Eduardo Santiago

Really difficult to get into: the narrative voice felt mushy, distant. Maybe that was the point, given the themes of prejudice, alienation, and loneliness? Maybe her technique is brilliant but doesn’t translate well? Or maybe (probably) I’m just not smart enough to get it.

Riveting. Exquisite writing, masterful pacing, memorable characters.

In a recent interview with Dr. Laurie Santos, Malcolm Gladwell unconvincingly argues against journey-is-the-destination thinking. About halfway through this book, when it became increasingly obvious how it was going to end and how we were going to get there, I found myself remembering that interview with amusement because there was no way I was leaving this delicious journey. (To be fair, Gladwell’s focus was narrow and unrelated to reading).

Three narratives: one first-person, two third-person, an intriguing and effective choice that slowly starts to make sense as we learn how the protagonists’ stories are connected. Many story elements reminded me of Susanna Clarke—the nature of the magic, the complexity and depth of the main characters. Dark, in different ways. Hart’s voice is unique, though. I was hooked early, and devoured the book in one weekend.

For a brief while this was on my dont-bother list; I am grateful to A. for insisting that I try and for suggesting that I read with attention.

Another installment in the ever-popular Poor Life Choices series, but with a twist: the author is self-aware. Sometimes a little too much so: her childhood reminiscences have more emotional depth than I can really buy. Sometimes I let it go, sometimes not so much, but this is a powerful book regardless. Part memoir, part history lesson, part ethnography, and one hundred percent filled with grace. Taffa is not gentle: not with colonizers, nor her family, nor herself. Throughout the book she expresses her childhood anger over shitty situations: at those who caused them and at those who perpetuate them. She doesn’t sugarcoat the violence, rage, helplessness she grew up seeing, or the systemic bigotry and humiliations she experienced everywhere she lived. She is candid about her childhood selfishnesses, in a way that demonstrates remarkable forgiveness toward herself and others. And in the end, this is not a spoiler, she makes good with her life.

It’s a complex book. The Taffa who wrote this is in her fifties, still (justifiably!) angry but now wise enough to focus her energy. This is a book for all of us in the Southwest, may we learn to see and prevent injustices.

It Does Not Work That Way. None of it works that way! Not the technical stuff (the cryptography was particularly embarrassing). Nor the human-motivation stuff nor the relationships nor just anything. And it just kept annoying me more and more. There was one person to care about, maybe two, but even they were cardboard.

I’m betting this was written as a screenplay. Whiz-bang descriptions of computer animations and complicated artwork and stuff that has nothing to do with anything.

A mixed bag of short stories: hit or miss, but the hits were exceptional and even the medium ones were breathtaking. I find myself still thinking about them days later. Every story was wildly unique, the unifying element her voice. Distinct and powerful, with a sublime gift for understatement. The situations Oliver writes about are horrifying beyond anything you or I have ever dealt with; the calm with which her characters handle them compels the reader to really think about them. What lifetime of abuse makes someone take suffering in stride? How do they find strength and courage?

The first third alternated between annoying and compelling. Then something flipped inside me: the more farfetched the story became, the more immersed I got in it and the more I came to love it. I think it’s because my expectations weren’t well suited to the book: although the content is harsh and sobering, the presentation is more yarn than epic. Everett was channeling Twain. With the right expectations I think you, too, will love this.

Ugh. What an irksome, aggravating, wonderful and beautiful book. I can’t say it was always a joy to read, but it always gave me joy to keep reading, and I know that makes no sense but in many ways neither does the book so nyah.

A lot of my hot buttons in this one: handwavey, superpowerful, how-convenient magic, with completely unexplained rules and equally unexplained inconsistencies. Soul-hurting lookism, where everyone is just so damn attractive. Appalling cruelty. Multiple forms of the amnesia gimmick (the Project Hail Mary and Seven Moons of Maali Almeida type, where protagonists start out not remembering the vitally important and you-might-think-memorable events that led to their predicaments; and also the You Will Forget This Ever Happened mesmerism stuff, both equally cheesy). And, sigh, the one character I related to—the one with the strong moral code and sense of responsibility, who is skeptical and wary of the magical elements, who simply tries to be invisible and do some good—is derided almost nonstop, called boring and more, not just by other character in dialog but even in the author’s own narrative voice.

But.

But, dammit, the author herself is in on it. The characters themselves get irritated at the magic. They vent frustration over the cruelty, and draw frustrated but reasonable parallels to the random cruelties of natural forces. They invent workarounds for their amnesia. Every time you think Link is being sloppy or lazy, she gently winks and lets you in on the joke. But it’s not a farce; not even close. It’s exquisitely smart. Much more importantly, Link understands kindness. She really, really understands it. And cruelty, and love. And she doesn’t overdo any of them nor does she get preachy. Partway through I realized that, magical gimmicks aside, this is purely a book about choices and seeing and caring. It really is a book about loving. And I could go on for hours more, but just go read it.

Book bans. Racism, xenophobia, misogyny. Strong, violent, omnipresent police. Lapel flags and loyalty tests. The world of this book is a r*p*bl*c*n’s wet dream. The kind we might see if you don’t vote.

The first half of the book, Part I, was a bit of a slog. A too-heavy mix of Orwell and Havel, each extreme almost cartoonish in their cruelty and heroism respectively. I almost DNF'ed... but kept going and am really glad I did: parts II and III are where Ng gets her voice. Beautiful language, captivating story, and serious heart.

VOTE.

DNF, p.99. I found it horrifying. The adults are violent and cruel. Maybe they’re meant to be cartoonishly so? Not to me: I found them repellent, even sickening. Had to put the book down many times; then each time after continuing the violence only got worse. I'm sorry I kept on as long as I did.

The first-person narrator, a twelve-year-old girl alternating between her present self (1971) and herself at nine, comes off as affectless. Mostly just trying to disassociate from her abusive situation. Her numbing strategies are soulcrushing.

Plot twist: I found myself growing angry as I read. In a book that is in every possible way entirely about love. Why are some people such meddling busybodies? How DARE they prescribe a one-size-fits-all lifestyle, and hurt those who don’t fit in? I’m looking right at you, churches. Fuck you all.

Anyhow. This is a lovely book that, in a better world, would not be necessary. Each chapter is a portrait of real people in what some neurotics (see above) would call unconventional relationships. Each is intimate, sometimes bordering on uncomfortably so. Necessary, given the nature of the book. Some of the relationships come off as beautiful, some less so (to me). Some ended in heartbreak; others will one day; but every single one of them has led to growth & happiness & rewards for all involved. That’s what it’s about. That’s why we put ourselves out there and risk our hearts, “conventionally” or not.

The final chapter has great, thought-inducing material on government-sanctioned relationships: marriage, domestic partnership, a really cool legal framework in Colorado that I need to learn more about, for granting specific and distinct financial/medical end-of-life designations possibly to different people. Marriage is obviously an antiquated and idiotic institution, what surprised me is just how harmful it really can be. Worth reading for this chapter alone.

Well researched and referenced. Compassionately written, although it’s very clear that Cohen is young. This is probably a good book for younger people. Us olds, we either understand it already or we never will. It is my great fortune, a blessing, that I only hang out with people who do.

Wowwwww. Painful and powerful. Furious and tender and oh so familiar to anyone living in the Western US. This is a novel only in the loosest sense—objectively speaking it’s a collection of vignettes, written in different voices, centering around one massive wildfire and its effects on a small Colorado town—but it’s damned cohesive, and effective, and beautiful.

Pritchett is an impressive writer, evoking a roller coaster of emotions in each short chapter. She starts off strong, with that horrific anxious tension of an approaching fire, and she gets it right: I really felt it from the first two pages. In subsequent chapters she gets the helpless rage, the numbness, humor, bitterness, loss, desire for connection, and even, in a couple of chapters written first-person from the perspective of loser piece-of-shits, lets us see and almost empathize with said losers. She has tremendous heart and compassion, much more than I do. (I will never forgive anyone who lights a campfire in dry conditions).

This is a smart book. Scientifically literate. Respectful of Indigenous perspectives. Well informed on fire behavior, ecology, suppression. Intelligent, well-read characters. But above all it’s a deeply human book. It’s also one I’m glad to have read in February: it would be much too stressful in May.

An unexpectedly well-rounded medley of astronomy, cartography, and history. Informative in a way that I think will stick with me: along with descriptions of cosmological phenomena, Natarajan explains how and why we know what we do. The who and the when. What did they notice in the skies? What questions did those observations raise, how did they go about searching for answers, what technologies did they have available to them, and—most discouraging—what personality conflicts hindered them?

I long for an updated edition. The book was published in 2014, which you’d think is fairly recent but it really isn’t. In particular, just a few months after publication, LIGO recorded observations that confirmed some of her predictions. It was fun, and inspiring, to see what Natarajan has been up to in these last ten years.

DNF, p.139 (almost halfway).

Asymmetry (the concept) fascinates me: so much of our world is defined by imbalances in power, desire, ability, and most especially information. Every day, and I really mean every day, I spend time observing and analyzing aspects of my life in terms of asymmetries.

Asymmetry (this book) explores the asymmetry of sex between a mid-seventies man and a mid-twenties woman, neither of them in any way interesting or with any spark of soul. No connection between them.

I actually found myself reading beyond page 50 out of curiosity: contemplating my asymmetry of interest. Wondering if there was something for me to learn. I sought counsel today from two wise friends who had finished the book some years ago. I am heeding their advice.

Delightful. Sweet. Refreshingly nonlookist. Kindhearted. It felt at times like a love child of Brené Brown and Becky Chambers with a little DNA from Epictetus. (Doesn’t that make you want to grab a copy right away?)

I loved the explorations of trust; how it can develop over time. I especially loved how Kingfisher uses kneejerk reactions, moments caught off guard, to reveal personality. I loved the lead-with-heart conversations, the leaning into curiosity without initial judgment. Obviously I loved the snipe at the “beautiful people are good, ugly are evil” trope. I loved the exploration of whether some people simply need killin’. And, above all, I loved the overarching spirit of kindness even in difficult circumstances.

Recommendation: don’t read the jacket blurb. It’s anti-helpful. Not really spoilery, but just, I think it would've detracted from my enjoyment of the first 20-30 pages (I read the blurb after finishing the book).

The word “horrid” seems to have fallen into disuse, how lovely that I get a chance to use it now! Not the book—its characters. Dreadful, the lot of them: self-absorbed, venal, contemptible from the very first page and increasingly more so.

Jackson had a gift for depicting us at our ghastliest. Here she uses a variety of paintbrushes, at times inspiring disgust, other times pity, once in a while veering into almost (Preston) Sturgesesque levels of farce. Her dialogue is believably natural. Her social commentary a bit heavyhanded at times but always spot-on. I’m left with mixed feelings: I want to read more of her work, but not for a while.

So much more than the jacket blurb suggests. This was a sobering high-level look at regional, national, and international factors that shaped today’s world. Both discouraging and inspiring; complex and nuanced. I have a much greater understanding for the difficulties involved in balancing morality, law, and governance. (Spoiler alert: morality does not always win).

Most fascinating to me was the delicacy with which good leaders need to tread: slaveholders and defenders of slavery are obviously subhuman vermin, but there were a lot of them and they were powerful; policymakers were forced to make horrible tradeoffs in order to avoid riots and ouster. Depressingly reminiscent of the suffering today in Palestine, Ukraine, and the U.S. South, none of which can be fixed (right now) because of the preponderance of subhumans in positions of power.

Almost as fascinating is the snowballing consequences of even minor policy actions: even though the absolute number of enslaved Blacks who fled to Mexican territory was a small fraction of those who fled North, the Mexican government’s freedom principle — slavery shall not be recognized within their borders — had enormous repercussions on U.S. territorial expansion and ultimately on the U.S. Civil War.

Impeccably researched and referenced. Elegantly written, and with compassion. Baumgartner is a phenomenal writer, historian, and legal scholar. I can’t recommend this book enough.

Yeesh. A whole lotta cringe. Some parts funny, but mostly sad. I might just be too old for this.

Some good stuff. An interesting new development: Murderbot exhibiting vulnerability! Promising, but unfulfilled here. This book was 90% action, suspense, one peril after another, and lots of filler technical details. In a word, tedious.

Good material, even great material at times, but hard to follow. I think Klein tried to pack in too much: evolutionary psychology, behavioral economics, game theory, neuroscience, even Open Source. All of them are subjects I’m reasonably well read in, but even so I found it rough going. Which really bums me out because I did learn a few good things: research I was unfamiliar with, and new questions to ponder.

I completely agree with his conclusion: the only way humanity will survive is by learning to cooperate on a global scale. The trick, of course, is how. What I found most interesting is Klein’s treatment of punishment as an altruistic behavior: cooperation cannot survive in a society where trust and institutions are undermined. What if we could identify the people causing this harm? What if they were made to pay for their actions? This question may change my future voting strategy.

Not sure I can recommend this, or to whom. For most people, my go-to recommendation on these topics is Hrdy’s [Mothers and Others](https://hardcover.app/books/mothers-and-others): fascinating, and beautifully written. Fukuyama’s [book:Trust|57980] is still my second choice, although I fear it has not aged well.

I can’t quite decide if it’s cheesy or exquisite. I laughed hard and often, wept quietly for a moment, read ravenously, and yelled in frustration at the narrator. (One of those did not happen. But I came close.) So I’ll go with exquisite.

The first third is by far the best: fast-paced, great buildup of tension, and gobsmacking descriptions of the orchestration that goes into producing a live weekend comedy show, the process and teamwork. Reading about professionals working smoothly together, ... it just thrills me in a way that I suppose only a nerd could understand. Beautiful writing, snappy dialog, realistic personal dynamics.

Second part was less perfect. It got a little tedious, but I understand why it was necessary buildup for the

Third part, which kind of derailed the book into pure-fantasy territory, but somehow I found myself swept away and not giving a fuck? I’m not normally like that, I swear, but Sittenfeld just hits all my buttons. I let myself enjoy it and am still basking a little in afterglow.

The entire book centers around attractive, smart, witty, talented, kind people—and full focus is given to all of those words. Including people, each one imperfect (some more neurotic than others, but that too is realistic). Each of those attributes is important. Focus also bounces effectively among different interpersonal relationships; Sittenfeld has a genius for seeing and describing personalities. There’s flirting, mindreading, second-guessing, awkwardness, insecurity, tentativeness, emotional complexity. As a card-carrying member of Overthinkers Anonymous, I was in heaven. There’s even a page or two on attachment theory, which I only reached after finishing my last book, the one I (re)read because it seemed like attachment theory was everywhere around me. Another sign from the gods, obviously.

A little too pat. A little too crisp. A little too perfect. And I don’t care; I loved it.

Reviews suggested this was sweet. It was. But also lifeless and contrived. The characters go through their motions as the story requires, responding to stimuli, but I never got a sense of why or of who they are. Jane consistently addresses them by role — “the wife,” “the brother,” “the stepchild” — so this distancing is intentional, but why? She writes like she wants us to care for the characters, and she even interjects occasional PSAs on the preciousness of life and relationships, but it’s all Tell, no Show.

Kudos for originality and pacing: some fun creative ideas, with nicely done foreshadowing and reveals. Way too many loose ends and side plots that went nowhere, but hey, first work. Give her time.

Skip it. Blasphemy, I know, but consider: Equal Rites and Mort, Sir Terry’s first decent books, are 1987 and 1988 respectively. The dreadful Color of Magic is 1983. These stories, with one exception, are 1970-1975! Publishing them is like grabbing Picasso’s third-grade sketches off his parents’ fridge. Sure, there are tiny recognizable glimmers of what is to come, but they’re stepping stones. None of this is actually good nor worth reading.

Interesting setup, disappointing resolution. I might tentatively recommend this as a taste test for someone unfamiliar with Murderbot, but with caveats: it nicely demonstrates Murderbot's essence, yet also Wells's occasional handwave-it-away laziness. The best of her books do not rely on the latter.

A mixed bag. Some of the stories were meh, but the good ones were very, very good. Great writing, beautiful twists, powerful and memorable dilemmas.

Horror stories often involve supernatural elements. I tend to find those silly, and prefer the ones exploring plain old human nature. This collection includes both kinds of stories, and to my surprise, of the ones I loved, there was a tie (four-four) between supernatural and non.

DNF, p.101. I found it meandering and disjointed, with ornate prose that’s far too clever for me. Occasional snippets of word evolution, but much more text seemed devoted to outrage over the imbecilic things that primitive males believed about women’s bodies, typically without ever having consulted any actual women. I struggled to find cohesion. Maybe I’m just too male and insensitive.