Most of this was interesting, poignant and gratifying. Some of it was preachy, repetitive and trite, and a bit of it even felt sanctimonious.
I first tMost of this was interesting, poignant and gratifying. Some of it was preachy, repetitive and trite, and a bit of it even felt sanctimonious.
I first thought Kimmerer was doing warmed over Aldo Leopold, with dashes of Edward Abbey, Alan Watts, Wendell Berry and others. But I came to see her as a unique figure in her own right, and I really appreciate her novel synergy between Native spirituality and scientific inquiry. She is at her best when giving personal anecdotes, whether about her family, students, community, or acquaintances. These stories and passages are genuinely captivating, and they alone make the book worth reading.
The book is at its worst when she switches to meditations and generalities. The former are nice at the beginning of the book, but I lost patience for them after about the halfway point (my own flaw as a reader as much as anything I'm sure). The latter consist of her basically talking a lot about how we need to change things, and approach the land more like the indigenous do, and hoping/wondering if we can. These are by far the most forgettable parts of the book, both because the arguments lack deeper political/economic analysis, and because the solutions are completely aspirational. They take up about a third of the book, so I really wish an editor would have persuaded her to leave much of it out.
This book at about 250 pages, instead of 380, excising 5-10 of the broadest essays/chapters, would have been a masterpiece. The parts I liked I really do recommend though -- I could see how this might be better to listen to rather than read. I can also see it being good to read in conjunction with The Overstory, one of the better novels I've read in recent years.
It's very off-putting that virtually all of Lethem's protagonists are privileged, entitled, bitter assholes, and it definitely makes me suspect that Lethem is revealing more than he knows about himself in these pages. Maybe he intentionally made all of his protagonists that unlikable, but I've seen it done many times in far better ways, and I'm pretty much over it unless you're going to add some novelty (which Lethem doesn't). In this case it just makes me not want to either meet the author or read anymore of his work.
And where I called the stories from Wall of the Sky "inventive," here the bizarre premises just come off as random and sophomoric. I imagine Lethem had some higher artistic reason for inserting, alternately, a talking sheep, goat and crab into three different stories, but I can't be bothered to think too hard about why that might be, so the effect is that it just seems like he's trying too hard to be absurd.
I disliked all of these stories pretty intensely, which would normally amount to 1-star status. I'm giving a 2nd star just in acknowledgment that they were never boring... except for "This Shape We're In" which was not only the longest story but also incomprehensible. I'll not be reading more of Lethem.
Significantly more agreeable to me than either Pirx or Star Diaries, mostly because instead of being purely silly and trivial, Lem here uses his Ijon Significantly more agreeable to me than either Pirx or Star Diaries, mostly because instead of being purely silly and trivial, Lem here uses his Ijon Tichy "character" (in quotes because he has no discernible personality traits after two entire volumes) in service of more substance, exploring existential ideas of identity, ego and soul. As such, these stories are very much in the vein of Wells, Poe and Lovecraft, many of them being 2nd-party accounts of some demented scientific adventure that is as much existentially horrifying as it is fascinating.
I still don't like this endeavor of Lem's nearly as much as his more serious novels (Eden, Fiasco, or The Invincible), but I'm at least able to appreciate it more than his other Pirx or Tichy entries.
Not breezy enough to compensate its triviality, and too dated to make its satire worthwhile.
I had hoped this would be more substantive than Tales of PNot breezy enough to compensate its triviality, and too dated to make its satire worthwhile.
I had hoped this would be more substantive than Tales of Pirx the Pilot, or at least more engaging, and it was I guess in that it is far more allegorical to our society. The problem for the 21st century reader, of course, is that "our society" in this case is Cold War-era Europe.
To be fair, Lem does an admirable Jonathan Swift impersonation, and there is a place I suppose for a supremely Swiftian, ponderous sci-fi volume pillorying mid-20th century western civilization (albeit from a decidedly white patriarchal perspective)... but that place is not on my bookshelf.
I've loved Lem's more serious novels: Eden, Fiasco, and The Invincible. I expect to love Solaris when I read it soon as well. Perhaps I simply don't have the capacity anymore to appreciate comedic writing.
That's why I won't call this "bad" per se, I'll just say it's definitely not for me. But if the above paragraph's description intrigues you, you'll probably enjoy this book far more than I did.
I was blown away by the 1st story, "The World by Night," and it left me anxious to read the rest. It's not a heavy criticism that I feel like the remaI was blown away by the 1st story, "The World by Night," and it left me anxious to read the rest. It's not a heavy criticism that I feel like the remainder of the collection doesn't quite fulfill the promise of that singular and haunting opener... it's more a testament to the power of that first story, and to the fact that it's damn hard to write even one story that memorable, let alone half a dozen.
But what the rest of the stories do have is the same inventiveness, unexpectedness, thoughtfulness and darkness. These are not hopeful stories, but feel real and still somehow inspiring in how their protagonists face impossible situations, not necessarily "defeating" them but still preserving their dignity. The two I liked most after the opener were the titular "All the Names for God," about two women who develop a unique way to cope with horrific trauma at the hands of Boko Haram, and "Robert Greenman and the Mermaid," a fascinating, original take on an age-old sea myth.
Perhaps because most of the stories focus on some sort of outcast, there is a detachment from conventional society that is prevalent throughout. It's not so much a social critique as it is an invitation to consider a completely alien realm and perspective. These characters cannot participate in conventional society, but they find valuable ways to exist nonetheless. I identify strongly with the sentiment, and though I recognize how silly it is to feel this way, through her writing I feel like Sachdeva is a kindred spirit.
I haven't felt this invigorated by fiction since Bennett's The Divine Cities Trilogy, and before that Adam Haslett's You Are Not a Stranger Here. The latter actually set me on a quest to find modern female authors as inventive and edgy as Haslett (in the vein of Butler, Le Guin, Atwood, Shirley Jackson, etc.), and I hadn't had much success until now. But Sachdeva does it for me, finally... I eagerly await her next book!
I picked up this book after reading "The Palace Thief" in a collection, and it didn't disappoint me.
Ethan Canin feels like the platonic ideal of what I picked up this book after reading "The Palace Thief" in a collection, and it didn't disappoint me.
Ethan Canin feels like the platonic ideal of what I could have been as a writer, so while I don't necessarily love this book I feel a strange affinity for it. His prose is direct and relatively unimaginative, much like his protagonists. His narrators suffer from either a moral or character defect that leads them not only toward the ignoble, but also toward missing out on life's opportunities. The endings are meant to be poignant but fall a little flat. I say all of this in the manner of recognition: my own writing, when I still did it, had the same limitations.
What Canin does better than anything I ever achieved is to craft an addictive, tense narrative. I read the whole thing in about two days, and it was the first book I've read in awhile that I strongly preferred to building my Twitter following. A sense of dread permeates most of the stories, since you can either sense or are explicitly told that something bad will happen. The narrators are captivating enough, and the story moves along quickly enough, to cultivate a compulsive reading experience.
The only forgettable story was the "City of Broken Hearts," about a father dealing with both his ex-wife and son no longer needing him. The other three were all about equally solid, and make for entertaining reading. I don't feel a strong urge to read more of Canin -- there's only so much I can make myself care about Affluent White Guy problems these days -- but it was an enjoyable read and I respect the author's talent.
The single quality that jumps out to me in Chiang's stories, the common thread that unites all of them, is that they share a uniquely inventive visionThe single quality that jumps out to me in Chiang's stories, the common thread that unites all of them, is that they share a uniquely inventive vision from which Chiang examines his subject or phenomenon. His humanism and grasp of psychology enable him to then explore the subjects with an eye toward the uttermost realism possible. In addition, Chiang utilizes his scientific/mathematical knowledge not only to explore the topics from a more expert perspective than most fiction writers, but also to shape his very focus. All of these factors combined make for a wholly original and unforgettable reading experience.
My three favorite stories in the collection are those that excel with these qualities: "Understand," "Hell is the Absence of God," and "Like What You See: A Documentary." Summaries are elsewhere, but at least in the case of the latter two I've never read anything like them, from premise to execution. "Like What You See" analyzed a bizarre neurotechnology breakthrough from what must be almost every human perspective imaginable -- amazingly thorough. "Hell is the Absence of God" also packs the greatest emotional punch, along with "Story of Your Life" (which I actually liked less than the film adaptation). "Tower of Babylon" was also unique in its handling of the ancient myth, though the alien setting made it somewhat less engrossing.
That's 5/8 of the book that is exceptionally memorable, a pretty impressive ratio for a short story collection. Among the others, the slight "The Evolution of Human Science" seems hardly worth mentioning, while "The Division of Zero" was an uninspiring letdown after the magnificent "Understand". I wanted to like "Seventy-Two Letters" and did at first, but Chiang ended up cramming too much into it, trying to combine two simultaneously incredible premises into one forced story.
But yes, this is a profoundly impressive achievement as a debut collection, and I'm stunned to find that he hasn't published anything else. I'll be eagerly awaiting more stories from this original voice -- as of now I don't feel it exaggeration to place him next to other modern visionaries like Philip K. Dick and Octavia Butler (limiting the category to Earth-based sci-fi). I would highly recommend this book to literally anyone.
A nice enough -- though far from vital -- collection of Poe's greatest hits. The hook is that editor Michael Connelly recruited a couple handfuls of mA nice enough -- though far from vital -- collection of Poe's greatest hits. The hook is that editor Michael Connelly recruited a couple handfuls of modern authors to write blurbs after each story. Stephen King and Sue Grafton are the headliners while the others are probably known only to fans of modern mysteries and thrillers.
Given the hook, the main disappointment of the volume is just how vacuous most of these blurbs are, with few of them having anything to say beyond, "Wow I remember how scary my first Poe story was when I was (insert age here). He has influenced everyone!" Several even admit to not really liking Poe but writing this as a favor to Connelly. That's strange stuff to mold a tribute out of.
It's nice enough to mark the occasion of Poe's 200th birth year, and it's always great to read classics like "The Cask of Amontillado," "Black Cat," and "The Raven," so you know there's no way it can be actively bad. But oddly enough the best thing I can say about the book is that its layout is impressively handsome, with wonderful title pages, illustrations and fonts. Beyond that, it's not indispensable for anyone except the most ardent Poe enthusiasts.
I just realized the irony of deciding to stop reading this on Memorial Day, given all of the pro-military jingoism on display in many of Heinlein's esI just realized the irony of deciding to stop reading this on Memorial Day, given all of the pro-military jingoism on display in many of Heinlein's essays. I swear it wasn't intentional -- I just coincidentally figured out today that about half of these 500+ pages were ideologically conservative non-fiction instead of the sci-fi short stories I was expecting.
I have no personal need for that paranoid tripe, especially when a solid majority of Heinlein's political and technological predictions were hilariously mistaken. Consider it my Memorial Day observance, to refuse to read paranoid propaganda that, if ever implemented, would lead to the senseless loss of millions more soldiers' lives. I respect our fallen soldiers too much to endorse this.
Among the far too few pieces of actual fiction, I rated two as good: "Life-line," about the practical effects of a scientist who figures out how to predict people's deaths, and "Free Men," a grim, realistic depiction of a resistance movement in post-invasion America. The rest of the book is utterly forgettable and I encourage you to avoid it while seeking out these two stories.
I expected more from this than a series of vignettes. Even the back cover says "seven paradoxical tales," the last word implying some sort of narrativI expected more from this than a series of vignettes. Even the back cover says "seven paradoxical tales," the last word implying some sort of narrative or plot structure within each section. Yet there is little narrative and no resolution, with the conclusions to each section being abrupt and consistently unsatisfying. Each story is merely a glimpse into the lives of people experiencing extraordinary circumstances -- circumstances borne of what is generally thought of as illness or disease but in reality is often just an alternative neurological process that in many ways is equally as valid as what we consider "normal."
Each of these vignettes could have easily been reduced by 75% and conveyed virtually as much information. To pad it, Sacks adds in historical details and scientific philosophy to talk about the condition of each of his patients. These details bored me and I skipped most of them, eager to return to each individual under discussion, eager because I imagined more was coming than just a blanket description of their issues and in some cases how their condition progresses over time. Sadly, I mis-imagined.
But the people are fascinating, and Sacks, when focusing his writing on them, tells their story artfully. The writing is competent (but for the conclusions) and approachable, though he does give off a subtle vibe of self-aggrandizement. The best and most informative vignettes were of Dr. Carl Bennett, a Tourettic surgeon; Virgil, the lifelong blind man who regained sight; and the titular "Anthropologist on Mars," Temple Grandin, perhaps the most famous person with autism in the world.
With Grandin in particular, you get a wonderful perspective on what it must truly be like to live life autistically. And I love how she and Sacks hint at an idea that has long seemed convincing to me: that autism is not as much a malady as it is a different way of experiencing the world. Yes it has many drawbacks attached, but having autism is not necessarily the tragedy that many people make it out to be in our culture at large.
One discussion I really liked was in Virgil's section, where Sacks argues that human sight, which we simply assume is automatic and innate, is actually learned. It's not inherent that we make sense of the shapes and colors around us; we have to learn how to do it and if we don't when we're a kid then it might be too late to ever learn. This idea fascinates me as it actually calls into question the objectivity of our visual reality. That is, if we know that some people, like Virgil, do not get the consensus output with the same input as everyone else, then it's not too far a leap to reason that none of us is actually perceiving the same physical objects in the same way. It opens up some intriguing philosophical questions.
All in all, the book felt like a series of magazine features that was padded out to book length. It's not the worst way to pass the time, but it offers no overarching substance or even a coherent argument (e.g., because these fascinating conditions exist, we should adopt a more flexible understanding of reality and learn greater compassion). Despite Sacks's obvious brilliance and all of the wonderful endeavors he is pursuing, the book itself felt a little lazy.
It might be because I just read hundreds of pages of pulpy, early 20th-century sci-fi shorts, but Forster's collection strikes me as masterful. His chIt might be because I just read hundreds of pages of pulpy, early 20th-century sci-fi shorts, but Forster's collection strikes me as masterful. His characterizations are consistently strong and artful, and his themes of humanism, the loss of nature and artistic creativity are both stirring and sorrowful. The writing itself is clear yet lyrical, and a higher competence radiates through every line.
Perhaps the greatest feature of these stories is their ambiguity, something I hadn't fully realized I value in short fiction. But indeed it is this quality which I now believe elevates short stories to the realm of art -- otherwise they're mere diversion (as were the science fiction stories I just finished).
The collection itself is not strong throughout -- about half of the stories are trivial exercises in parody or unsubtle philosophical statements. But the rest range from thought-provoking incision to haunting beauty. They are soul-nourishing in the same way as Hesse and the best of Graham Greene (with perhaps even shades of Tolstoy?), with their attention to spirituality in the midst of the story-telling. It's surprising that they're as readable as they are, given their heft and age; but I read the whole collection in a handful of sittings.
The first six stories were originally published in The Celestial Omnibus and Other Stories, and it is a more solid group than the last six, first published in The Machine Stops and Other Stories. Among the first six only "The Other Side of the Hedge" and "The Curate's Friend" fit into that trivial category I mentioned above. Among the other four my favorites were "Other Kingdom," about a woman of nature who is slowly being tamed by her aristocratic fiance, and "The Road from Colonus," a heartbreaking tale of an old man who is thwarted in his one final wish. I must admit I've read "The Celestial Omnibus" so many times that it has somewhat lost its effect on me, although I do believe it's a great story overall.
Among the second group of stories, "The Machine Stops" and "The Eternal Moment" are outstanding, and not only for their near-novella lengths. "The Machine Stops" is noteworthy as Forster's only true science-fiction story, and one of the earliest serious attempts at the genre. It is about a society that is totally run by The Machine, in which people don't have to do anything so have stopped doing everything. With almost a century's anticipation he not only predicts the basic framework of the Internet, but he recognizes how it ultimately leads to our fragmentation as a society and isolation as individuals. When your room "is in touch with all that (you care) for in the world," you might not ever want to leave it, nor physically interact with anybody at all.
"The Eternal Moment" is maybe the best story in the entire book. It's hard to explain exactly why, because the story of an author who revisits the once-sleepy village she put on the map through one of her novels is superficially unimpressive. The characterizations are remarkable, as is the sense of crushing nostalgia that Forster develops with his protagonist's remembrance of an unconsummated affair. This mixes in a fascinating way with her self-recrimination over "spoiling" the village by attracting tourists with her novel. The denouement's naked realism is both heartbreaking and inspiring, two adjectives that don't really go together all that often.
As for the introduction, I read it after the rest of the book as I typically do (to avoid spoilers), and rarely have I found an introduction that needs so badly to be an afterword. I knew nothing of Forster's homosexuality so it was interesting to read the stories free of context and then think back on them with the new background knowledge. "The Story of the Siren," "The Curate's Friend," and "The Point of It" certainly become more complex through the lens of Forster's self-repression.
All in all this is a strong collection from a strong writer who often gets lost in the mix of turn-of-the-century Brits. I highly recommend it to any fans of classic literature or British literature. And just because I absolutely agree with Forster's description of himself I'll include this quote from the back cover: "I do flatter myself that I can tell a story without exaggerating. . ." It's not as easy a feat as you might think.
A rather stodgy collection that is best read in spurts, or by skipping certain sections completely. It's laid out in six sections, the first three of A rather stodgy collection that is best read in spurts, or by skipping certain sections completely. It's laid out in six sections, the first three of which weren't that appealing (and one of THOSE -- The Atom -- which you could probably skip completely due to how dated it is).
The only memorable stories in those first three sections were from the Wonders of the Earth section: "Killdozer!" a surprisingly compelling tale about a possessed bulldozer, and "Davy Jones' Ambassador," an underwater adventure that reminded me a lot of the James Cameron film "The Abyss." The third section, The Superscience of Man, was the most disappointing for me as it had the big names of short fiction -- Poe, Doyle, Wells and Julian Huxley -- but featured telepathy and body-swapping stories that were uniformly dull.
The best stories by far were by two other big names -- Heinlein and Asimov -- and found in the last From Outer Space section. Heinlein's "Universe" was a proto-Matrix type dystopian hero's journey about a huge spaceship whose inhabitants believe there is no outer world. It featured some well-layered philosophical and religious musings about the nature of reality and how people become entrenched in their beliefs. Asimov's "Blind Alley" is a fascinating psychological examination of colonization with a great payoff as only Asimov does.
The other stories worth reading are "Ultimate Metal," about a newly discovered alloy whose inventor doesn't research enough before implementation; "The Machine," about a disastrous world where a supercomputer takes care of all of humanities needs; "The Monster from Nowhere," a cool mystery about an extra-dimensional "monster"; and "The Search," one of the best and most complete time-travel stories I've read.
Still, that's a pretty low ratio of good stories and the entire collection is forgettable except as a nifty glimpse at the origins of the genre. Campbell's preface is pretty interesting as well, in any case significantly moreso than Conklin's.
A quick read and engaging, Shawn's spunky, refreshing take on politics and the arts exactly mirrors the kind of pugnacious Vizzini character he playedA quick read and engaging, Shawn's spunky, refreshing take on politics and the arts exactly mirrors the kind of pugnacious Vizzini character he played in "Princess Bride." As fresh a take as it is, it's also (and strangely) exactly what you might have expected given the little you know about the man's personality: direct, inventive, and more than a little self-serving (though with a wink).
His interview with Chomsky is expectedly rewarding, and he offers harsh but eloquent-in-their-crispness critiques of the U.S. with regards to Iraq, Abu Ghraib, and Palestine. He has an impressive way of framing issues that makes it seem impossible to imagine another way of seeing it. A representative passage occurs early on, in the second essay, and it serves as a sort of thesis for the types of political arguments you can expect from most of the book:
In contrast to the African miner who works underground doing painfully difficult labor in terrifying conditions and then receives a minuscule reward, I have a life that is extremely pleasant. I have enough money to buy myself warm and comfortable shoes and sweaters; each Wednesday I pay a nice person to clean my apartment and keep it neat; and each April at tax time I pay my government to perform a similar service in the world outside. I pay it to try to keep the world more or less as it is, so that next year it will not suddenly be me who is working a seventy-hour week in some godforsaken pit or digging in some field under the burning sun. It's all terrific, but my problem is that my government is the medium through which I conduct my relationships with most of my fellow human beings, and I'm obliged to note that its actions don't conform to the principles of morality. Yes, I may be a friendly fellow to meet on the street, but I've found, through my government, a sneaky way to do some terrible things. . . 27-8
To sum up, this is a nice book to read if it comes across your path, as it did mine. It's a quick read, breezy, but also filled with important ideas. I wasn't expecting to keep it after reading, but it has enough of value to have earned a place on my shelf.
I believe I've stated elsewhere that I would read Orwell write about paint drying. After this I think I'd have to recant that sentiment, as a lot of tI believe I've stated elsewhere that I would read Orwell write about paint drying. After this I think I'd have to recant that sentiment, as a lot of these reviews and "As I Please" columns seemed rather trivial, especially given the era in which they were written. I still love the man, the thinker and the writer, but I was disappointed by how little he addressed incredibly significant historical moments such as D-Day, Hiroshima/Nagasaki and the end of the war. I can't imagine he wouldn't have fascinating thoughts on the topics, and I was eagerly anticipating reading about them. To be fair, a significant part of this disappointment is certainly due to reading Noam Chomsky before this, a guy who only writes about important things.
Still, saying an Orwell book is disappointing, for me, is like saying that not all of Beethoven's symphonies were masterpieces. That's just how much I unabashedly love the guy. You still have the pristine clarity of thought, the overwhelming emphasis on reason and objectivity, and even the occasional humility -- for instance, when he had to admit that all of his wildly utopian predictions at the beginning of the war about England undergoing a revolution were embarrassing even to him (something I pointed out in my review of the last volume). He still offers fascinating insight into the ground-level politics of WWII, what with its battling factions and ideologies.
The overarching theme of these pieces is Orwell's humanism and democratic socialism, which he takes pains to defend against conservatism, totalitarianism, communism (i.e., Stalinism), fascism and even Trotskyism (dogmatic anti-Stalin socialism). It leaves me wanting to check out the final installment of the series, In Front of Your Nose: 1945-1950. All that's left now is to note some highlights:
In the last analysis our only claim to victory is that if we win the war we shall tell less lies about it than our adversaries. The really frightening thing about totalitarianism is not that it commits "atrocities" but that it attacks the concept of objective truth: it claims to control the past as well as the future. . . There is some hope, therefore, that the liberal habit of mind, which thinks of truth as something outside yourself, something to be discovered, and not as something you can make up as you go along, will survive. 88
That really shows the origin of a large portion of his 1984 ideas. Then:
An argument that Socialists ought to be prepared to meet. . . is the alleged immutability of "human nature." Socialists are accused -- I think without justification -- of assuming that Man is perfectible, and it is then pointed out that human history is in fact one long tale of greed, robbery and oppression. . .
The proper answer, it seems to me, is that this argument belongs to the Stone Age. It presupposes that material goods will always be desperately scarce. The power hunger of human beings does indeed present a serious problem, but there is no reason for thinking that the greed for mere wealth is a permanent human characteristic. We are selfish in economic matters because we all live in terror of poverty. But when a commodity is not scarce, no one tries to grab more than his fair share of it. No one tries to make a corner in air, for instance. . . Or, again, water. In this country we are not troubled by lack of water. . . Yet in dried-up countries like North Africa, what jealousies, what hatreds, what appalling crimes the lack of water can cause! So also with any other kind of goods. If they were made plentiful, as they so easily might be, there is no reason to think that the supposed acquisitive instincts of the human being could not be bred out in a couple of generations. And after all, if human nature never changes, why is it that we not only don't practice cannibalism any longer, but don't even want to? 189-90
I am no lover of the V2 [bomb], especially at this moment when the house still seems to be rocking from a recent explosion, but what depresses me about these things it the way they set people talking about the next war. Every time one goes off I hear gloomy references to "next time", and the reflection: "I suppose they'll be able to shoot them across the Atlantic by that time". But if you ask who will be fighting whom when this universally expected war breaks out, you get no clear answer. It is just war in the abstract -- the notion that human beings could ever behave sanely having apparently faded out of many people's memories. 280
Or again it can be argued that no unbiased outlook is possible, that all creeds and causes involve the same lies, follies and barbarities; and this is often advanced as a reason for keeping out of politics altogether. I do not accept this argument, if only because in the modern world no one describable as an intellectual can keep out of politics in the sense of not caring about them. I think one must engage in politics -- using the word in a wide sense -- and that one must have preferences: that is, one must recognize that some causes are objectively better than others, even if they are advanced by equally bad means. As for the nationalistic loves and hatreds that I have spoken of, they are part of the make-up of most of us, whether we like it or not. Whether it is possible to get rid of them I do not know, but I do believe that it is possible to struggle against them, and that this is essentially a moral effort. 380
The great need of the moment is to make people aware of what is happening and why, and to persuade them that Socialism is a better way of life but not necessarily, in its first stages, a more comfortable one. I have no doubt they would accept this if it were put to them in the right way: but at present nothing of the kind is being attempted. 398
A moderately-sized mound of "meh." van den Berg's writing is competent and confident, and her stories mostly interesting. They don't really go anywherA moderately-sized mound of "meh." van den Berg's writing is competent and confident, and her stories mostly interesting. They don't really go anywhere though, and the protagonists are uniformly unlikeable, both of which combined to leave me mostly unsatisfied. The titular story is the best by a good margin, but even that ending is frustratingly inconclusive.
Another issue I had (which I freely admit is probably a personal issue related to my recent work in critical race theory): most of the stories just feel so very white and privileged. In four of the stories, her protagonists are the types of people who can vacation in Patagonia or Paris, or charter Antarctic planes. White people problems, in other words. I just don't really care that much about white people's problems these days. I guess I should be reading more works by people of color.
In conclusion: it was fine and it passed the time well enough. Hell, if I have to read mediocre stories I'd rather they be written by a woman than a man. But I'd also rather they be written by a woman of color than a white woman, or at least by someone who could provide a less-privileged perspective.
Being an inexpert white guy, an attempt to thoroughly review and critique this book of predominantly black-centered racial analyses would be misguidedBeing an inexpert white guy, an attempt to thoroughly review and critique this book of predominantly black-centered racial analyses would be misguided at best. So I'll keep it short.
I love Baldwin's language and his organization of thought. He has the gift shared by many great thinkers of framing issues in such a way that they seem at once wholly fresh and deeply intuitive. His eloquence is one of his greatest strengths. Having been fortunate to see many of his interviews and speeches over the years, it was fun to mentally hear his unique rhythm and pronunciation while reading his poetic words.
There were only a couple of things I didn't like about this collection. One was that it became thematically monotonous after awhile, and the second is that his eloquent language can become convoluted at times, with several commas per sentence, each one sometimes separating only one or two words. At the same time, you can quibble with his presentation, but never with his facts. I defy any critic to find the untruth in these writings.
Overall this is an excellent collection to own, and while I wouldn't prescribe the entire volume to just anyone, every North-American should have a passing familiarity with Baldwin's non-fiction. "Nobody Knows My Name" and "The Fire Next Time" are must-reads, while "No Name in the Street" has its moments as well. Among the shorter works, "A Talk to Teachers," "The White Man's Guilt," and "A Report from Occupied Territory" are my highlights. It's no shock that Baldwin's most powerful essays coincided with the height of the Civil Rights movement.
Strongly recommend, at least in parts. If you want to understand the U.S., you must understand the country's unhealthy relationship with its black inhabitants. And nobody elucidates that relationship more penetratingly (and sympathetically) than James Baldwin.
Beautiful stories well-told, stories of loss, secrets, desire and flawed love. Beautiful stories well-told, that's what I keep coming back to. It's thBeautiful stories well-told, stories of loss, secrets, desire and flawed love. Beautiful stories well-told, that's what I keep coming back to. It's the sentence that describes why I simultaneously like this book and find it frustrating.
On my recent exploration of short stories I've been looking for more than just "beautiful stories well-told." I feel like there are so many authors and collections out there that this should be sort of a bare minimum for what is acceptable reading. But I want interesting stories well-told. Collar-grabbing stories. Or maybe bold stories poorly told. I want something beyond the expected, and that's not what I found here.
The most unexpected thing here is that Munro writes three stories off of one group of characters, the Juliet/Penelope/Christa axis found in "Chance," "Soon" and "Silence." I don't think I'd ever seen that and I liked it, dipping into Juliet's life in three differently harrowing moments. "Silence" was maybe the most memorable story of the bunch, a truly horrifying mother's nightmare that got me really wound up as a parent myself.
See, I like stuff that I haven't seen before, and I am honest about it when I find it. And Munro did it here, if briefly. But otherwise, if "beyond the expected" is your preferred criteria here you're going to be disappointed. Every single story is about a (white) Canadien woman who has "never belonged" for one reason or another (often because she's smarter than the surrounding yokels) and either searches for or finds something that confirms her exceptionality. In other words, this collection does not pass my "do-they-all-blend-together?" test that I developed just recently on the magnificent collection You Are Not a Stranger Here (see my review).
Munro's writing is not as blandly sterile as someone like Jhumpa Lahiri in her Interpreter of Maladies, but neither is she as edgy or audacious as Adam Haslett. Still looking for some white female authors of literary fiction to step up and ring my edgy bell. I know they're out there and I feel like maybe I'm getting a little warmer with this. But I'm not looking for warm. Warm is a synonym for tepid.
Wow, this is one of the best books of short stories I've ever read. Top 5 for sure. I loved four of them -- "Notes to My Biographer," "The Beginnings Wow, this is one of the best books of short stories I've ever read. Top 5 for sure. I loved four of them -- "Notes to My Biographer," "The Beginnings of Grief," "Devotion," and "Divination" -- and the rest were merely very good.
"Biographer" is actually in the running for my favorite short story ever. It starts the book off with such a bang, a man who you only realize two pages in is on a manic bender, this searing, frenetic freight train screaming toward a collapsed bridge. I was amazed and enthralled.
"The Good Doctor" applies the brakes somewhat -- the worst of the bunch IMO, the most apparently crafted -- but "Grief" picks up almost where "Biographer" left off. I don't think it's a coincidence that two of Haslett's best stories, maybe the two best, are written in 1st person; he clearly has a gift for writing twisted, damaged characters in this voice.
But I would actually call "Divination" my second favorite. It is totally heart-wrenching and unexpected, the tale of a boy who may or may not be able to sense deaths before they happen. In fact, it best displays what I most like about these stories in that you have no idea where it's headed. "Divination" could have ended in one of at least three different ways and been equally effective. I don't often get chills reading, but the ends of both this and "Biographer" did it for me. Astonishing.
So what makes these stories so good? Haslett has an incredible command of his characters and his plotting. The writing is natural yet impeccable, and both characters and situation feel absolutely authentic. He respects his audience by not hand-feeding important details and plot points. He is deeply in touch with human pain and suffering, yet he conveys them through his stories as gently as possible. And behind the despair is usually a note of redemption which provides the perfect dash of sweetness to his otherwise bitter fruit. It's jaw-droppingly beautiful is what I'm trying to say.
One of my favorite things about this collection is that despite a common theme throughout the book of suffering and despair, each story is so radically different from the others. This is a feat in itself, to distinguish each of your creations so exactingly, not only in character and plot but also in voice. It's in stark contrast to other collections including the last one I read, Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies, where the stories quickly began to blend together (see my review).
Ironically, I came into this book wanting to dislike it, just because I've become keenly aware of the lack of female representation on my bookshelves and I have been really trying not only to read more female authors but also to better see through the male authors' machinations. I was a little dismayed after falling head over heels for the first story: "Damnit, I don't want to find more white male authors to like, I need to get some women up in here, or at least some g.d. color!"
But I couldn't help it, it's just so good. And I was realizing while reading that what really gets me about writing like this (especially in the 1st and 3rd stories) is its audacity and boldness, its edge. Why can I not find more women who write this way? Jhumpa Lahiri, one of the most respected female writers of our generation, is as sterile as a counter-spray in comparison. In fact the boldest female authors I can think of are either sci-fi (Atwood, Le Guin), black (Morrison, Hurston, Walker), or both (Octavia E. Butler). What am I missing here?
So yeah, in conclusion: read this book, it's a work of art and will most likely leave you awe-struck. I can't wait to read more of him. Oh, and please someone tell me which female authors approach this level of exceptionality so that I can read them too! I swear I'm trying, I'm really trying!
They don't quite do it for me, these quiet, mundane episodes of Indian-Americans in varying stages of missing their cultural homeland. Which is not toThey don't quite do it for me, these quiet, mundane episodes of Indian-Americans in varying stages of missing their cultural homeland. Which is not to say I think they're bad, or that Ms. Lahiri is untalented. . . just that it's not my cup of milky Darjeeling.
I'm a fan of the straightforward prose, and Lahiri displays a strong grasp of imagery and details. You never doubt the authenticity of her stories (except for "Mrs. Sen's," which features the most selfless, sensitive and understanding young boy who ever lived).
But they tend to run together, these snippets of immigrants struggling within this alien culture, sometimes struggling because of the culture itself but just as often due to strained personal relationships. Also taxing is the relentless theme of sadness, loneliness and quiet despair.
My favorite story is the first one, "A Temporary Matter," a heartbreaking requiem for a marriage. Other good ones are "When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine," "This Blessed House," and "The Third and Final Continent." I was surprised that the titular story left me coldest. It honestly seemed almost amateurish.
In sum, I can appreciate the quality of craftsmanship but have little interest in experiencing more of it. I think I need more flashing lights than Lahiri is offering.
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