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

Book 28: The Killer App

The Killer App

John Writher

I knew immediately upon reading The Killer App's back cover that the book could equally be an unexpected gem or an unpolished rock. Alas; with the exception of its excellent premise and related hints of promise, it is much more the latter than the former. Set in a near-future England where geneticists have developed an experimental procedure to transfer a grown human's consciousness into a newborn's body, the plot offers plenty of potential opportunities for serious meditation. Yet while Writher seems to acknowledge many of the conundrums he poses, he rarely pays them adequate attention. When he does focus more narrowly on the considerable ethical dilemmas inherent in his premise and posited by the plot's subsequent course, he often engages them not only far too late but also by means of a character's convenient change of heart that is too ill-defined and sudden to be at all convincing. Even the book's genuinely surprising twists, and their significant emotional fallout, fail to resonate or to provoke the type of philosophical inquiry that the premise deserves. Readers and characters alike suffer from clumsy prose and flat characters who don't quite act as though they are anything more but vessels for the author's narrative whims.

Two-dimensional characters may occasionally prove sufficient in the type of thriller that this book aspires to be, but The Killer App lacks the kind of consistent pacing that maintains readers' engagement. The book often feels fitful, with unexpected perspective shifts that sometimes see minor supporting characters' thoughts displayed with as much prominence as the protagonists', without a segway to allow readers to make sense of the switch. Twists both routine and unexpected (including not one, but two utterly unnecessary and woefully unconvincing romantic arcs) do keep the plot moving along, but the entire book is marred by an out-of-nowhere ending that is equally problematic because of its suddenness and its failure to follow up, or even acknowledge, the fate of several minor characters whose treatment drives much of one protagonist's moralistic deliberations (which are, at any rate, far too little and far too late for the book to fulfill its evident aspirations). To ignore these implications of the plot, especially after deliberately drawing such attention to them in the name of character development, is to effectively dissipate the novel's unique ideas and waste its corresponding potential.

Added to an endless parade of extraneous commas and a clear lack of competent copy editing, the book's listlessness can make for a frustrating reading experience, particularly when coupled with Writher's excellent ideas. The result is a premise that seems half-baked at best, with valuable literary real estate devoted to unconvincing emotional asides and insufficient character development where they could have explored the fascinating implications of the technology that Writher so brilliantly conceives. Yet despite its many flaws, the book nonetheless displays a fair bit of promise, with a compelling premise that allows readers to speculate even when it fails to capitalize on its conceptual strengths. The science fiction at the book's core is first-rate and its basic premise is more than worthy of further exploration, and I would love to see Writher or another writer take another stab at it. Hampered, however, by haphazard character development and a plot that ignores its more interesting implications for a seemingly neat, but wholly unsatisfying, conclusion, The Killer App fails to deliver on its considerable potential.

Grade: C

Book 27: Americanah

Americanah

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I've decided to make an effort to read more books by foreign writers, particularly women, and it's been hard to ignore the positive praise for Americanah. While I agree that the accolades are absolutely well deserved, I've been struggling to determine what, exactly, it is that makes this novel so compelling. The book is, from the start, poignantly and articulately observed as Adichie carefully straddles the line between beautiful and effective prose; her sentences are often as insightful as they are practical, but one never gets lost in the language at the expense of the story. Even more remarkably, the novel's overt exploration of race and identity, particularly as it is construed in the modern United States and Great Britain, never feels out of place, even when it becomes blatantly political. By voicing some of her most poignant observations and strident criticisms of the West's treatment of race through Nigerians Ifemelu and Obinze, Adichie grants them an added sense of depth and increases their impact. Even Ifemelu's most strongly worded blog posts, which unapologetically and directly confront race and racism in the United States, are carefully wedded to the plot. Illuminating and critical in equal measure, the novel forces white readers to grapple with privilege and bias without resorting to condescension or alienation. For the book's characters, and thus its readers, race is simply there, an omnipresent facet of life that cannot be ignored once they leave Nigeria.

Despite its clearly politicized point of view, Americanah's politics are a function of, rather than a reason for, its plot, and Adichie is as critical of Nigeria as she is of the United States and Great Britain. Her settings ring true and come to life, from Lagos to London and Brooklyn to Baltimore. The novel is much more than its political leanings, effectively delivering two vastly different visions of the modern immigrant experience and relying, at heart, on the fluctuating relationship between Ifemelu and Obinze as their paths cross, diverge, and merge through time. Both Ifemelu and Obinze are immediately convincing and familiar, though their actions are at times a bit suspect, and the supporting cast is likewise strong. Adichie effetively, but subtly, develops and utilizes her characters and their locales, to the point where it becomes easy to forget that the action is, indeed, taking place in a novel. Every aspect of the book bursts into immediate, vivid life, often feeling more like an all-encompassing experience than a deliberately constructed novel.

To read Americanah as a native-born, middle-class white American is to be transformed, to experience life through a vastly different set of sympathetic eyes. Adichie effortlessly conveys her characters' experiences without resorting to gimmicks or hostility, relying instead on her immense talent and keen eye for detail. All of the small details fall gently into place, gradually building compelling portraits of these fictional characters and the very real worlds they inhabit. The book challenges readers' default points of view but does so with remarkable subtlety, focusing on a shared human connection before pointing out the ways we seek to alienate those we perceive as different and obscure our shared humanity. Far from didactic, the novel confidently navigates the modern world's peculiarities while engaging readers with a plot that is true to its story and, in the end, its message. This is a book that begs to be discussed and dissected, a life-changing experience that slowly alters its readers' perceptions simply by focusing on the human elements at its core. A novel equally about coming of age, the immigrant experience, racism, and true love, Americanah offers a remarkably complete view of Nigerian nationals Ifemelu and Obinze that is instantly accessible to white Americans despite- or perhaps in part because of- its overt focus on racial identity.

Grade: A

Book 26: Astoria to Zion

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

Edited by Ben Fountain

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

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

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

Grade: B