Aaron J
Murakami's particular brand of surrealism isn't exactly for me, but “Hard-Boiled Wonderland” came with the highest of recommendations and ended up as quite the compelling read. The book consists of two alternating stories, one taking place in then-modern Tokyo and the other occurring in a fantasy realm (complete with hand-drawn map) aptly titled the “End of the World.” Much of the book's force stems from the mystery of how these two seemingly-unrelated worlds are connected, and fortunately Murakami balances the contrasting stories with delicacy and ingenuity. By the end, some mysteries will be revealed, yet others won't–to say any more would be too revealing. At the very least, I can tell you that the book is more satisfying than the final season of Lost, with which “Hard-Boiled Wonderland” shares many similarities. Murakami's creativity is in full display here, as flourishes of golden unicorns, sewer-dwelling monsters and sentient shadows intrigue the reader without venturing into childish overbearance. Along the way, Murakami explores topics that continue to boggle the human imagination, such as sound modification, sonic warfare, unbreakable encryption, and the infinite complexities of the human subconscious. Birnbaum's translation is beautiful, reflecting the wit and lyricism one would expect from Murakami. Unfortunately, I found the story to drag at times, and I'm not too fond of pop-culture references for their own sake. Put these issues aside, however, and “Hard-Boiled Wonderland” is a great read.
The prototypical cyberpunk thriller with an interesting side-take on the future of capitalism. Hiro and Y.T. join forces in and out of the “metaverse” to stop a virtual virus from killing the real-life hacker elite. Thinks a lot harder than its contemporaries about the parallels between religion and technology and the programming “languages” that underlie each of them. Also manages to set the stage for MMORPG's to come, though what we have today is surely more dumbed-down than what Stephenson had imagined. The book keeps the reader in a state of perpetual confusion, and the answers come quickly and unexpectedly (except for some unnecessary bits of pure exposition). A blast to read, though the story dissolves near end into an action sequence carrying less weight than it deserves. Really should have read this one years ago!
In “Kokoro,” Soseki has written a beautiful, introspective novel that examines the weight of one's past upon their spirit. The first half of the book outlines the relationship between a young narrator and “Sensei,” his mentor whose troubling past has embittered him toward the rest of humanity. These chapters are deliberately unsatisfying to the reader, as Sensei's past remains untold and the narrator's search for worldly guidance is never quite fulfilled. (I won't treat this next part as a spoiler as it is in the Narrator's Introduction...) This section culminates in Sensei's eventual suicide, and all is finally revealed in his farewell letter to our narrator, which occupies the rest of the novel. Here, “Kokoro” deftly becomes a letter not to the narrator but to the reader, as we feel the grasp of humanity's darkest traits. “Kokoro” is a heavy book, dealing with such issues as death, deception, and loneliness, but it treads emotional ground that feels uncanny in its familiarity. Despite being written in the early 1900s, the characters' struggles with family, unemployment and academic accomplishment also appear as relevant today as ever before. The book's curious structure may alienate some readers, but the whirlwind of emotions give the narrative a quick pace. The book's ending may seem abrupt, but the story will follow you long beyond the final page.
Fantastic world-building. Likeable but almost universally flat characters. Plot meanders but reaches a satisfying conclusion, leaving me very curious about events to come. Looking forward to reading more, although I'm not yet sold on the Sanderson hype.
A heartbreaking and eye-opening read. “The Immortal Life...” is not quite a biography of Mrs. Lacks, nor is it a thorough chronicling of her immortal HeLa cells' accomplishments. Instead, Rebecca Skloot has written a mixture of mystery, biography (of Deborah, Henrietta's daughter) and autobiography (of the author's search for HeLa's true origin). Having tracked down Henrietta's descendants in search of the HeLa story, Skloot discovers that the family knows much less of the truth than anyone might have imagined. The book's best moments come as Deborah transforms from a tortured soul to a child of divine purpose as she learns about the mother she never quite had. This is a sad book from beginning to end but the sense of discovery on every page is invigorating. Skloot is a powerful storyteller, able to deftly emphasize the human aspect of a story that is equally scientific and legislative. Particularly for those familiar with the research of today, Skloot reminds her readers that cell science is an alien world to many, and highlights Deborah's bravery as she fights to understand it.
Would you be happy if you suddenly had everything you ever wanted? That question lies at the core of “The Magicians,” which is, if nothing else, a serious page-turner. It reads like Harry Potter, if Harry was an angsty teenager and these pages were his LiveJournal (Quentin is feeling: Dissatisfied). I felt that all of the rip-offs (sorry, “references”) were not exactly well-earned, despite the story's attempt to position itself for a more adult, post-YA reader base. The book's strongest points are curiously at odds, with Grossman's wonderfully inventive imagination constantly being desaturated by his dismayingly-realistic portrayal of a young adult in the throes of depression. The book's final chapters follow a fantastic plot twist with a extra-large heaping of indifference, and by the final pages I was left wondering why I should care about where the plot was going, when certainly no one else was.
Essential. Not simply the voice of a black man in America but a man at odds with himself, his family, and the world presented to him; an artist who never wanted to be. I may never understand how it felt to write this, but I'll never forget how it felt to read it.
Liked. Very hard to review without spoiling, but an interesting take on a familiar concept. Light on character exploration, but the plot goes places.
Was okay. Heavily twist-dependent, but if that's what you're looking for, it's worth the read.
Well-researched, compelling, concise. Elegantly answers the why — somewhat less so the how.
Fantastic. The prototypical modern noir/P.I. story from 1939, and yet Philip Marlowe remains as compelling a leading detective as any other. The story twists and turns as expected, but shows a bit of age in its relative simplicity. Curious to find out how this holds up to Ellroy's quartet, both set in L.A. but the latter being written decades later...
To put it bluntly, Locke & Key was perfect from beginning to end and is one of the best things I've ever read. It was scary as hell, but when all is said and done I am left thinking fondly of my friends, family, and loved ones. I have seen and agree with the comparison of reading this to watching Lost, yet Locke & Key was so much more satisfying in the end. To say any more would ruin the fun. Unforgettable.
“Ghost In The Wires” is the long-awaited autobiography of Kevin Mitnick, the world's most infamous computer hacker and the first true anti-hero of the digital age. Reading much like a magician's explanation of his most puzzling tricks, “Ghost” is a fascinating story filled with ingenuity, daring, and a healthy dose of wit. Mitnick's obsession with beating the system is incredibly contagious, and despite the illegality of his actions you'll find yourself hoping he never gets caught. Highly recommended.