrifying about speculative fiction, in the hands of skillful writers, is its ability to derive the deepest senses of meaning from the most absurd of premises. The idea behind Claire North's Touch- that there exists a type of "ghost" soul that can move from body to body at the merest meeting of their skin, leaving the previous owner wondering where the time could have possibly gone- is not, to be fair, particularly ridiculous. It does, however, pose a plethora of scintillating possibilities, both practical and philosophical. That North manages to convincingly posit a world in which this is possible, covering all of the minor details and major sticking points in due course while simultaneously exploring ontological issues without resorting to condescension or tidy answers, is a testament to her immense talents; that she successfully dresses her inquiries into the many meanings of identity and the ethics of borrowing bodies in the fabric of a compelling, fast-paced thriller replete with the requisite twists and turns almost beggars belief.

Though she is somewhat susceptible to the kind of uneven pacing and suspiciously convenient coincidences that occur in even the most tightly plotted novels, North more than makes up for it with the unique narrative diversions that naturally arise from her body-swapping premise and the deftly employed flashbacks that humanize her characters and enhance readers' understanding of the alternate Earth that includes her ephemeral, drifting souls. The story flows effortlessly between past and present and, in doing so, heightens the emotional tension, significantly raises the story's stakes, and rounds out the nameless, body-hopping narrator. The flashbacks imbue the villains with extra menace via their deeply intertwined (but never unrealistic) histories with the entity they call "Kepler" while also introducing readers to the variety of ways in which North's ghosts approach, take advantage of, and suffer because of their peculiar abilities. Touch presents a rich world of possibilities, tackling the most difficult questions with a sense of unease, as even the more moral ghosts recognize that, merely by seeking to survive, they almost inevitably leave those they inhabit confused, violated, and shaken, never to retrieve the time they inexplicably lost.

North never shies away from the moral consequences of the world she imagines, and her book is indisputably better for it. The ghosts and those who oppose them (from outside and within their ranks) have a range of personalities and individualized motivations for behaving they way they do; indeed, it is the ways in which they envision and rationalize the consequences of their actions that most effectively define them. The book invites (and almost requires) characters and readers alike to ponder the multiple meanings of identity, love, and, to a certain extent, life itself. That one of its central questions- whether a ghost can ever morally justify the actions they must take to survive- remains tantalizingly unanswered is a testament to the complexity of the ambiguities she explores and to her willingness to tackle them head-on. Though Touch does not lack its fair share of rationalizations and competing rhetoric from multiple perspectives, North nobly resists the temptation to overextend and provide a neat solution. Instead, she trusts readers to reconcile these various points of view.

Touch is a rare specimen, a book whose greatness lies in its subtleties, in the million minor authorial touches that add up to an exhilarating experience. Its greatness lies in the repetition of a key phrase (though I felt incredibly cheated that it wasn't the book's final sentence), in the varied experiences of those who borrow bodies and whose bodies are borrowed, and in the tight plotting that alternates between high-octane, gun-fueled chase scenes (made all the more exciting due to the ghosts' ever-shifting physicality) and Kepler's haunting soliloquies without causing excessive whiplash, or even much at all. The book's inherent moral ambiguity lingers pleasantly beyond its final pages, begging to be prodded and discussed. With Kepler's immersive first-person narration, a carefully weighted balance of action, anticipation, and reflection, and a surfeit of philosophical implications to consider and revisit, Touch provides a captivating reading experience that is truly rewarding at multiple levels of engagement; I could hardly ask for more than this brilliant book consistently provides.

Grade: A