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Harpoon

Harpoon: Into the Heart Of Whaling by Andrew Darby

publication date: 2008 pages: 300 ISBN: 978-0-306-81629-1

The full title of this book was Harpoon: Into the Heart Of Whaling. So, when I picked it up off the shelf at the library, I expected a history of whaling and a description of global whaling practices. Instead, what I got was a screed against hunting whales for most any purpose. The book wasn’t a history of whaling but more a list of reasons against it.

The author’s obviously-not-objective viewpoint sometimes made me question the accuracy of the events he was presenting. For example, he talked often of the environmental group Greenpeace and its work disrupting whaling fleets. Greenpeace boats attempted to stop whale kills by surrounding the whaling ship and attaching themselves to it. I didn’t have much prior knowledge of these action and, to me, Greenpeace’s behavior seemed radical and maybe even unnecessarily dangerous. But, instead of objectively retelling these events, Darby gave breezy accounts from Greenpeace’s point of view that concluded, for example, by lamenting the fact that photos taken “lacked fire.”

The book’s cause was also not helped by Darby’s poor and confusing writing. Darby’s writing was often jumbled or unclear. I had to reread a lot of sentences. Here was his blasé account of an accident on a whaling ship, which I had to read a few times to realize that yes, a horrific calamity had occurred:

A few days later [Japanese whaling ship] Nisshin Maru turned up in the Ross Sea, 1000 kilometres away from [the nearest Greenpeace vessel]. Around 6 am on 15 February the ship’s captain phoned the bemused Wellington rescue centre to say the ship was on fire, most of its crew had evacuated, and one was feared dead. . . There was no more whaling, no chance of Greenpeace intervening [in a hunt] or of recording the whaling.

Darby’s bemoaning Greenpeace’s lack of acceptable subject matter for recording, and not his bemoaning the loss of a human life, could have been because the life at stake was a Japanese whaler. The book was vaguely and eerily anti-Japanese throughout. Darby discussed Japan’s reputedly violent and militaristic attitude. At one point, he wondered if the supposed tendency of Japanese whalers to hunt inhumanely stemmed from the poor treatment of POWs in Japan in World War II.

Notwithstanding all the aforementioned flaws of the book, it was obvious Darby had done a lot of research on this topic. The book was sometimes informative. A few of my assumptions about whaling – not that I had a lot – were effectively challenged. However, the informative or compelling aspects of the book were not enough for me to recommend it.

2/6: many problems

Other reviews:

Earth Island Journal Green Lifestyle Olly Zanetti on Pop Matters

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Braiding Sweetgrass

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

publication date: 2013 pages: 390 ISBN: 978-1-57131-356-0

This book made me want to change my life. Robin Wall Kimmerer wrote with such poetry and persuasion that I was often moved to her way of thinking and, sometimes, moved to tears.

In Braiding Sweetgrass, Kimmerer combined her PhD-level botany expertise with knowledge and attitudes of American Native Indians in order to write about plants and our failed relationship to the land. She often discussed pollution, global warming, and human exploitation of natural resources. She also included stories from her own life as someone with Potawatomi ancestry and as a mother.

Kimmerer’s writing was often very beautiful, even when she was discussing a weighty or controversial topic. For example, here is her description of a shopping mall that she was observing:

We have constructed an artifice, a Potemkin village of an ecosystem where we perpetuate the illusion that the things we consume have just fallen off the back of Santa’s sleigh, not been ripped from the Earth. The illusion enables us to imagine that the only choices we have are between brands.

The book’s logical presentation of beautifully written ideas often convinced me of Kimmerer’s points. For example, this passage, in which she linked together the American war in Iraq with the conservation work she did ferrying breeding salamanders from one side of a busy highway to another, helping the salamanders avoid getting run over by a vehicle:

The carnage on this dark country road and the broken bodies on the streets of Baghdad do seem connected. Salamanders, children, young farmers in uniform – they are not the enemy or the problem. We have not declared war on these innocents, and yet they die just as surely as if we had.

There were many times when I was convinced or moved by Kimmerer’s words. However, the book was flawed. It was dense and sometimes slow. Kimmerer’s writing was often repetitive, as though I was reading a collection of essays rather than a cohesive book. I also disagreed with some of her ideas, including an assumption she seemed to have that only those people who thought as she thought could behave in a moral or ethical way. Additionally, she sometimes romanticized what life as an American Indian was like.

Further, there’s the issue that she was largely preaching to the choir. I was often enlightened or persuaded by something Kimmerer said, but I also already agreed with many of her ideas. How would a more skeptical reader – someone who celebrates capitalism or doesn’t trust the science of climate change – react to Braiding Sweetgrass? I’m not sure, because I’m not that person and because her arguments made so much inherent sense to me. I can’t imagine anyone being harmed from reading this book, however, and there were many benefits to be gained: from being moved by the poetic language to wanting to joyously reconnect with the Earth that has given us so much.

5/6: seek this book out

Other reviews:

Star Tribune Brevity Story Circle Book Reviews

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Turtles All the Way Down

Turtles All the Way Down by John Green

publication date: 2017 pages: 304 ISBN: 978-0525555360

Reading John Green can be frustrating. Not because I don’t enjoy it, but because I do. I enjoy everything of his, including Turtles All the Way Down, I’ve read. But, every line, every teary ending, seems calculated to make me feel exactly as I’m made to feel, and that’s annoying.

Turtles All the Way Down, like every John Green book, followed a teenage protagonist as she navigated school and the adults in her world. The book also introduced a love interest and, of course, an adventure. What made this book different, besides the updated cultural references — Green mentioned Wikipedia, dick pics, and mass incarceration, just to name a few — is the main character, Aza Holmes, and her narrative. Aza had anxiety and OCD. Green wrote her as a response to the fictional characters — Sherlock Holmes being perhaps the most famous — that romanticize the kind of obsessive mental thought processes that can characterize mental illness. For example, Aza made this observation while her mind was uncontrollably whirring around:

Madness, in my admittedly limited experience, is accompanied by no superpowers; being mentally unwell doesn’t make you loftily intelligent anymore than having the flu does. So I know I should’ve been a brilliant detective or whatever, but in actuality I was one of the least observant people I’d ever met. I was aware of absolutely nothing outside myself on the drive to Daisy’s apartment building and then to my house.

Aza’s inner monologue sometimes made for very intense reading. The narrative would become a fractured consciousness stream when Aza was having a particularly bad thought spiral. However, in general, the writing was what I’ve come to expect from Green: pithy and accurate sayings about life that are simply itching to be Pinterest memes. Green stuck with this format, I assume, because he is so good at it. The book was full of quotable lines:

Anybody can look at you. It’s quite rare to find someone who sees the same world you see.

And:

Wealth is careless — so around it, you must be careful.

And:

You don’t get to be in anything else — in friendship or in anger or in hope. All you can be in is love.

This book was just classic John Green. If you like him, you’ll like Turtles All the Way Down. If you’ve never read him, imagine a precocious and often accurate teenager lecturing you about life while also asking you to check your privilege from time to time.

4/6: worth reading

other reviews:

New York Times Los Angeles Review Of Books Slate

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The Thief and the Dogs

The Thief and the Dogs by Naguib Mahfouz

publication date: 1984 pages: 108 ISBN: 9774240340

This Egyptian novella, though first published in 1961, won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1988, after being translated into English from the Arabic in 1984. The author, Naguib Mahfouz, worked for the Egyptian civil service and used this book to present the story of a convicted thief’s descent into madness.

The book had a very noir quality, with the action mostly occurring at night and with the main character, Said, constantly prowling the streets of Cairo. While Said roamed, the book included his bitter and obsessive inner monologue:

The bars have shut down and only the side streets are open, where plots are hatched. From time to time he has to cross over a hole in the pavement set there like a snare and the wheels of tramcars growl and shriek like abuse. Confused cries seem to seep from the curbside garbage. (I swear I hate you all). Houses of temptation, their windows beckoning even when eyeless, walls scowling where plaster has fallen.

Mahfouz’s writing had a compelling poetry and directness. Here was an example from a scene where Said was attempting to break into and burglarize the home of an enemy:

When [Said] was sure the street was empty he dodged into the hedge, forcing his way in amidst the jasmine and violets, and stood motionless: If there was a dog in the house – other than its owner, of course – it would now fill the universe with barking.

Another example of Mahfouz’s writing style was this line of absolution:

But the dawn shed dewy compassion giving momentary solace for the loss of everything, even the two banknotes, and he surrendered to it.

Another aspect of Mahfouz’s writing that I enjoyed was his ability to write in aphorisms. For example, here was Said attempting to explain the traitorous nature of a former mentor:

But what’s truly ridiculous is that the distinguished teacher of the accused is a treacherous scoundrel. You may well be astonished at this fact. It can happen, however, that the cord carrying current to a lamp is dirty, speckled with fly shit.

The book included innumerable details of Egyptian life. The author inserted specific Cairene streets and depicted the Egyptian characters’ dress, food, jobs, and religion. It also was very universal. Mahfouz presented a convincing portrait of a man with an increasingly tenuous grip on reality.

At times, however, the book was slow. This was quite a feat, considering it was only 108 pages. The dullness came from the book’s repetition and its proselytizing characters. There also was not much of a plot: newly freed convict wanders urban streets as the reader wonders how much of the book’s action is taking place within the main character’s head.

With that said, I would definitely recommend the book. It’s a classic and a quick read.

4/6: worth reading

Other reviews:

Knoji.com D.M. Miller blog Curled Up blog

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A House Of My Own

A House Of My Own: Stories From My Life by Sandra Cisneros

publication date: 2015 pages: 400 ISBN: 9780385351331

The person who recommended this book to me absolutely loved it. She spoke about the deep connection she felt to the book: as though she was reading her own memoir, as well as the author’s. A House Of My Own did not spark the same joy in me. I thought it was just fine, but not necessarily anything I would recommend to someone else.

A House Of My Own was a collection of essays, written over decades by the author, Sandra Cisneros. Cisneros is a Mexican-American writer, most famous perhaps for her book The House On Mango Street. Much of A House Of My Own revolved around houses: Cisneros’s, her parents’, her friends’, strangers’. Cisneros also spent a lot of time discussing was it’s like to be a daughter, a Mexican-American, and a writer; sometimes she delved into those topics simultaneously.

The essays were presented largely chronologically and the book got better as Cisneros’s writing became more mature. The book became tighter and more consistent. However, I still often found the writing repetitive, uninteresting, or even puzzling. The essays repeated the same themes, anecdotes, and witticisms. Also, I found Cisneros’s myopic view of the world hard to relate to. For example, she accompanied a friend to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting “out of curiosity.” While there, she heard “testimonies of incredible pain, of humiliations that would knock out anyone.” After listening to people pour their heart out as a step in their journey of recovery, what does Cisneros take away from the meeting? That she needs to move, that she needs a new house.

Almost all the stories, even those that were about other things, were about Cisneros. It’s her memoir, after all. I just didn’t find Cisneros, or Cisneros’s ideas, that interesting. I was probably not the target audience: I have no desire to own my own home, I don’t think of writing in grand terms, and I’ve never read any of Cisneros’s other books.

However, there was some absolutely beautiful writing. In a passage about the musician Astor Piazzolla, Cisneros described his music like this:

I think Piazzolla’s music demands you dance alone, preferably under the stars. After I’ve written the there’s no one about to make me feel silly, I like a glass of wine as plush as the menstrual wall, a cigar like the kind my grandfather El Coronel smoked, and Piazzolla.

Her writing was also sprinkled with insights, such as these sentences, about the death of her father:

Whenever anyone discusses death they talk about the inevitable loss, but no one ever mentions the inevitable gain. How when you lose a loved one, you suddenly have a spirit ally, an energy on the other side. . .

Although the book did not impact me in any striking way, it certainly had some rich writing and delightful passages. Also, I know of at least one person who thoroughly loved it. Therefore, I think A House Of My Own was:

4/6: worth reading

Other reviews:

Latino Book Review Harvard Review Dallas News

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So How Long Have You Been Native?

So How Long Have You Been Native? by Alexis C. Bunten

publication date: 2015 pages: 251 ISBN: 978-0-8032-3462

In this book, the author presented her experience working in the Alaska tourism sector as a tour guide for a Native Alaskan company, which explicitly showcased the Indian heritage of the town of Sitka, Alaska. The author, an anthropologist, wanted to faithfully represent what life was like as an Alaska Native tour guide. She recounted her participation, and the experiences of her co-workers, while providing historical, psychological, and academic context. Beyond retelling what happened to the author, the book dealt with many topics, including native identity, labor politics, psychology, capitalism, and history. Although I don’t know this for sure, I believe the book began as Bunten’s dissertation and then was expanded to book length.

Bunten’s writing, as an attempt to faithfully recreate her encounters, was very detailed. Generally, I found the details interesting and enlightening, as in this passage about cruise ship tactics:

. . . cruise lines have a history of doing whatever it takes to make local communities comply with their demands by preying on undiversified economies that come to depend upon the tourist dollars cruise ships bring. In 1993, Whittier, Alaska, the only cruise ship port inside the famed Prince William Sound, introduced a one-dollar per passenger head tax. Rather than pay the head tax, Princess Cruises diverted its ships from Whittier to Seward, Alaska, where there was no head tax. Princess Cruises only agreed to return to Whittier in 2004, two years after the city repealed the head tax.

However, I could see how some readers would find all the details to be repetitive, unnecessary, or dull, as in this passage about what Bunten and her co-workers did after their initial job training:

After job training officially ended, we each checked out from the back office a Tlingit [Indian]-style button vest and a rain jacket with Tribal Tours’ logo to wear over the black slacks and polo shirts purchased with our own money. . . Although the uniform physically marked our identities as Tribal Tours’ workers, it also represented a shift in our thinking about our responsibilities as workers.

Even through the repetitive and sometimes clunky writing style, Bunten introduced lots of interesting and insightful facts and passages. She also did not shy from calling things out as she saw them, from the Russian and American genocides of native Indians to the shady behavior of a co-worker. This made for a usually engaging read.

I would recommend this book to anyone who has ever felt frustrated by working in a service industry. I would also, of course, recommend it to anyone who has an interest in native studies or labor politics. So How Long Have You Been Native? was a compelling read that presented an important perspective.

4/6: worth reading

other reviews of the book:

Fairbanks Daily News-Miner Tribal College Anchorage Daily News

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Sure Of You

Sure Of You by Armistead Maupin

publication date: 1989 pages: 262 ISBN: 978-0-06-092484-3

In this charming and moving novel, Maupin followed a group of friends as they navigated long-term relationships, changing careers, and the specter of AIDS in the gay community. Unbeknownst to me when I picked up the book at the library, Sure Of You was the sixth and final installment in Maupin’s “Tales Of the City” series. Its role as part of a series, however, in no way hampered my enjoyment of the book. Sure Of You worked very well as a stand alone piece.

Sure Of You presented Mary Ann and Brian, a couple whose relationship was challenged by Mary Ann’s demanding career as a TV personality; Michael and Thack, lovers who attempted to make a life together while Michael’s HIV-positive status was an ever present reminder of the irresolute nature of the future; and Anna and her daughter Mona, on a trip to Greece to discover sex and connections. Maupin’s characters, and their relationships, were some of the highlights of the book. Everyone had a signature voice and explicable – and sometimes conflicting – motivations.

Maupin’s dialogue, which was a large portion of the book, was also excellent. Every character’s dialogue was distinctive, and entire conversations seemed natural. He also captured the intimate nature of relationships by showcasing confidential and realistic dialogue. There was this scene, for example – which showed the undercurrents that flow when humans get together:

“What’ll it be?” Brian asked from behind the bar . . . Burke . . . addressed Brian: “You used to be a real bartender, didn’t you? Down at Benny’s.” “Perry’s,” said Brian. “That’s right.” “I was a waiter, though.” “Oh.” “He was a lawyer before that,” Mary Ann put in, “but he took on so many liberal causes that he sort of burned out.” Michael saw Brian’s expression and knew what he was thinking: Why does she always have to say that? Wouldn’t waiter have been enough?

The book generally had a personal and intimate plot. The story focused not on saving the world or overcoming a villain but on the relationships that encompass our lives. Maupin took these relationships seriously and showed how a word or a look can create turmoil or joy.

Maupin was adept at furthering the plot through dialogue. Many conversations between the characters created such tension and suspense within me that I absolutely could not put the book down. The writing fostered that preoccupation, all while imbuing the book with a humor-tinged melancholy.

This book introduced me to full characters with resonant lives, which mirrored many of my own experiences. It also presented gay people and issues in the context of unassuming characters and stories. I would recommend to anyone who likes novels revolving around rich characters and detailed histories.

5/6: seek this book out

I have the Amazon and Goodreads pages for this book:

Amazon Goodreads

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A Year In the Merde

A Year In the Merde by Stephen Clarke

publication date: 2004 pages: 276 ISBN: 978-1-58234-591-8

This ostensibly fictional novel really wanted its readers to accept the realism and accuracy of its pages. The blurb on the back described the book as a “hilarious, almost-true tale.” The quote at the front, taken from a preface to another book, extolled: “Its pages form the record of events that really happened.”

In the book, the author – a British man living and working in Paris, France – introduced us to the character Paul West – a British man living and working in Paris, France. Paul West was a British businessman hired as a consultant by a French company to help open a string of British tea shops in France. Both West and the author explained French daily life in a superior and joke-filled style.

The topics satirized most often were: labor strikes, the Parisian shrug, French women’s sexuality, and hypocritical isolationism. The most effective mockery surrounded anti-war liberals, who seemed to be against war only insofar as it was trendy and simple. For example, when West met with his friend to discuss West’s lack of sex life, the two companions first:

dispensed with the war (“It’s always civilians who suffer,” “Why do so many people swallow the line that politicians feed them?” and so on) and then got down to the meat of the matter.

There were a few other funny passages, such as this description of Parisian apartment-dwelling:

I was also sick of my neighbors, as most Parisians are . . . At 7:00 a.m. alarm goes off, boom, Madame gets out of bed, puts on her deep-sea divers’ boots, and stomps across my ceiling to megaphone the kids awake. The kids drop bags of cannonballs onto the floor, then, apparently dragging several sledgehammers each, stampede into the kitchen . . . meanwhile the toilet is flushed, on average, fifty times per drop of urine expelled.

The author was also very good at melding the French and the English languages. There were many passages where the book played with French and English homonyms and idioms.

However, most of the book fell flat. Here was his simplistic and jokey description of his boss’s residence:

It overlooked the Bois de Boulogne, the immense wooded park where toffs go riding and Brazilians earn the cash for their sex-change operations. About as exclusive a Paris address as you can get.

A lot of the jokes and observations foundered, but also the plot was poorly explained and confusing. Because almost everything in the book was a joke, I wasn’t sure what was actually happening or what was an exaggeration. For example, at one point, West is awakened by armed gunman at his door. But were these man “armed” in the same way that the Parisian neighbors mentioned above carted sledgehammers around with them? Or were they actually toting guns? It turned out they literally were wielding rifles, but by the time I figured that out, the scene had lost all of its dramatic tension.

I didn’t find A Year In the Merde entertaining, but I’ve not been to France. Maybe those more familiar with the subject would find the book more pleasurable.

3/6: more good than bad

other reviews:

The Uncustomary Book Review The Bookbag Pulse

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Norweigan Wood

Norweigan Wood by Haruki Murakami, translated by Jay Rubin

publication date: 1987 (translation: 2000) pages: 296 ISBN: 296-0-375-70402-7

In this coming-of-age story, university student Toru Watanabe attempted to maintain a recent relationship with Naoko, his best friend’s ex-girlfriend, while meeting unusual new people, including a talkative and unconventional young woman, Midori. Watanabe navigated these relationships against a backdrop of 1960s student protests and a rash of suicides among young people.

Norweigan Wood was incredibly popular in Japan after it was published in 1989. Young people were drawn to Murakami’s western-centric language — the title comes from the name of a Beatles song — and his grappling with heady themes while writing from the point of view of a young protagonist. The book was also well-received in America, especially after it was translated into English.

Murakami used what may have seemed like a straightforward love story to explore numerous weighty themes. Murakami examined the circular and repetitive nature of time, which never quite moves the way we want it to. He also discussed sex, and the myriad forms it uses to manifest itself. Probably the most pervasive theme, however, was the specter of death. Murakami suggested that death was mainly experienced by the living:

The shadow of death slowly, slowly eats away at the region of life, and before you know it everything is dark and you can’t see, and the people around you think of you as more dead than alive.

Murakami also imbued his love story with a tension throughout the book. The tension was often a vague feeling of dread, as in this passage, where Watanabe was taking public transportation to visit Naoko:

The bus would enter cedar forest, come out to a village, then go back into forest. It would stop at a village to let people off, but no one ever got on. Forty minutes after leaving the city, the bus reached a mountain pass with a wide-open view. The driver stopped the bus and announced that we would be waiting there for five or six minutes . . . Eventually another bus came climbing up from the other side of the pass and stopped next to ours . . .

It was not immediately clear to me why our bus had had to wait for the other one, but a short way down the other side of the mountain the road narrowed suddenly. Two big buses could never have passed each other on the road, and in fact passing ordinary cars coming in the other direction required a good deal of maneuvering with one or the other vehicle having to back up and squeeze into the overhang of a curve.

Beyond setting an effective tone, there were so many times that something in the narrative was pleasingly relatable. I was often reminded of something a friend had recently said, or something I’d thought while drifting off to sleep. This introspective passage, for example:

At five-thirty I closed my book, went outside, and ate a light supper. How many Sundays — how many hundreds of Sundays like this — lay ahead of me? “Quiet, peaceful, and lonely,” I said aloud to myself. On Sundays, I didn’t wind my spring.

Although there was a lot I liked about the book, I often found it tiresome or maddening. It was sometimes repetitive, and the prose could be dull or inconsistent — although that might be the fault of the translator.

Perhaps most importantly, I don’t gain a lot of satisfaction anymore from coming-of-age stories with a man who is finding his way in the world with the help of lessons learned from the women around him. I’m tired of reading sentences like this:

The power she exerted was a subtle thing, but it called forth deep resonances . . . It was a kind of childhood longing that had always remained — and would forever remain — unfulfilled.

Or:

I felt as drawn to her as ever, perhaps more than before, but the thought of what she had lost in the meantime also gave me cause for regret. Never again would she have that self-centered beauty that seems to take its own, independent course in adolescent girls and no one else.

Or, my favorite:

[Falling in love with two women happens] all the time in this great big world of ours. It’s like taking a boat out on a beautiful lake on a beautiful day and thinking both the sky and lake are beautiful.

I suppose it wasn’t Murakami’s fault I’ve read variations on those lines dozens of times. Doesn’t make it less annoying or less inaccurate, though. Although the book was inconsistent, there were enough potent passages to make it:

4/6: worth reading

other reviews:

New York Times The Guardian The Ooh Tray blog

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Inside a Silver Box by Walter Mosley

publication date: 2016 pages: 306 ISBN: 978-0765375223

In this work of speculative fiction, Mosley introduced the Silver Box, a god-like sentient machine that was a prison for its god-like creator and archenemy, Inglo. The Silver Box and its prisoner, after much clashing, ended up on Earth, and the enemy escaped his prison. In order to save the world, two humans – Ronnie, a black ex-convict, and Lorraine, a privileged white woman – were thrown together by the Box to recapture Inglo. Although the book presented this story, it was much more existential than plot-driven.

The plot seemed important to Mosley, but it also was a way for him to discuss many themes. One theme was the interconnectedness of all things, from the violent life of a criminal to the rarefied world of the elite. In this passage, Mosley described that link through the fledgling relationship between Ronnie and Lorraine:

“It’s kinda strange when we’re next to each other, isn’t it?” Lorraine asked. “Yeah. It feels like the way I did when I was a kid and my mama would hold me.” [Ronnie said.] “When I close my eyes,” Lorraine said, straining for the right words, “it’s like I’m floating in space and there’s a drummer playing just for me.” . . . “We got the same blood,” he said. “I mean, probably everybody and everything in the world got the same blood, but somehow you’n me can feel it, ‘specially when we’re next to each other.”

A related theme that the book explored was how, as connected beings, we are all culpable for any bad things that happen. This theme manifested itself differently for the white Lorraine and the black Ronnie. In this passage, Lorraine was confronted with the consequences of her class:

[Ronnie said, “You] run down the street past poor, sick, uneducated, homeless, and hopeless people with yo’ fine ass and your pockets full’a money. I belonged in prison but that don’t make you innocent . . . . It’s easy to find guilt all up and down the streets. But how’s all that no-good shit gonna be there, and here you are so innocent that you don’t have nuthin’ to do with it?” This thought wasn’t that alien to Lorraine. She had studied original sin and the various interpretations of social and socialist revolutions. She had written a term paper on the paradox of capital punishment. [And] she realized that all of this had been in her head, that she’d never had to answer for the crimes of her culture and her class; nor did she truly believe that she should be held responsible.

Later in the story, Mosley also explored the culpability of Ronnie’s class, to the extent that they were descended from slaves:

Slavery was a terrible thing, Ronnie remembered Jimmy Burkett saying when Ronnie was just a child. . . . But you know the slave play a part in it too. What you mean? Little Ronnie asked. In order to be a slave you have to believe that shit, Jimmy said. You got to say yes, sir, and yes, ma’am. If you don’t do that, if you refuse their dominion in your heart, then even though you might die you will never be their slave.

Inside a Silver Box used plot and dialogue to examine Mosley’s ideas about race, gender, class, and technology. It revealed an author who was empathetic and concerned with Americans’ realities.

4/6: worth reading

other reviews:

New York Journal Of Books The Future Fire blog Fantasy Literature blog

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The Hate U Give

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

publication date: 2017 pages: 464 ISBN: 9780062498557

In this topical YA novel, author Angie Thomas explored issues of race and violence. The story involved Starr, a 16-year-old black woman who navigated between two worlds: her family and neighborhood, which were black, and her school and friends, which were white. Starr was forced to confront the inherent inequities of these worlds when she witnessed a white cop killing a young black man during a traffic stop. The title of the book came from a Tupac quote, where he explained that he believed Thug Life was an acronym for The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody.

Thomas explored several important themes in The Hate U Give. She explicitly discussed the militarization of police forces and the covert racism of society that leads to white on black violence. She also examined what it’s like to be a brown person in a sea of white faces, and what it’s like to be constantly assessing your own identity as “other,” as in this passage:

The ironic thing is though, at [majority white high school] Williamson I don’t have to “play it cool” – I’m cool by default because I’m one of the only black kids there. I have to earn coolness in [the black neighborhood of] Garden Heights, and that’s more difficult than buying retro Jordans on release day. Funny how it works with white kids though. It’s dope to be black until it’s hard to be black.

Although the book covered weighty topics and themes, Thomas’s writing was often funny. For example:

The school year’s almost over, so everybody’s goof-off levels are at their highest, and white-kid goofing off is a category of its own. I’m sorry, but it is. Yesterday a sophomore rode down the stairs in the janitor’s garbage can. His dumb ass got a suspension and a concussion. Stupid.

Thomas also created very effective characters. Starr was intricately developed, as was her family and close friends. The book included scenes that showcased each of Thomas’s characters, beyond their importance to the plot.

The book had some flaws, however. The dialogue was inconsistent: sometimes it rang true and conveyed something about the characters or the book; other times it was simply a device to shoehorn in exposition that Thomas thought was important. Also, mot of the action or violence in the book was not effective. For example, the shooting of the young black man was written in a hurried and detached style and did not become urgent until relived by the traumatized Starr.

The Hate U Give was published as YA. It was written in a straightforward manner, with a young narrator who had parental problems and was exploring her nascent sexuality. It was also a funny and engaging read that also illuminated some of the most weighty and pressing topics of today.

4/6: worth reading

other reviews:

The Book Smugglers Baltimore Times Black and Bookish

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1491

1491 by Charles C. Mann, second edition

publication date: 2011 pages: 541 ISBN: 9781400032051

The title of this book came from the year immediately before Christopher Columbus landed in the Americas. Charles C. Mann wanted to show what life was like for the people in the Americas before European contact. The book, originally published in 2005, was very popular. I was reading the second edition, published in 2011. After reading it, I understood why the book was popular and why it warranted a second edition.

Mann wasn’t just describing American Indian life in 1491. He also was attempting to show why our modern conceptions of pre-Columbian peoples are wrong. He had three main ideas about the American Indians before European contact. First, that they were numerous and the Americas were densely populated. Second, that the native peoples’ societies were old and complex. And third, that American Indians manipulated the land around them to suit their needs and desires.

Mann used extensive research to support his ideas. He quoted academic papers, interviews, and primary sources. He also included evidence and sources that contradicted his own ideas. Notwithstanding this inclusion, most of his arguments were effectively convincing. For example, Mann argued that the number of Indians killed by European diseases was extraordinarily high: perhaps 9 in 10 killed within 200 years of contact. His explanation for this was clear and persuasive:

When humans and domesticated animals share quarters, they are constantly exposed to each other’s microbes. Over time, mutation lets animal diseases jump to people: avian influenza becomes human influenza, bovine rinderpest becomes human measles, horsepox becomes human smallpox. Unlike Europeans, Indians did not live in constant contact with many animals. They domesticated only the dog; the turkey . . .; and the llama, the alpaca, the Muscovy duck and the guinea pig . . . .

Mann then went on to explain that when the Europeans brought domesticated animals, especially pigs, to the Indian homeland, Indian immune systems were not prepared for animal diseases, and some communities experienced death rates of 96 percent.

Mann not only provided compelling arguments for his theories, he also included interesting and enlightening details about American Indian life. For example:

The Olmec, Maya, and other Mesoamerican societies were world pioneers in mathematics and astronomy – but they did not use the wheel. Amazingly, they had invented the wheel but did not employ it for any purpose other than children’s toys. Those looking for a tale of cultural superiority can find it in zero; those looking for failure can find it in the wheel. Neither line of argument is useful, though. What is most important is that by 1000 a.d. Indians had expanded their [agricultural] revolutions to create a panoply of diverse civilizations across the hemisphere.

Although 1491 was sometimes dense, it was routinely interesting and presented an innovative and compelling picture of the Americas before European contact.

5/6: seek this book out

other reviews:

New York Times Root Simple Foreign Affairs

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The Passage

The Passage by Justin Cronin

publication date: 2010 pages: 766 ISBN: 978-0-345-50496-8

In his novel, Justin Cronin explored every possible meaning of his title: the passage of time, safe passage, the passing from life into death, a hallway that takes you from A to B, and even a diary entry. Cronin utilized 766 pages to tell the story of a post-apocalyptic Earth in the not-too-distant future. This Earth was overrun by carnivorous beings that the remaining humans had many names for: virals, smokes, dracs. Basically, they were vampires with 400 pages of back story and a medically explainable origin.

The book revolved around Amy, a young girl with the unique ability to talk to the mysterious vampire-like creatures. The story was epic in scope, encompassing decades and much of the United States. The plot began in the very near future, with the government experimenting with the creation of immortal beings. As time passed, and the setting turned more dystopian and fractured, the story shifted to a West Coast community that called itself The Colony.

In my opinion, Cronin wrote this book to explore – or capitalize on – the vampire myth but in an ostensibly “literary” way. The book included many themes, including ruminations on death, time, and fatherhood. It also introduced seemingly logical explanations for what was happening, like a virus that hyper activates the thymus gland. The book was also written from many points of view, all with their own thoughts and motivations. Additionally, Cronin supplemented the narration by including maps, diary entries, academic findings, and the like. Obviously, a lot of time and effort went into the formation of The Passage.

However, with all that effort Cronin put into it, the book didn’t always work. It was too long, with too many twists and turns. It was like watching a Pixar movie, where the characters had to go through numerous pointless adventures. I found myself bored often. Not only was the plot sometimes monotonous or senseless, the abundant meditations on the book’s themes were repetitive. I read what seemed like dozens of paragraphs that were variations on this theme:

His whole life Peter had thought of the world of the Time Before as something gone. It was as if a blade had fallen onto time itself, cleaving it into halves, that which came before and that which came after. Between these halves there was no bridge; the war had been lost, the Army was no more, the world beyond the Colony was an open grave of a history no one even remembered.

Starting about page 425, I was wondering if the book needed to be as long and convoluted as it was; by about 600 I caught myself skimming just to get the book over with; and at about 740 I was bewildered as to the point of it all.

The book wasn’t bad, and it had some interesting parts. If you like reading hefty tomes with plots that never quit, I would absolutely recommend this. It could keep you busy for a while.

4/6: worth reading

other reviews:

New York Times Los Angeles Times The Nerdist

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Taduno’s Song

Taduno’s Song by Odafe Atogun

publication date: 2016 pages: 234 ISBN: 9781101871454

In this slim novel, Odafe Atogun presented a surreal Nigeria. One in which political prisoners send letters without anything leaving their jail cell, guitars have the power to condemn someone to death, and the dictatorial Nigerian president declares all forms of music to be illegal. Taduno’s Song followed singer-in-exile Taduno as he attempted to rescue his girlfriend from prison in Lagos, Nigeria. Taduno’s main weapon was his music. He used it to convince, to calm, and to protest. His crusade was hampered, however, by the fact that no one, including his family and friends, remembered who he was once he returned from exile.

The book used absurdist and magical realist themes and story lines. When Taduno was in exile, all the houses at the town he was exiled to were empty and open for him to use. When a music producer’s Afro was cut off he seemingly lost all his power. The entire story was an epic battle for Taduno’s music, which was used to accomplish almost anything. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to read these off-kilter plot points as important to the story or as symbols for something else.

Because the book included a lot of absurd or non-logical events, places, and characters, it was difficult for me to care about the plot. I often wondered, when does something move from “magical realism,” to “nonsensical?” If anyone might do anything at any time, because there were no rules, why would I care about these particular people? The characters were also often indistinguishable from each other. There was the evil President and the pure and good girlfriend of Taduno, but beyond that, the dialogue could have been spoken by anyone.

The book did explore compelling themes. A main theme was the capacity of the work-a-day person to forget atrocities that happened in the recent past or were currently happening. After Taduno was exiled for making music, the people of his country literally were unable to recall anything about him. Another theme was the ability of art to make a real difference in people’s lives, by fighting the government or creating unity among a people.

Atogun also had flashes of brilliance regarding corruption and power. For example, this exchange, between Taduno and the President, after the President had him arrested for playing guitar in the street:

‘You believe my order was unjustified?’ ‘Yes. It violates my right to make public music.’ ‘You do not have rights. No one in this country has rights. This is not a civilian regime, this is a military regime, see?’ The President smiled triumphantly. ‘Well, I want my rights. Every citizen of this country wants their rights.’ The President shook his head in astonishment, unable to understand why anybody wanted rights under a military regime. He laughed in amusement.

Although Taduno’s Song had some interesting or effective elements, generally the nonexistent characters, wacky plot, and inconstant writing made the book dull to read.

3/6: more good than bad

other reviews:

Book Page Read in Colour blog Brittle Paper

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House Of Rain

House Of Rain by Craig Childs

publication date: 2006 pages: 496 ISBN: 978-0-316-60817-6

In House Of Rain, Craig Childs presented a piece of reportorial nonfiction, interwoven with narrative travelogue. For several seasons, Childs trekked the southwestern U.S. in order to discover for himself the world of the native people who inhabited that land before Europeans. Childs moved through New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and northern Mexico, often on foot, to follow the centuries-long migrations of a people he usually called “Anasazi.” There is some controversy surrounding the term Anasazi, both because there is disagreement about how large their territory actually was and because Anasazi, a Navajo term, can be objectionable to modern-day Pueblo people – who instead may use the term “Ancestral Puebloans.” Childs used this phrase sometimes, along with another – Hisatsinom – that is used by contemporary Hopi. Childs explained his use of the word Anasazi and used other words when he thought it was appropriate.

House Of Rain described Childs’s travels as he explored cliff dwellings, seemingly uninhabitable gorges, great Anasazi kivas, and active archaeological digs. His travelogue writing was compelling, although often pretentious. A good example was this passage, when Childs was exploring Anasazi construction on what is now a national park:

A cascade of flute music emanated from speakers tucked among the ceiling beams. I stood still for a moment, a little surprised, recognizing immediately that the music was played not on a Native American flute, but on a traditional Japanese shakuhachi. . . . This kiva was tangled in eclectic ancestry, unrelated histories passing in and out of each other, brought together by this place. What was it Einstein said, that time and space are the same entity? Does that mean that if you stand in one place and are a keen enough observer, you can see clearly through time’s entire lineage?

His discussions of the Anasazi people could also be self-serious or extravagant, but he did present many interesting facts about their daily lives and viewpoints. Here was his discussion of Kinishba, a vacated Anasazi compound:

I sensed manners and social regimentation in the way the site was laid out. It was not the monastic atmosphere I had once imagined in the halls of [another compound called Chaco], but a busy, orderly setting, an urban trade center. Everyone had a place, some families having doorways that opened prominently onto plazas, others living in smoky, poorly lit rooms deep in the pueblo’s interior.

The nonfiction account of the Anasazi people and Childs’s descriptions of his expeditions was often woven together effectively and he presented a convincing case that the land he was exploring needed to be walked or hiked to ever understand the Anasazi people.

Childs’s tone was often dense and he imbued even the smallest event with meaning. However, he created a generally compelling and informative work.

4/6: worth reading

other reviews:

Orion Magazine Ms. M’s Bookshelf Light+Space+Structure blog

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Dead Until Dark

Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris

publication date: 2001 pages: 312 ISBN: 978-0-441-01933-5

Dead Until Dark was the first book of the Sookie Stackhouse novels, which were the basis for the HBO show True Blood. I haven’t seen True Blood, so I don’t know how close the show reproduced the book. Dead Until Dark introduced Sookie Stackhouse, a dotty, Louisiana waitress who had a few secrets tucked away. First, she could read minds and second, she wanted to meet a vampire. Lucky for Sookie, the world created by Harris in Dead Until Dark conveniently included vampires – a subset of humans who had recently come out from the collective coffin a few years before we met Sookie at Merlotte’s bar.

The book was a mashup of genres: mystery, romance, fantasy, gothic, humor. Unfortunately, Harris didn’t represent any given genre very competently, although the combination did create a generally compelling story. It was a quick read, and I was intrigued enough, although I couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

The book was supposed to be quirky and funny. Sometimes that worked, like when Harris named the fictional local gas station the “Grabbit Kwik.” Often, it did not work, as in this description of a person whose mind Sookie was attempting to read:

I couldn’t hear his thoughts as clearly as I could other people’s. I’d had waves of impressions of how he was feeling, but not thoughts. More like wearing a mood ring than getting a fax.

The book was also supposed to be sexy. The sexiness, which was often odd and blunt, surprisingly worked for me. One of the first things that a vampire said to Sookie, after she surrounded her neck and arms with anti-vampire metal chains because she didn’t trust him not to bite her, was:

“But there’s a juicy artery in your groin,” he said after a pause to regroup, his voice as slithery as a snake on a slide.

Although reading Dead Until Dark was usually painless and uncomplicated, the book left much to be desired. The dialogue was pretty bad. There was this scene, where a character was trying to convince Sookie that she wouldn’t be able to read his mind:

[He said, “Would that be] relaxing to you?” “Oh, yes.” I meant it from my heart. “Can you hear me, Sookie?” “I don’t want to try!” I said hastily. . . . “I’ll have to quit if I read your mind, Sam! I like you, I like it here.”

Also, the action was often confusing and underwhelming. And, although Harris peppered the book with some passages that reminded the reader that the book was set in the South, generally, Harris’s lack of effective description seemed like a waste of the rich Southern setting.

Although the book wasn’t terrible, it didn’t intrigue me enough to induce me to read the other books in the series or to watch the TV show.

3/6: more good than bad

other reviews:

Russ Allbery’s reviews TechRepublic Pretty Little Memoirs

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Small Gods

Small Gods by Terry Pratchett

publication date: 1992 pages: 386 ISBN: 978-0-06-223737-8

In Small Gods, Terry Pratchett lampooned religion, God, gods, and the certainty and absurdity of men (and I mean men; basically none of the characters were female). Generally, Pratchett’s mockery was successful, and the book became more than just a send-up of humanity’s foibles.

Almost certainly, the book’s ultimate goal was to show the folly of religion. Pratchett’s plot, style, characters, and setting were all used to further that goal. Within the book, Pratchett created a fictional, long-established religion: The Church of the Great God Om. The country of Omnia was ruled by the Church and the Church dictated the laws of all Omnians. Pratchett introduced us to Brutha, a slow-witted and good-hearted Omnian monk who accidentally stumbled upon a quest on behalf of the Great God Om. Pratchett also presented Vorbis, a leader in the Church and an all-around bad guy. Finally, Pratchett introduced Om, the once-great god who remembered the days when he was powerful enough to smite enemies and sacrifice believers but who now, because of a decrease of faith in Omnia, is only a one-eyed tortoise who reluctantly relies on Brutha’s help.

Pratchett didn’t always take his plot too seriously. His writing style was satirical and clever. The pages were covered in jokes; some of which worked and some of which didn’t. Many of the jokes were at the expense of religion or the idea that human knowledge and certainty is anything less than ridiculous. For example, here was an exchange Brutha witnessed when he first met the learned philosophers from the country of Ephebe:

The [philosopher] called Xeno stepped forward, adjusting the hang of his toga. “That’s right,” he said. “We’re philosophers. We think, therefore we am.” “Are,” said the luckless paradox manufacturer automatically. Xeno spun around. “I’ve just about had it up to here with you, Ibid!” he roared. He turned back to Brutha. “We are, therefore we am,” he said confidently. “That’s it.”

Although Pratchett used his plot as a tool to convey his message and showcase his cleverness, he did give the story a beginning, middle, and end, and I was usually invested in what was happening with Brutha, Vorbis, and Om. The story was too long, however, and became repetitive and dull. Also, Pratchett would sometimes write with such heavy irony or such deliberate passivity that the action was confusing and the story was unclear.

Also, the whole book left me with a vague feeling of bewilderment. Parts of it were funny or interesting, but it all seemed pointless. If Pratchett wanted to convince people of his anti-religion message, surely a heavy-handed book making fun of religious people wasn’t the best tactic? But if Pratchett instead wanted to entertain those who already believed in the stupidity of religion, than the whole book was like an echo chamber, full of self-congratulatory jokes.

With that said, the book was funny, clever, and filled with details plucked from Pratchett’s active imagination. Go ahead and give it a whirl, if you want.

4/6: worth reading

other reviews:

Faith Fusion The Narratologist SF Reviews