Eduardo Santiago

Well written and organized. Informative and engaging. Much of what she wrote in 2016, it's not that it's "still relevant" today, it's that it's worse. Chapter 5, on corruption, was chilling. The next pandemics will hit a U.S. whose medical and clinical institutions have been decimated; a U.S. with subhumans in charge of all national offices and with an economic depression or possibly full collapse. Information gathering and sharing, research, prevention, treatment, will all be up to states or isolated universities. And, as Shah clearly describes, violent mobs will likely strike at the latter. Interesting times. I feel sorry for the few who might survive.

All I felt was dismay that a book like this would even need to be written: nothing in it is new or even unusual. It's simply how a human being lives day to day, with integrity and decency.

Then I started thinking about two books I read in the past week, [book:Mountain Time|201358084] and [book:Thunder Song|185767242], both dealing in part with the Turtle Island genocide, and in particular illustrating historical interactions between individuals. Both books reinforced a belief I've long held: inferiors are <i>incapable</i> of understanding honor. It's not that they scorn it or use it selectively, it's that their brains genuinely don't have the ability to register it. Sort of a corollary to Jonathan Haidt's work. Anyhow, that makes it challenging to reach them... and impossible for a book like this. So who is Snyder's target audience then?

A little too breezy for my taste but taken in small doses, such as one chapter per night, it was enjoyable and informative. The most distinctive element—something I’ve never seen before—is a blurb covering the history and evolution of each mark. Also useful are notes detailing the differences in opinion between Chicago, AP, and other style guides, and why those matter.

UPDATE, two months later: I tried again and finished it. Thank goodness that’s over. It was tiresome, heavyhanded; the dialog blathery and often unreadable. The only reason I kept at it was to better read and understand Demon Copperhead, so I ended up just skimming the second half. It often helped to fantasize about Copperfield stabbing a rusty knife in this-or-that evil person’s throat and watching them slowly drown in their own blood. The hope that “next page he’ll do it, for sure!” kept me going more than once.

Ten years separate this from [book:A Tale of Two Cities|1953] and it really shows: although this one shows hints of Dickens’s compassion and sense of justice, he grew up a lot in that time.

Now I eagerly go forward to Kingsolver!

Fierce and powerful and disturbing. LaPointe's life, and her ancestors', is filled with traumas that most of us will never experience. Also tremendous good fortune, if we can call it that to escape attacks from a predatory exploitative system that shouldn't exist. Would you call yourself lucky to walk through a park without being kidnapped/murdered? To survive domestic abuse and negligent medical care? The book had me constantly reflecting on my privilege.

Hers is a life I will never truly understand: 90's punk scene, queer, rage, neglect, fear. LaPointe gets me to see, hear, and feel more intimately than perhaps I ever have. Gives me a new deeper sense of the generational trauma of Coast Sailish people, of the racism and violences against them, of the daily weight of loss.

This isn't just a rage-etc book. LaPointe is an adult now, with a huge and beautiful heart. She writes of transformation and reconciliation and hope and growth. Deeply moving.

Strong recommendation: look up <b>Vi Hilbert</b> before you begin reading.

Piggyback note: reading this in December 2024 is especially painful. Being reminded of the disease, destruction, violence, and suffering inflicted upon good people by a much smaller group of white monsters; of Chief Seattle's courage in the face of indescribable loss; I'm imagining some wise old souls bowing heads sadly and thinking, here we go again.

I can see the appeal: there probably aren't that many gentle murder mysteries. I liked the pacing, thoughtfulness, and compassion. I liked the depictions of scenery and culture. The characters themselves were onedimensional, but that's ok for a first work. And the plot contortions, ditto. Penny shows promise and I will probably read more of her work.

Exquisite. Holy Posole with Mole and Guacamole, what an astonishing collection. How can someone write about heartbreaking loss, so many forms of it, while leaving the reader feeling cocooned in warmth and love and hope? I think Golden gets it; understands the Big Questions and their pesky Answers that lie just at the edge of our vision. (See Gegenschein in the Glossary and Notes).

Read this book. Read it as soon as you can. Give yourself time and patience, because the first two essays are (sorry) not her best: awkward and clashy, informative but at a cost. Worth reading anyway. After those two, she really gets in stride and WOW. What a heart. What a talent for depicting the natural world, and human foibles. What an ability to show just how easy it would be to do the right thing, and how tragic it is that over and over we choose not to.

Read it. Read the Glossary (Seriously. Consider it required reading). Read the Notes (not quite as required reading). Give some thought to the questions she raises. Then give your copy (or a copy) to someone you love.

Unexpectedly comforting. Goodall is an amazing person: talented, smart, accomplished, kind, and, most importantly to me, not a bullshitter. She differentiates hope from optimism and from wishful thinking, recognizing that hope requires effort and awareness. She cites scientific research on hope, but mostly sticks to stories because they're more effective.

Our future was stolen from us on November 5. This book has helped me face that.

So, I read the English edition right after the original, and almost dropped it ten pages in. The tone feels all wrong: brusque and choppy, not the indescribable softer touch of Herrera’s oh-so-deliberate Spanish. English lacks sensuousness and depth sometimes. And reflexive verbs! Herrera makes delicious use of this property, and it’s completely lost in translation. I had to go back and reread parts of the Spanish just to remind myself of the flow and tone. I can’t call it a bad translation, it really is quite sensible, it just misses so much.

Demasiados niveles para mí. Tremenda obra, dificilísima, compleja, oscura pero poéticamente hermosa. Entre el dialecto mejicano y el vocabulario sofisticado de Herrera me tomó tiempísimo cojerle el golpe; perseveré y me valió la pena.

Sé que hay alegoría de mitos Maya. No los entendí, y probablemente nunca los entienda. No importa. Yo igual le encontré mucho valor: novela opresiva acerca de pérdida de identidad, sobre abusos y castismo y la importancia del tiempo. El valor y la necesidad de tener guias.

Aunque tiene elementos de Hero’s Journey a lo Campbell, no creo que eso sea tema principal: Makina ya es héroe por su cuenta, no tiene fortuna que buscar. Su encomienda es pretexto cuya razón confieso que no me hace sentido. Sus experiencias en su viaje conforman al modelo pero es el lector quien crece. Intento volver a leerlo.

Challenging but oh so worth it. I felt some irritation from the start, because there's a whole lotta It Does Not Work That Way: amateur radio, weather, island hopping, small-community economics. It annoys me when writers get fundamental, easily-verified facts wrong, and I almost DNF’ed each time a new logistical implausibility arose.

Then things took a wild turn and I realized it’s intentional. The story is not a dream, nor meant to be interpreted as one (IMO), but the tone is often dreamlike and there are fantastical, surreal elements that I found myself going with. I wish I’d known this ahead of time, so here you go. May my warning prepare you and encourage you because this is a worthwhile book with a beautiful soul.

The story centers around ambiguous loss. Klagmann explores it from several angles, and all I can say is they’re creative and compelling. Grief, acceptance, kindness, resilience, grit, and tons of compassion. Climate Change is a major character and that’s not the nonsequitur you think it is. This is a book I would love to group read.

Compelling. Powerful. Disturbing. Even though it’s clear from the beginning that this was historical fiction only in the loosest sense, it’s also clear that the bones of the story are solid and that Lawhon did a lot of research to flesh it out. Her characters are simplistic but not flat, if that makes any sense? The villains are villainous, the simple folk simple, the noble ones noble, and our hero, protagonist and first-person narrator, is too-perfect smart sharp no-nonsense competent warmhearted sensitive astute amazing ninja superwoman. Also, the drama is waaaaaaaay over the top. And somehow I found myself completely absorbed, recognizing these nits and not caring. See “compelling” above.

One reason I loved the book so much is that Lawhon pulls no punches. The details may be invented, but the circumstances are real. Life was inconceivably difficult for women in the eighteenth century(*), in ways that are different from the way life is difficult today. Lawhon shows much of their everyday life in often-cringeworthy detail. She shows the fortitude and grit needed to survive and thrive. And reminds us that there are people today, an entire political party, who would like us to return to those days.

VOTE.

* and nineteenth and twentieth and twenty-first. Possibly earlier centuries too.

Sometimes you discover a new writer, love their work, seek out another of their books, and re-learn that crucial life lesson from Princess Bride: “Get used to disappointment.”

This is not that kind of story. I’m delighted to report that Kingfisher does not disappoint.

This book charmed and impressed me. Kingfisher is hella smart, emotionally as well as intellectually, and treats her reader as equally so. She also has a strong moral compass while also recognizing the realities of a messy world. And she’s funny. Not slapstick, just lovely dry wry lines once in a while, unexpected tingles in the middle of an otherwise serious situation.

The characters are complex, the story is as well. There’s magic and fantasy and drama and stuff I don’t usually care for... but it’s all original, clever, and I really love the way she writes it in: completely unexplained, no contrived rationalizations, just simple elements of that world which the characters take in stride. That kind of narration feels more genuine than attempts to create some set of rules. There’s adult sexual tension that also feels genuine: complicated and inconvenient but powerful. Subtle and thoughtful explorations of lookism. Pain and regret and soulsearching and lots of heart.

And a cutoff ending that had me purchasing and starting the next book in the series.

Ugh... what a beautifully written awful book. <i>Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf</i> meets <i>The Great Gatsby</i> with a good dose of <i>Othello</i>, but entirely unique. Three characters, with not the slightest tinge of likability for any of them. Each one is shallow, soulless, growing more horrid the more we get to know them. Each pair relationship is sick and twisted; the group dynamic is, well, read it yourself.

Did I urge you to “read it” after that blast? I did. I recommend it despite everything because I found it fascinating. And, again, beautifully written. Are there really people like that? There must be. What would it be like to be one? Are they even aware that life does not need to be that way? One of the characters is almost self-aware, completely spot-on about patriarchy and capitalism and cultural expectations, but is still completely unhinged and neurotic and irresponsible and worthless but even so they are. All. So. Fascinating. Agbaje-Williams is a remarkable writer; the way she voices each character is impressive. I considered DNFing several times—usually I prefer books where I can like or admire or respect at least one person—but I’m glad I finished. The person I respect is Agbaje-Williams, who must be very wise indeed to be able to invent and share these appalling people.

Graceful, evocative, and tender. Also annoyingly clumsy at times.

The story is lovely, as is the storytelling: alternating short chapters following two wildly disconnected characters, one perspective first-person, the other third-person, each of them intriguing complex people who grow ever more fascinating over the course of the book; both as we learn about their past, and as they navigate their present. Exquisitely paced.

Marred by too much dependence on serendipity. Fortuitous encounters, perfect timing, too many of these to count. So many, that I started just expecting them: okay, now’s a good time for a deus ex machina. That kills tension... but I kept reading, enjoying myself nonetheless. The story is original, the setting rich and new to me.

Such a promising idea. I love this recent trend, and want to see more of it, but am not sure where I stand on this one. It’s tagged as Adult, but its writing felt more like Young Readers: simple declarative sentences, dialog suitable for comic bubbles. A curious blend of characters, most of them flat and uninteresting. Most of them.

The story cycles between three first-person narrators whose stories periodically intertwine. Gilgamesh, no surprise, is the dullest. Inanna, surprisingly (because, like, title character??), comes a close second: she shows little initiative, mostly letting herself be carried by events. It’s the third narrator, Ninshubar, who made me keep reading: original and intriguing, perhaps because Wilson wasn’t constrained by the original Epic? Her chapters, and those from other narrators in which she was present, made the book worthwhile.

Want to give three and a half stars, can’t justify four so am rounding down. Please don’t interpret that as a “don’t bother!” With the right frame of mind and expectations, I would’ve enjoyed this much more and believe that you might too.

Two friends warned me: “this is fluff.” They then spoke glowingly of it, recommended it, and they were right on all counts. This is fun, rewarding fluff. I was surprised while reading it at how much I enjoyed it, and remain surprised in retrospect. I guess YA isn’t bad once in a while?

The magical elements are original and nicely done. The personal drama is over the top — the entire book is over the top — but engaging even so. The first-person narrator is so conflicted, so hurt, and so damn sweet that I couldn’t help being absorbed into her story. Vasquez Gilliland conveys both emotion and setting effectively; I felt and saw and sensed.

Definitely YA. The main character is nominally 29 but the content is clearly intended for someone sixteen -- and in good ways. Copious unobtrusive PSAs on communication, consent, boundaries, safe sex, expressing needs; basically, gently modeling responsible adult relationships and social responsibility without hitting you over the head. (All right, a little bopping. Love taps.) Annoyingly lookist, but there’s a lot of that going around. And the ending... well, it goes from over-the-top to full-gonzo oh-come-ON but even so, and I don’t understand how, it worked. As in, any other writer and I would’ve thrown the book down in contempt, but not this book not this time. Vasquez Gilliland’s kindness won me over all the way.

Took me completely by surprise: informative, entertaining, thoughtful, and compassionate. I’d say there’s good material here for nearly everyone who lives in the lower 48, although it seems particularly apt for those of us in deer-overrun areas.

Howsare looks at human-deer overlap from every angle I could imagine and more: biological, ecological, historical, cultural, economical, social. She considers broad ecosystem scales and micro ones and does so with curiosity and respect. She (correctly) dismisses the myth of “natural balance”; refrains from judging anyone (this reader can judge for himself: people who chase deer with ATVs and dogs to harass them into dropping antlers, for purposes of collecting their shed, are vile putrid monsters); and, over and over, presents complex issues with nuance and sensitivity.

There’s a lot to know. Much of it is uncomfortable even to people who’ve never seen a deer, because the built landscape that humans rely on causes harm, to deer and other species and even to ourselves, and Howsare does not sugar coat. She offers no recipes for absolution or improvement, she just wants us to be mindfully aware. It’s up to each of us to do better, however we can.

PS do not feed the deer.

It must be so hard to write a memoir: you need an interesting life story; sensitivity to those you’re writing about; and you need to connect to your reader. This reader, old and crotchety, found none of those in this book. I had hoped for more magpie; instead it was more (much more) about mental illness and generational trauma, but, see above. I was never able to relate to the narrator; instead I found myself wondering about his ability to connect with others. I could not understand the relationships.

Biggest and happiest takeaway: a newfound admiration and respect for David Gilmour, the author’s adopted father. Yes, that David Gilmour. I had never known anything about him as a person, only loved his music, and now, wow, what a beautiful patient giving human being he is (independently confirmed). For this reason alone I am glad to have finished: it lightens my heart to learn of kind decent people like that, particularly when they’re famous artists.

Uncomfortable for its trauma, multi-multi-generational and recognizable and so brutal. Uncomfortable also because there’s this problem I have with some memoirs: the people being written about aren’t there to defend themselves nor even present their versions of stories. Figueroa acknowledges trauma and systemic racism and patterns of abuse and toxic masculinity on one hand, while on the other demonstrating (IMO) little compassion toward the people in her life who are products of those. She comes off as a lost soul, desperately grasping for meaning and relevance; this does not always end well.

Unrated. I didn’t especially enjoy reading this, and am not likely to recommend it to friends, but I wish Figueroa success with this book. My sincere hope is that she found the writing cathartic and healing, and can use it to break the chain of abuse.

DNF, p.113. Religious fanatics; prophets; complex intrigue and plotting, deception and ruses. State-sanctioned mass executions. Abusive casteism. That’s just not what I need in July 2024. Maybe, if humankind survives the election, I’ll try again next year. Beautiful writing tho, descriptive and flowing. Occasional stunning moments of insight about humans and the systems we build.

Astonishing, powerful, gripping, and increasingly more so on all counts as the book went on. The pacing, for one, is phenomenal: started off intriguing, then kept developing, gradually, mercilessly. I felt more absorbed with each chapter. It's not so much the what—we know there’s going to be bad shit, or, more precisely, we know there was a lot of bad shit and some of it is going to get shown to us—no, it's the how: how do good people live with those memories? How do they live, day after day, with monsters?

The first-person narrator is a gem. Honorable, hardworking, capable, and deeply moral. I kept thinking of him as an embodiment of Stoic ideals, wondering if Forna has read Epictetus and Seneca. (Did I say "him"? Yes: Forna writes a completely believable male protagonist, with access to his rawest feelings and motivations. How can she do that?) (Okay, maybe a touch more sensitive than most males, but not impossibly so.) The rest of the characters are... well, they’re props. Lovable or despicable despite their lack of depth; this isn’t their story.

TW for cruelty, violence, heartbreak and suffering galore. Highly, highly recommended regardless.