Reviews and Comments

Finally got around to reading this vintage scifi classic! It came highly anticipated, since it is the basis for a show I quite enjoyed; but the source material is rather different. The main character’s name and the ‘slan’ concept, very loosely, are more or less the extent of the adaptation. I’m glad I give this a chance, though, and I am curious to explore Vogt’s other works (as well as other scifi from this time period, just to compare).

Vogt’s writing struck me as rather unique; he has a way of writing a stunning sentence or two, then going back to a fairly lowbrow, pulp-y description. I’m just grateful he isn’t verbose on descriptions. I did find myself stopping to appreciate his imagery several times, so Vogt did have some intentionality to his words. Moreover, for a pulp, the writing wasn’t bare-bones. Still, the plot does have an incredulous amount of narrative convenience, and the character’s plot armor is thicker than the Earth’s atmosphere. Devices and events are ‘cleverly’ contrived to suit the plot, rather than proceeding in a logical manner.

As to it being written during the golden age of scifi, it does seem an odd fit; there is a space opera element to it, but it doesn’t loom as large as I had anticipated. Some of this may be Vogt’s strange style—he apparently wrote short stories and stitched them together, with not much smoothing around the seams. There is, however, a very linear and straightforward plot; there are some surprise elements thrown in, but nothing earth-shattering, for the most part. I did find some twists of the narrative to be somewhat confusing or nonsensical; occasionally, I would have to re-read a few sentences to find my place. I’ll chalk that up to Vogt’s peculiar style.

When you think of golden age scifi, of course, the plot and narrative themes tend to subsume consideration of other elements; however, I was delightfully surprised that the characters had some depth. Jommy Cross, our protagonist, is pretty typical—overpowered, tragic backstory, hero’s arc, etc. However, I was impressed that Vogt devoted some characterization to the side characters, too—Kathleen Layton, primarily. Vogt’s decision to have her voice her own agency (and the concept of consent) felt ahead of its time for a female character in the 1940s, let alone in scifi; unfortunately, her bewildering character arc and actions fall short of the mark. Secondary characters were quite interesting, if a bit shallow—Kier Gray, Joanna Hillory, etc.

The ideas are paramount here, and yet, somehow still not as satisfying as I would hope. Partially, this is because the book is rather short, and Vogt doesn’t give himself room to expand and really develop these ideas (and characters) are thoroughly as they might have been. The book’s ending did feel rather abrupt, and the pacing in the last part was completely off the charts. There is a lot to be unpacked here about the discrimination slans face and the superiority of their ‘race’ over human beings. There is also, of course, the age-old theme of following one’s destined path vs. charting a new course. Slan got me to consider quite a lot of ideas, but it was unsatisfying that it never seemed to quite go as far into them as I’d hoped. Moreover, most of the worldbuilding is info dumped at the reader towards the end, which really did not serve the story at all.

Perhaps this book is a product of its time and its author’s idiosyncrasies; I did appreciate the chance to try an older scifi book (even older than Dune this time!). I am curious enough that I may check out Vogt’s sequel to this book, but it isn’t a high priority. I may need some mental adjustment before I try to process his odd writing style again; that said, it did have its moments, so my motivation is not entirely lost.

This novel promised a compelling blend of Get Out, Midsommar, and suburban horror, but the poor writing and illogical turns fumbled an intriguing premise. The suburban-HOA-as-horror setting had unfulfilled promise and the characters were undeveloped and unlikable. At no point was I fully convinced about the nature of the novel’s central conflict. This is one I would have DNFed, if not for my unfortunate curiosity about how the author would somehow explain all the weirdness.

Our protagonist, Sol Reyes, is an extremely paranoid and anxious individual. She is insecure about her career and her own wife, and at no point does the narrative attempt to even address or develop these themes—they are just a constant presence in Sol’s mind and thus for her internal monologues. Since the novel is primarily from her perspective, we necessarily spend a lot of time in her head; for the most part, it was unpleasant. She takes self-pity to an extreme and is aggressively self-righteous.

For one, Sol seemed incapable of approaching anyone or anything without the lens of race. Almost every page, there was a comment about race thrown in, even when it didn’t make sense. As an example, at one point Sol mocks quinoa as being something only white women eat, suggesting that the food somehow carries a sense of moral superiority. Sol, as a self-respecting Latina woman, apparently only eats normal food and is above such bougie whims! However, I was immediately struck by the fact that quinoa is an indigenous Andean food and is culturally significant to the ancestral people there. Quinoa is also significant for kosher reasons during Passover. It was such an unnecessary and silly remark.

Moreover, Sol constantly compares herself to Alice, her wife; she even compares experiences—literal oppression Olympics. Alice is Korean, and I appreciate that a black woman’s experience of racism is harsher than that of an Asian woman, especially once you throw colorism into the mix. However, often times, it felt like Sol was dismissive of Alice’s experiences entirely—usually because she was focused on her own problems. At other points, characters are dismissed by virtue of the fact that they are white.

Whiteness is almost a character unto itself in the novel. However, while this worked well in Get Out, Tirado does not sufficiently address the nuances of race as Jordan Peele does; it remains superficial—white bad, black/brown good. It is fundamental attribution error but with race: every white person’s actions are inherently bad because they are racist, but Sol’s own actions are above racism and are purely rationally based and not superstitious at all. ...Okay. (It shouldn’t be at all relevant to my criticisms here, but before you come at me with accusations of a rather ironic victimhood complex, I will note that I am not white.)

Additionally, Alice is a somewhat static character; she is given a backstory but rarely do her actions feel an active part of the narrative. I also didn’t find their relationship convincing—they argue for most of the novel and Sol clearly does not seem to be in a sufficiently healthy mindset that would be conducive to sustaining such a relationship. Sol’s interactions with other side characters are repetitive and rather formulaic. Her career conflicts seem to take up a lot of space on the page, yet somehow still manage to feel inconsequential and irrelevant.

The plot ‘twists’, if I’m being generous, range from predictable to nonsensical. The last act of the novel largely infodumps and tries to build suspense, but the pacing is completely uneven. Most of the first half of the novel should have been developing these ideas and creating the needed atmosphere, but it was extremely slow-going; then we get a rushed final act that does not feel satisfying nor makes much logical sense.

This is not a novel I would recommend for spooky season or otherwise. I wish I had rather rewatched Get Out instead.

Michiko Kakutani is a well-known literary critic, but this was my first exposure to her. The title and premise intrigued me (and, of course, the awesome cover art). Kakutani sets out to examine the current state of things through the lens of radical disruptors—in other words, outsiders who promise change and a break from tradition/the status quo. Understanding this concept is more relevant than ever.

Through this lens, Kakutani addresses politics, history, technology, and art. While she introduces several ideas and ties in interesting bits of information throughout, I often felt that the book lacked a necessary cohesion. Chapters felt like islands unto themselves. While the information itself could be engaging, at times I wondered how Kakutani would tie certain things to her overall argument. Nevertheless, her writing style is direct and thoughtfully construed; she is able to convey information in a pleasant, almost narrative style.

Perhaps the author was preaching to the choir a bit for me, but I still anticipated more examination and arguments around her central thesis. The chapter plates with different images from Hokusai’s ‘Views of Mt. Fuji’ series were a clever part of the design, along with the cover. However, this could not sufficiently make up for the lack of substance. I suppose one positive aspect of the novel is that it does broach a lot of topics relevant to modern political and social thought; since I haven’t delved too much into those spheres, I did appreciate that this was somewhat a refresher on those topics. Yet, it remains surface-level at best.

The author’s argument and understanding of outsiders is an important one, and I do not mean to dismiss it on the lack of merits for this book. However, if she were to develop these ideas further and with greater nuance, this book would have been much more compelling.

I barely remember reading this book at this point because it has been over half a year, so apologies for a dull and ranting review. I picked this one up because of the wisps of hype I had observed around the book and the fact that it promised an intriguing spin on the dark academia trope. But Bunny was a chore to get through, and I would have and should have DNFed it… if not for my annoying curiosity as to where these strange events would lead. Let that be a lesson to just DNF a book if your heart isn’t in it, no matter if you walk away without knowing how everything is resolved. (I’m still working on this.)

To start off, every character managed to annoy me, particularly our protagonist, ‘Smackie’ (and dumb nicknames abound in this book, so here is your warning if you cannot abide by that sort of thing). I’m just going to call her Sam. Anyway, Sam is one of the most insufferable protagonists; and I get why—she’s had a rough go in life and has to deal with some horrible elitism at the fancy yet fictional Warren College. I am sure that some of her experiences are somewhat autobiographical. The Bunnies, a clique of twee, fancy rich girls, are of course even worse, given that they are just as annoying and have delusional groupthink layered on top. Now, a book with unlikable characters itself need not be a bad thing; sometimes an author handles it well and makes you connect with or sympathize with the characters despite their natures. It was not so for me here.

This book is lumped with other ‘dark academia’ books, but I would caution against that categorization. There is a superficial veneer of academia, but it doesn’t play as large a role in the novel as I would have assumed. Sure, academia and its criticisms is the stage on which our characters dance, but their involvement with it is largely unexamined aside from the obvious. Yes, academia’s elites can be suffocating, insular, and unfriendly to outsiders. Tell me something I don’t already know. Occasionally Awad describes Sam’s surroundings—usually dark landscapes, perhaps wind through the trees, chills, that sort of thing. Nothing in particular excited me about this being a campus novel, per se, especially since entire chapters take place either within Sam’s neurotic brain or inside her (or another’s) apartment. I could relate to some of her feelings about the pressures of academia, but that was sort of… it.

Awad aims at some lofty themes here, most of which I can’t be bothered to remember at this point. But aside from what I’ve already mentioned above, there is some interesting hints of discussion about trauma and transformations and female power. Again, I just didn’t find any of particularly compelling or innovative. Many of the reviews also claimed this book was gruesome and disturbing, but as I read on, I kept waiting for this so-called disturbing material to appear. This will sound snobbish and perhaps it is, but maybe that is only the case if your usual repertoire is Booktok books. Nothing really scared or surprised me or pulled at my heartstrings here. There are valid criticisms to be made of academia, and I did see some hints of that from Awad, but her engagement with them left a lot wanting.

I read on to see just how Awad would tidy up all the loose ends, and the end result largely fell flat. There were aspects I had more or less seen coming. The book started off rather interesting, developing its mystery well, but like an unprepared grad student facing an impossibly close deadline, the final third of the book veers off into further delusions and an extremely messy concluding arc. I think I’ll just go and try to read The Secret History again. This book definitely was not for me, but judging by the other reviews, don’t let that necessarily scare you off if you think it may be for you.

Cheers to finishing a buddy read and writing this review even though it has been over six months! I’m quite glad I had seen the recent movies before reading this one, for once. It was useful to have that context going into the story and not drowning in a sea of unfamiliar names and places and histories. Of course, the book goes much more in-depth than the films do, especially as you get the fantastic inner monologues of the characters. Paul Atreides’s journey as the Chosen One is a lot more compelling when you get insight into his self-doubts and uncertainties, even though they were at times repetitive. I also enjoyed the scheming machinations of Lady Jessica and the Harkonnens—in general, the book filled in many gaps in my knowledge coming from the films.

The biggest struggle I had with this book is Herbert’s writing style. I’m not sure how to describe it, but it’s obtuse at times and meanders a lot. I did enjoy the worldbuilding, but just when you felt like he was getting into something interesting, he would switch perspectives or topics. If I didn’t have the broad outline of the story from the films, I may have been quite confused, especially in the beginning. I also would have liked to see some greater engagement with the character’s development. That is not to say there isn’t any, just that it could have been handled a bit more deftly; Herbert’s writing style suggests he is capable of it, but perhaps he wasn’t as interested in that aspect. Perhaps unsurprisingly, one of my favorite parts was the appendix at the end which straightforwardly describes some of the background for a certain character’s motivations and adding some context to the reader’s knowledge of the planet Arrakis.

Despite a somewhat slow start, the narrative was quite engaging and of course grandiose in scope; you witness Paul’s journey into becoming the Muad-Dib and understand what it took for him to get there. Given the length of the book, it did take me about a month to finish. I don’t think this is necessarily suitable for binge reading, because there is a lot going on, and being able to gradually absorb the events as they unfold was useful. Above all, Herbert gives us a fantastic introduction to the world of Dune as well as some of his broader themes about politics, religion, and philosophical matters. Smarter readers have already dissected many of those themes, but suffice it to say that I enjoyed the nuances of Herbert’s ideas. I would like to continue reading the series, but time will tell when I can get to the next one.

The last bastion of humanity at the end of the world, post-apocalyptic plague—and the murder mystery that unravels it all.

Stu Turton has done it again! His books don’t follow a set genre, and this time we have a sci-fi/dystopian murder mystery—he calls it a ‘locked island’ scenario. In a world beset by a fatal fog, a group of villagers and the elders they rely upon eke out a meager existence on a small Greek island. However, this delicate balance is thrown into chaos when one of the elders is found murdered. Our protagonist, Emory, puts her years of reading detective stories to work and takes the case—not only to get justice for her friend, but to save the lives of everyone on the island.

Although Emory was not my favorite character, I did appreciate her sense for details and ability to puzzle together the various bits of evidence. What I appreciated from her character was her relationship with her family—her reclusive and emotionally distant father, Seth, and her daughter (also somewhat emotionally distant), Clara. To put it bluntly, Emory is slightly persona non grata—not only with her family, but also in her village; her natural habit of being curious and asking too many questions has not endeared her to the other villagers. Yet, it is exactly this trait that makes her a great protagonist for a murder mystery—her inclinations become a strength and perhaps she is the only one who can take on this task.

The other characters were fairly complex and nuanced—the elders in particular have some interesting backstories, which I will not elaborate on. Suffice it to say that they are much more nuanced than they first appear, and everyone has some stake in the events that are under investigation. Turton’s skillful arrangement of the relationships between the villagers and the elders, as well as the familial relationships, was quite well-done. I felt the fragile bonds of pain and distrust but also desire for reconciliation that characterize Emory and Clara’s mother/daughter relationship.

The Last Murder at the End of the World is clearly a novel inspired by living during the pandemic. Yet it takes those familiar ideas and turns them on their head, asking what it means to be truly human and what it might take to thrive even as the world is ending. It is brilliant, descriptive, and the plot twists are especially compelling!

It’s official: Angie Kim is one of my favorite writers. As much as I raved about Miracle Creek, it’s one thing to say that you love an author when you’ve only read one book; well, now that count is at two, and I know my original inclinations have been affirmed. If a book makes you stay up until 6 AM when you have to get up for work in 2 hours… it was clearly a masterful effort.

The themes don’t pull any punches—linguistics, the relation between rationality and emotionality, family dynamics (especially in the case of a special-needs child), the immigrant experience, and even the Covid-19 pandemic. (I was impressed that Kim incorporated the pandemic so unapologetically—and even critically—in the novel; so many contemporary authors either try to ignore it or seem to pretend it didn’t happen.) These are relatable themes on many levels, but the entire package felt so tailored—the characters, the premise, the narration—that it will be hard for this review to sound nuanced.

Mia as a protagonist took some warming up, but once I did, I sympathized with her. She has a standard gifted college student life and is dealing with everyday issues like a seemingly inattentive boyfriend; she has a loving (if annoying at times) family that she cares for and is cared for by; she is overly intellectual to a fault and puts a lot of pressure on herself. Many of Mia’s qualities felt identical to my own experiences. Kim masterfully makes her voice quite distinctive—she tries to over-rationalize everything, even her father’s disappearance, and keeps her emotions at bay amid such turbulent events.

Her other family members were decently well-developed; I wish I got to know more about John, her brother, but he plays almost a slightly more secondary role overall. This is, after all, Mia’s version of the story. Of them all, Eugene shines as the brightest character. It is hard to speak of how I feel about Eugene’s character without getting into spoiler territory; but suffice it to say that he quickly grew to become my favorite. This story would not exist without Eugene (or their father). His characterization with Angelman syndrome was quite impactful and often reminded me of a video I’ve seen on SBSK (I refrain from sharing the link because it may be too spoiler-y). As with that interviewee, Kim makes sure Eugene is not merely spoken over or spoken for, but that he truly stands as a character in his own right.

This story is a mystery at its core; but Kim is not satisfied with wrapping things up in neat, tidy bows. If you are the kind of reader who needs every thread perfectly untangled and to be able to follow it all the way to its source, then this book may not be the one for you. There are answers and there are hypotheses; Mia’s own perspective on this story is obviously insufficient for ascertaining the ‘truth’. But that is part of the book’s charm—the mere fact that the truth can be so subjective, in other words. Moreover, what does it mean to access the truth when one of the primary figures involved is ‘nonverbal’?

I truly appreciate Kim’s sensitive handling of the subject matter in Happiness Falls. She came in ready to tackle some pretty serious themes and does so deftly. These issues are clearly close at heart and thus her own passion for conveying some of these ideas and perspectives added to my experience. As I’ve said about her previous book, her philosophical musings and threads are so fascinating—I just love the way her mind works, and here, she narrows in on the nature of happiness itself. Kudos, a topic authors have wrestled with for centuries! The concept of the ‘happiness quotient’ as described in the book is one I’m definitely taking with me; that is not to say I’ve completely agreed with all aspects of it, but it does make great food-for-thought.

I only regret that I’ve waited so long to finish writing this review, and thus, many of my initial impressions have faded; but even after all this time, this book is one I am fond to look back on, and whose ideas I have not forgotten, as I tend to do with many books. Angie Kim, I’m cheering you on for your next book and will be eagerly waiting in line!

P.S. I am delighted that one of my primary nicknames for my cat sounds like the Korean word for a silly fool (바보/babo). Sidenote—it is fascinating that one hypothesis for the etymology of this word is linked to prematurity: ‘a connection to 바사기 (basagi, “idiot”), ultimately from Chinese 八朔 (bā shuò, “eight months”), with premature birth implied’ (Source: Wiktionary).

Favorite quotes:
※ “I believe there’s a fine line (if any) between optimism and willful idiocy, so I try to avoid optimism altogether, lest I fall over the line mistakenly.”
※ “Don’t let what you already have be the baseline. Think of yourself before you gained what you have, and remind yourself how much you want that, what you already have—your spouse/partner, your family, your house, your job. Imagine you in an alternate universe where you don’t have your family, can’t have your kids or your partner, how desperate in that alternate-you would be to get what you have.”
※ “But sometimes semantics matter. Words matter. They influence our thinking.”

If you wanted to describe Mina in a few words, you might say she was an asthmatic girl who loved books and rode a pygmy hippopotamus. But if you wanted to distinguish her from everyone else in the world, you’d say that she was a girl who could strike a match more beautifully than anyone.

This book encapsulates much of why I love Japanese literature. The characters’ inner psychological reality meaningfully mingles with the plot in a way that it tends not to in western fiction. Also—this focus is brought down to earth with an eye toward the almost mundane, ordinary aspects of life, at the same time elevating those same concerns. Mina’s Matchbox is a coming-of-age narrative, a snapshot of a year (1971–1972) in the life of our protagonist, Tomoko, when she goes to stay with her fancy cousin, Mina. They are well-off, live in a large house, and have a hint of the foreign, with a German grandmother providing an otherworldly, “exotic” quality to that branch of the family. Yet, all is not as it seems—her uncle has frequent disappearances that no one talks about, her German grandmother has a certain forlorn look when seeing her old pictures, and even Mina seems desperate to experience something of the outside world that she is restricted from due to her health.The blurb almost does this book a disservice. It sets it up to appear like some tantalizing mystery; but the mystery is not some cliched third act reveal; rather, it is the all too real and infinitely more significant act of a child coming to understand the complexities and nuance inherent in family life, even when material wealth and needs are accounted for. Coming from Tomoko’s position—a family that isn’t particularly well-off, and a newly single mother—it seems like having money and status is the key; but for Tomoko, her year with Mina is a revelation that this is not the case at all. The plot is told through vignettes of memory: an older Tomoko recollecting and savoring her childhood memories. In this aspect, it reminded me of ‘Only Yesterday’, one of my favorite Ghibli movies. (I watched it when I was the same age as the protagonist, and it had such a tremendous effect on me—the power of examining your childhood, the good and bad altogether, is a fantastic narrative to explore.) Ogawa takes this thematic element and weaves a web of immersive memories. Though I typically prefer plots more structured, in Japanese fiction I’m better able to let go of this need for external structure; the journey, not the destination, is itself satisfactory due to its telling. That is not to discount the individual events—there are few things more poignant than the inclusion of a beloved pet pygmy hippo, for instance. (Pochiko is on the cover of the US edition, which is a great move—kudos to the designer; in some ways, Pochiko is as much as an emblem of that summer in Mina and Tomoko’s lives as any other, and especially an emblem of Mina herself.)Many of the turns in the story are seen through the simplistic clarity of a child’s eyes, such as the boundless wonder and anticipation for a rare meteor shower, or the merriment in pushing your friend towards their crush, or even the realization that the adults we look up to are not as infallible as we believe; such simple moments take on a certain nostalgia that is a recurring theme in the book. For much of the short novel, this nostalgia almost felt like an omen—surely, there must be some harrowing, inescapable end towards which we are being shuttled; perhaps this is merely another aspect of my western bias. The denouement is there, but it is not a sharp fall from a cliff—rather, it is a gradual unwinding, like the end of a rollercoaster, though not quite so abrupt. It felt like having tea with Tomoko and, before you know it, the time to depart and go home has arrived.The characters of Mina and her family are surprisingly dynamic, given that this is a memory—Ogawa imparts much depth on them, even in such a short time span. Mina is a precocious preteen with an overwhelming yearning for books and creating stories, and truly, what reader can’t connect with that? It was especially interesting to see how Tomoko and Mina’s interactions are characterized by the former—first, as a kind of admiration, a gratitude for being taken into her confidence; later, it becomes a kind of protectiveness, a desire to help as an older sibling might. This, in turn, normalizes Mina and her ‘otherworldly’ family. There were more relatable moments, like Mina’s mother being obsessed with typos, or Mina and Tomoko getting swept up in the fervor of the 1972 Olympics; these added a unique complexity to what might otherwise be a standard narrative. (I also had never heard of the Munich Massacre/Black September, which seems almost embarrassing to admit now, given current events; it makes me slightly regret not taking care to visit the site of the Olympic Village when I had the chance.)The setting, the seaside town of Ashiya, was fascinating, if not quite picturesque; much of the plot hinges on Tomoko and Mina being somewhat secluded in her country-house. They are but a short 15–30-minute drive away from the city, but given the uncle’s frequent disappearances, the children end up mostly staying at home, with Tomoko’s occasional trips to the library on the local bus. Ashiya is essentially quite suburban, but Mina’s home, settled on a dramatic cliffside with a view to the mountains, almost feels like a fantasy land—their house even had its own petting zoo for a time, so the atmosphere certainly fits. The setting of the scenes may be the light-bath room or the living room in front of the TV, nothing extraordinary; yet, it still feels magical, tinged in that dreamy style of memory.Ogawa’s writing style is conversational, given the older Tomoko’s narration; it is also delightfully prosaic. In translation, it can seem somewhat stilted at times, but this is also something I have come across in other translated Japanese fiction—whether it is a style inherent to Japanese literature or merely a quirk of translating it, I can’t determine. In any case, it is a credit to the translator, Stephen Snyder, that the narrative voice of Tomoko still shines through so vividly. It was quite refreshing coming from contemporary western fiction where authors try to cram three similes into a paragraph in an effort to be ‘literary’. Western authors, take note—sometimes less really is more. The narrative style can seem disjointed at times, but this only further reflects the nature of memory and remembering, with certain elements taking us on tangents and others abruptly fading into wisps. Moments of what were once great sorrow or joy can become weathered over time, like a well-worn lucky stone that is rubbed frequently; but a slight jolt of reminder can revive those emotions to their original strength. I am also envious of how vibrant Tomoko’s memory is—not only the events, but the smells, textures, and colors are all as alive for her as they were when the events happened; as someone with a patchwork memory who can barely remember a year ago, let alone my childhood, I was impressed. Naturally, this power comes from intentional remembrance on Tomoko’s part—she is surprised to realize that her memories of the summer of 1972 were tucked away in a dusty corner, all but forgotten, until she deigned to examine them. Memory necessarily involves acknowledging that the events in question have come and gone, never to be ours again; thus, memory is but a fleeting shadow of the real thing. For humans, time is a linear experience, and we all race towards the natural end—from a child’s perspective, coming to grips with this sentiment is a notable turning point in one’s maturity.As with The Memory Police, which Ogawa is perhaps better known for in the west, memory and identity are central themes. Tomoko’s memory, of course, is the whole premise—and a remarkable one at that, one so vivid in its retelling as to seem invented. Of course, Tomoko admits as much at points—her recollection is only so powerful, and certain moments or phrases have to be imagined; but this rather adds to the credibility of her memory, rather than detract from it. Every memory we examine has a hint of retelling and embellishing to it, as our brains naturally fill in gaps with what we expect to see. I also loved the references to the literary greatness of Yasunari Kawabata, a fantastic author whom I’ve only recently come to appreciate. The power of stories is another anchoring point—Mina’s titular matchboxes aren’t just sources of flame, but they are inspiration for her stories based on the weird or random art on their covers. (Maybe I’m just too young, but did matchboxes really have such odd covers? Is that a Japanese thing, or a mid-twentieth century thing?)Moreover, as with any coming-of-age tale, the growth of Tomoko and Mina (as well their relationship) is a large focal point; much of this only comes to fruition toward the end of the novel, but I appreciated how it nevertheless ties everything together from the beginning, much like in ‘Only Yesterday’. We are who we are precisely because we are the culmination of our experiences, the mundane and the extraordinary alike. And much like that film, it has left me with a deeper appreciation for the time I have already spent and will continue to spend, a renewed opportunity to be more mindful of the everyday—the good, the bad, and even the boring—because once this time is gone, it will be gone. This might be a good candidate for a re-read. I would certainly recommend this book to anyone who would enjoy reminiscing over childhood memories or who is obsessed with the moving power of memory or ‘memento mori’, or one who enjoys simple yet powerful narratives about who we are and how seemingly innocuous moments in our lives can nonetheless influence the course of one’s life. I certainly walked away from this book feeling a certain nostalgia and secondhand appreciation for what has passed; I can only hope to bottle up this buoyant feeling in my review like one of Mina’s matchbox stories to enjoy years from now.Disclaimer: I received this book as an ARC from NetGalley. Thank you to Pantheon Books and the author for the opportunity to read and review this book. My review reflects only my honest opinions. Quotations are cited from an uncorrected proof and may be revised in the final edition. Favorite quotes:※ ‘It made me a little sad to think that even if you were born in a wonderful house like this, you couldn’t just stay there, warm and cozy, for the rest of your life.’※ ‘Even though we understood none of the words she was saying, it was clear that she had lost none of her German, and the brilliance of her language came through as though the past fifty-six years had never happened. When the door of her memory was opened, she was able to bring back every syllable with perfection, despite having no one around her to speak them to.’※ ‘I felt the events of that summer in Ashiya return with almost suffocating power. The texture of the carpet we sat on in front of the television, the shape of the scarves worn by the Black September group, the smell of Pochiko’s droppings on the volleyball . . . everything came back to me in an instant, and with it came sadness; much like Nekoda, that summer had disappeared to some faraway place where I’d never be able to find it again.’※ ‘It’s extraordinary that the human body can express itself in so many ways through a single ball.’※ ‘So, she thought, a bit relieved, even when you die, you don’t disappear. Matter doesn’t vanish, it transforms. She imagined herself becoming an insect shell or a shooting star when she died, and she had a feeling she’d be able to sleep peacefully now. She snuggled into her bed, on top of the many dead things she’d hidden underneath.’※ ‘It’s not that we’ve grown apart or lost track of each other, but simply that time has slipped away much more quickly than we could have imagined when we were young. And yet, with the passage of time, even as the distance has increased, the memories of the days I spent with Mina in Ashiya have grown more vivid and dense, have taken root deep in my heart. You might even say they’ve become the very foundation of my memory.’※ ‘And when I recall those things, I feel somehow that the past is still alive, still watching over me.’※ ‘Being an agent for translated literature isn’t exactly glamorous, but still it brings me small and often quite amazing pleasures. Today, at a bookstore in town, I saw a young girl buying a picture book I helped publish.’

Recognizing that often meaningless, accidental outcomes emerge from an intertwined, complex world is empowering and liberating. We should all take a bit less credit for our triumphs and a bit less blame for our failures.

Fluke by Brian Klaas is a deep dive into the phenomenon of randomness—not merely the presence of it in our lives, but its central role as the driver of all human events—from the most significant to the least. Klaas’s book is certain to rankle some readers, as it did me at many points. Despite his perhaps ‘controversial’ thesis, the author maintains a fairly conversational, narrative style (he explains that our brains have evolved to seek out and appreciate narrative structure, so this is entirely self-serving on his part). The opening episode gives the story of how Kyoto was saved from the atomic bomb by virtue of Henry Stimson having gone on his honeymoon there—a mere fluke, a chance accident in the course of history; the author even brings a gruesome episode from his personal history into the mix. Yet, as Klaas unveils to us over the course of the book, such instances are far from accidents or chance occurrences—rather, they are the primary movers of everything in the universe.What I appreciated most in this book is how Klaas, a social scientist by training, examines flukes and contingencies through multiple avenues—neuroscience, philosophy, psychology, chaos theory, evolutionary biology, and history. The butterfly effect is a fairly well-known concept, so enjoining it with research, frameworks, and theories, was greatly insightful. The author also takes care to mention contrasting viewpoints on several occasions, so at times the discussion seems well-rounded. Still, toward the end, you get the sense of Klaas’s convictions, and it is hard to not have that attitude limit how you read the text—whether you agree or not. Namely, Klaas is a hard determinist, which is a common enough view in scientists, but perhaps less so for a social scientist; indeed, the author even seems somewhat apologetic about it (and at times paternalistic). I don’t fault him for that—indeed, he makes a convincing argument, even if I don’t entirely agree with it, and it is a decent primer for those unfamiliar with these points. However, it still colors his arguments with bias, and I wasn’t satisfied with his quick dismissal of opposing viewpoints or evidence that may have contradicted him. As someone who leans more toward a compatibilist view, I wished he would have engaged with their arguments more in-depth, especially Daniel C. Dennett.Though as fascinating and engaging as this book could be, I found myself gradually losing interest and momentum. Part of this is because of the formulaic structure of the book—each chapter introduces a new concept or approach that examines flukes in response to a fundamental question, building on from the previous chapter. However, after several chapters of this, it became quite repetitive and predictable, perhaps because much of the buildup goes toward the discussion on determinism, which Klaas apparently sees as groundbreaking or earth-shattering for some people. This is not to discount him—I’m sure for many people, these are topics they haven’t considered before. Still, he could have been less condescending about it; at one point he says, ‘…you might angrily object, yet again. (Do you need a hug?)’ Elsewhere he asks the reader if they have heard of ‘less common instruments such as a gue, lituus, sambuca, or peri yazh’—well yes, especially if they happen to be from that culture! Klaas mentions how his editors forced him to revise this book and cut out significant amounts of extraneous material; I sympathize with his tendency to examine these issues in detail, since they can be so compelling. But I also sympathize with his editors—he could have certainly cut away chunks of certain chapters and still had a fairly cohesive book.Perhaps what rankles me isn’t really the determinism; I get that, and even somewhat sympathize with such an affliction. What is a likelier candidate for my unease is perhaps Klaas’s unbounding sense of optimism that lends itself to the concluding chapters; yes, he tells us, everything might be determined—but it’s actually great, because if we have no (internal reality of, as opposed to a feeling of) agency, everything we do matters because we are all parts connected to the greater whole! A bit too saccharine for me, with a slight aftertaste of that promise-the-world optimism that you usually see in self-help books. I challenge the author to be more nuanced than that. I also would have liked him to challenge some of his own inherent assumptions—at times he seems to either ignore or not notice contradictory flaws in his own statements. For example: ‘If you are a rational thinker who believes in science, then anything that happens must either be caused or uncaused. There are only two options. If something is caused, then it is the necessary product of what came before—things can’t be caused by something that hasn’t yet happened.’ While this is all true, it is also rather pedantic after we’ve spent pages discussing paradigmatic shifts in science and evolving conceptions of truth and causes. Moreover, to impute causation from a series of small causes through such a large time span as nearly infinity—or even one person’s lifetime—becomes almost meaningless. If everything is a cause, then the concept of causation ceases to be useful. At another point, he says something along the lines of, ‘If that’s true, then everything in our lives is governed by the deterministic forces of physics.’ That ‘if’ is doing a lot of heavy-lifting there, Klaas.Interestingly, this last point reminded me quite a lot of the Stoic conception of the cosmos and the universe as inherently concentric. It’s a pity he did not bring that into consideration, especially since he does bring in Aristotle’s categories of causes and eudaimonia (and even Lucretius—I was overjoyed). The discussion of centering the individual self in the vastness of the universe, as ‘one vibrating string’ within a symphony rather than the conductor was moving, and would be eye-opening for anyone. I am biased, of course, but I wished Klaas had delved more into this notion from philosophical discussions; he begins to in the final chapter, but it is far too condensed. I appreciate his focus for these themes and certain others—the surprisingly simple acceptance of one’s insignificance, but also the counterintuitive notion of admitting uncertainty—the power of ‘I don’t know’, as Wisława Szymborska discusses in her 1996 Nobel Lecture. There is a beauty in idleness, in appreciating mystery for what it is rather than forcing it to come out of the shadows. As someone who has too many damn Pocket articles saved and too many books on my to-read list, I am well aware of the necessity of saying no and savoring the bliss that comes from remaining ignorant. Yet I still have a natural inclination to consume (there is that national vice!) as much information as I possibly can; in that sense, this book was a useful reminder back to these simple but powerful ideas that are rooted in mindfulness and intentional presence.While this book was intriguing enough to entice and not quite sufficiently engaging to keep me hooked or altogether convinced, I applaud Brian Klaas for writing a book that is certainly needed in this zeitgeist; a greater appreciation of chaos and its role in our lives is no bad thing. Though Klaas perhaps regrets that the universe has not deigned for me to give this book five stars, as he mentions in the book, I would still be grateful to ‘debate determinism and free will over a beer’ with this guy.Notable quotes:※ ‘Life’s victories have become, to many, eliminating moments of slow, quite reverence and replacing them with hyperproductive multitasking as we chase Sisyphean goals that will never be enough to satiate us.’※ ‘It can be comforting to accept what we truly are: a cosmic fluke, networked atoms infused with consciousness, drifting on a sea of uncertainty.’※ ‘Nietzsche wrote that this tension comes from the human impulses for both the Apollonian and Dionysian. Both were sons of Zeus, but Apollo represented order, logic, and reason, while Dionysus is aid to be an irrational agent of chaos who loves to party and dance. To fully live, we need both.’ [Rather oversimplified, but he gets the broader point.]※ ‘Within the misguided mentality of the Church of Control, Dionysian moments are to be engineered, not discovered. Everything, even joy, can be turned into a metric.’ [Apologies for being off-topic, but I would love to have a dinner party with Brian Klaas and Angie Kim discussing this line!]※ ‘How many actions do we take in modern life that are not for something else?’※ ‘Aristotle wrote not of fleeting happiness, but of lasting eudaemonia, or flourishing. To erect the framework for flourishing, we need a reliable superstructure that provides for our basic needs, a bulwark against a sense of precarious survival.’※ ‘All of us matter, though some of us will influence events within our lifetimes in more or less profound and visible ways. But if we want to maximize the chance that our actions will matter even more, then the best pathway comes from one of the finest innovations our species has ever evolved: cooperation. Humans who work together create change together.’※ ‘Millions now treat undirected contemplation as a waste of time, a frivolity to be life hacked out of your goal-driven schedule. A drive or commute must be filled with radio, chatter, mindless games, music, or podcasts—but rarely silence.’

In the face of coincidence and unexplained phenomena we are all at the mercy of our own thought processes

Tense and fast-paced, The Mysterious Case of the Alperton Angels is a contemporary parody of the true-crime genre that will entice Hallett fans and intrigue newcomers who enjoy the cultish true-crime theme.Having enjoyed Hallett’s previous book, The Appeal (though not without some reservations), I was cautiously optimistic about diving into this one. This book is an attempt to parody and engage with the modern true-crime movement. The plot follows our protagonist Ellie Cooper, a decently successful true-crime writer, as she investigates the case of the Alperton Angels, a series of murders revolving around a secretive cult. Her goal is thwarted by a nemesis of sorts, Oliver Menzies, who becomes an interesting foil as the book progresses. As before, the mixed-media format of this book was engaging and would appeal to the reader’s inner detective. Some of the formats didn’t make much sense, though—for example, the transcriptions of audio recordings had way too many self-inserts from the ‘transcriptionist’. The characters felt stunted. Ellie; her assistant, whose name I’ve forgotten; Oliver; even the cast of side characters merely feel like pieces moving the plot around. By itself, this isn’t a dealbreaker for me, since I prefer plot-heavy books. But given the predictability of the plot and the heavy emphasis on the interpersonal relationships of the characters, the characters’ shallowness only highlighted the gaps of narrative logic. The mixed media format also didn’t work as seamlessly here, since some portions felt more contrived, even compared to her former book. Their character arcs start going a bit haywire towards the end, though, and the shakiness of it all could have been developed better.The plot was more or less predictable; other parts had terribly convenient turns that progressed the plot. I wanted to feel stronger about the stakes, but my main reaction was curiosity—I finished the book because I wanted to see how it all gets resolved. In that respect, the ending was a bit of a headscratcher, since it is almost a shift in tone from the rest of the book. I did appreciate that Hallett is willing to go in an unexpected direction, but it didn’t work as well here as in The Appeal because it felt so much more superficial. I may have read too many books focused on cults this year (at least 2, so far). I’m not quite convinced it’s a sticking point, but you can definitely see the intrigue in this book’s premise. True-crime is also something of an obsessive trend; every now and then, I’ll get a spurt of motivation to deep dive into random true-crime articles, but it never lasts. This book could have explored some of these themes in greater detail—for example, the expectations journalism and media place on victims of mass tragedies and the victims’ expectations of privacy and desire to grow and move forward from said events. There was also a hint of examining the nature of memory, collective mania, and other tangents. While Hallett touches on these themes, she didn’t convincingly probe their depths.This is a qualified recommendation from me—if you enjoy Hallett’s work, go ahead and give this one a try, particularly if the premise interests you. But if you haven’t tried any before, this may not be the best one to start with; The Appeal likely has broader appeal. All in all, while this was a flawed read for me, it was nonetheless quite gripping and moving in parts. I look forward to reading more of Hallett in the future.

I took this book along as a companion for my trip to the desert and the mountains; and although I ended up reading most of it on my journey back home, it was a great companion to have. It is a book that lends itself well to slow pondering and immersion whilst in a beautiful landscape. This is also short and can easily be read in an afternoon, especially given Bregman’s delightfully smooth writing style. His book tackles three topics briefly: universal basic income (UBI), a shorter 15-hour work-week, and open borders.

I found myself drawn to some ideas more than others; I’ve long been resistant to the talks of UBI, thinking its characterization as a panacea for modern ills awfully too convenient. I still think it isn’t a perfect solution, as it doesn’t always address the cause of inequality, but it may be a step in the right direction. There is still much concern over the intentions of the source of the income—especially if privatized—and the increasing numbing of the populace to political cares. (Think Brave New World, or better yet, Island.) Bregman’s book is benefited by its copious use of footnotes and citing peer-reviewed studies and articles for further reading, so any interesting moment immediately became a note to look up more things on the topic. Rarely am I ever so invested in reading economics material, which is a testament to the author. My phone is filled with a ridiculous amount of images I took to save or lookup quotes from this book; there were many anecdotes or studies that made me pause or re-read.

By the end of it, some of the content became a bit repetitive, which felt odd, since the book itself is so short; after all, such time could have been spent expanding on some of the ideas in greater detail—for example, open borders and the work-week sections both felt relatively shorter than the UBI one. Of course, the latter is a broader and more encompassing topic, but even so, I would have liked to see more in-depth analysis of the former topics. As it was, the research and evidence presented in their favor felt, at times, somewhat circular. The UBI section was fairly strong, though, and it did make me reconsider some of my biases.

This book appealed to me because of the title—purporting to be ‘for realists’, which is a label I usually find myself relating to (though not bound by). I also appreciated the fact that Bregman was always remarkably conscious of his own biases and the uphill battle he faces in advocating for these issues; moreover, he is quite friendly to an adversarial reader, and although I do find he could be slightly more convincing at points, he still does a decent job of engaging the reader. This isn’t a book that assumes you to be a dunderhead, which is honestly refreshing in these kinds of popular books. If you’re curious about the subject and have an afternoon to spare, certainly give this one a try.

Notable quotes:
※ ‘To be able to fill leisure intelligently is the last product of civilization. —Bertrand Russell’

※ ‘Around 1300, the calendar was still packed with holidays and feasts. Harvard historian and economist Juliet Schor has estimated that holidays accounted for no less than one-third of the year. […] So where has all that time gone? It’s quite simple, really. Time is money. Economic growth can yield either more leisure or more consumption. From 1850 until 1980, we got both, but since then, it is mostly consumption that has increased. Even where real incomes have stayed the same and inequality has exploded, the consumption craze has continued, but on credit.’

※ ‘When American scientists surveyed employees to find out whether they would rather have two weeks additional salary or two weeks off, twice as many people opted for the extra time.’

※ ‘What has happened in recent decades is exactly the opposite. A study conducted at Harvard found that Reagan-era tax cuts sparked a mass career switch among the country's brightest minds from teachers and engineers to bankers and accountants. Whereas in 1970 twice as many male Harvard grads were still opting for a life devoted to research over banking, twenty years later the balance had flipped, with one and a half times as many alumni employed in finance.’

※ ‘The goal of the future is full unemployment, so we can play. —Arthur C. Clarke’

※ ‘The future is already here it's just not very evenly distributed. —William Gibson’

※ ‘According to the International Monetary Fund, lifting the remaining restrictions on capital would free up at most $65 billion. […] Opening borders to labor would boost wealth by much more — one thousand times more.’

※ ‘Anyone who wants to continue plucking the fruits of progress will have to come up with a more radical solution.’

In his soul, he did know it was all right to defend yourself if someone was trying to maim you, and Gale was trying to maim him. But he felt like he was going mad, because half the people in that stadium and half the people in this room just didn't agree. It was one of those basic things he would have thought everyone could agree about, and seeing that an awful lot of people thought he was the Mars equivalent of a horrifying misogynist for thinking so . . . it was turning his lungs to glass.

It's in vogue to make outlandish media comparisons in book blurbs these days… but honestly, this felt like a mashup of the film Arrival, Winter’s Orbit, and the short story ‘Harrison Bergeron’. Although I liked two of those three, this book largely failed to meet my expectations, and my experience was something less than enjoyment. Admittedly, I’m not usually a romance reader, and this book fits in easily with the current trend of ‘forced marriage’ and ‘enemies-to-lovers’ tropes, and the entire discussion of trope-targeting trends in publishing that makes me gag. Still, it promised sci-fi, Mars, and it was Natasha Pulley—whom I have not read yet, but whose penchant for casually posting about linguistics and the quirks of ancient Greek verbs made me adore her instantly. I’m still going to give her debut and other novels a shot, but this one just wasn’t it.

The protagonist, January Sterling, and his partner in the forced marriage, Aubrey Gale, are both ridiculous characters. Similar to Winter’s Orbit (hereafter the book that shall not be mentioned, for how terrible it was), both characters are supposed to be in their 30s and 40s, and yet read like they could be teenagers. Gale seemingly was also coded as an autistic character, though this was never explicit, and perhaps the idea here was going for normalization rather than pathology, which is fine.

Their personalities felt like cardboard cutouts rather than real people; Pulley certainly makes an attempt to flesh them out, unlike the book that shall not be mentioned, which read like a fanfiction and therefore had zero characterization or development. Pulley at least gives some backstory, but it didn’t feel convincingly real. The character development and subsequent romance also was more telling than showing, and the result was a rather disappointing attempt of fleshing out characters. I found myself largely not caring for them, mostly being annoyed at January acting incompetently, and of course at the classic trope of countless misunderstandings from a lack of common-sense communication.

The plot was slightly more compelling, though not by much. There are a series of disasters and catastrophes for our characters to undergo together, thereby strengthening their bond, presumably; but the stakes never felt that dire. The interactions between the characters was also slightly cartoonish. The final reveal was altogether not very surprising, and more or less along the lines of what I was anticipating, anyway. And of course, everything wraps up rather conveniently by the end. The pacing could also slow down at times; the first part of the book was a bit of a slog to get through, but once we got to the mammoths, things started to pick up.

Yes, mammoths—this book is set on a terraformed Mars, one in which, for some unfathomable reason, ‘scientists’ decided to test out mammoths in the frozen environment… and then just let them roam free after the fact, for some reason. As silly as that is, I actually found the mammoths somewhat endearing. Pulley reminds me of Arrival and similar works here, invoking the concept of a mammoth linguistics; without getting too much into spoiler territory, suffice it to say I actually enjoyed this part and would have loved to read more of this, instead of… whatever the rest of the novel is supposed to be. I could read Pulley nerding out about linguistics anytime.

Pulley’s narration style was rather enjoyable, content notwithstanding. She is supposedly known for her footnotes, which were much remarked upon in her debut; I do enjoy the copious amounts of footnotes and the little tidbits about the world that Pulley drops into it. However, it sometimes veered on the absurd, as we would get a detail, and then a seemingly non sequitur of a footnote telling us what January thought about that specific topic or idea, even though we had little reason in-story to have access to such a thought in terms of logical narrative flow. Still, I can’t fault it entirely, and the novel was mostly an easy read, though the descriptions could go on at times, and occasionally the chapters dropped the reader in a completely random narrative point, treading water briefly until connecting the thread with the rest of the book.

This is nominally sci-fi, but the environs didn’t really convince me. The terraforming is given brief context, but it doesn’t feel as enmeshed in science as, say, The Martian did. There are also some fancy high-tech gadgets that are almost inconceivable, especially when highlighted against the fact that, for some reason, January has a smartphone. Yes, a freaking smartphone from several centuries ago, which is supposedly a precious family heirloom that he is just carrying around, because his family was too poor to afford the latest and greatest. I don’t know about you, but… that isn’t how smartphones work, and that isn’t how most people treat family heirlooms (certainly not to the point of accidentally breaking their fragile screens!).

I get not being able to afford the latest tech (in this case, lens implants that are connected only wirelessly, of course). But the solution is not to make January seem like he was plucked out of 2020s England. Moreover, the language at times veered on the Twitter-esque at times, too, which was awfully immersion-breaking (not that I was that immersed to begin with). There are some attempts at constructing a futuristic society—like how everyone Tharsis, the Mars colony, speaks Mandarin natively and thus has no concept of gender. (In the book, calling someone he/she is akin to calling a human being ‘it’; something reserved for animals and objects… though they make exceptions for the Earth migrants, of course.) I mean, I know Sapir-Whorf is popular in the popular consciousness, but really, shouldn’t Pulley know better?

Finally, before I get carried away much further in this rant review, I want to address some of the underlying themes of the novel, and how they were executed poorly. Given the premise—January being forced to move to Mars due to climate disasters on Earth—there is ample room for comparing this and the current migration crisis. Moreover, because ‘Earthstrongers’ have the benefit of growing up in greater gravity, they are naturally stronger than those who have only lived on Mars. This creates a power imbalance of sorts, and naturally results in the kind of fearmongering that we see even in our own world against migrants. This is one of the core issues of the novel—Gale is a politician whose platform is to naturalize, or essentially bioengineer, Earth-born people, almost certainly crippling them and January is an Earthstronger whose instincts rail against exactly that.

As you can tell, whenever people use speculative fiction as allegories to contemporary social issues, it can get… dicey. For one, the comparative message here is that migrants who come to a new residence must not only be forcefully integrated, but they must cripple themselves and be subservient to the whimsical feelings of the ‘native’ Martians (who, may I add, were also all from Earth at some point). It’s classic Harrison Bergeron, but with the exact opposite ending. Moreover, January, who is initially adamant about refusing such treatment, becomes startlingly compliant by the end. I don’t know if this is really the kind of message Pulley ought to be sending, unless you have some seriously outdated ideas about the migrant crisis. For one—the statistics, as presented in the book and in real life, emphasize that migrants (or immigrants, if we want to speak broadly) commit fewer crimes than the native-born population.

Migrants work harder, get fewer state benefits, and are often harsher against crime in their own communities; this is all reflected in the novel, too. However, the main takeaway from this seems antithetical to common-sense. In The Mars House, wearing a cage is simply the natural response to not hurt the native-borns, and you’ll grow to like it, too! The solution to the migrant crisis is not only to welcome migrants, Pulley shows us, but also to come with enforcement as backup to make sure they comply to your rigid standards. (Even though, as I’m guessing is likely, the Martians are part of the reason why Earth has gone to shit in the first place—how many more lives could have been saved if, instead of spending money on terraforming, they spent it on carbon capture technology? And yes, I know carbon capture has its own host of issues, but that is merely one example.) There are some relevant plot-specific turns too, which I don’t want to spoil, but I didn’t find their development quite natural, and it also didn’t help my unease at how these topics were handled.

Natasha Pulley, I respect you and your love of ancient Greek verbs and mammoths, but please stick to a book about linguistics nerdery without setting yourself a needlessly high task of dealing with so many complex issues all under one title. Unfortunately, I can’t with good conscience recommend this book, though maybe if you are the type of reader who just cares about tropes and not much else of substance, you may have a good time. I’m rather sorry that I didn’t.

Disclaimer: I received this book through NetGalley and the publisher, Bloomsbury Publishing. Thank you to both for providing an advanced copy, and thank you to the author, Natasha Pulley. My review reflects only my honest opinions.

This book should be mandatory reading for everyone who uses the internet. Anyone who cares about data privacy is already well aware of Cory Doctorow. He is now immensely famous for coining ‘enshittification’, a term that has increasing currency in the contemporary discussion of tech. This is a slim volume focused on social media networks and ‘Big Tech’. Much of what I read here about platforms and their algorithms and monopolies reminded me a lot of Cloud Empires by Vili Lehdonvirta, a fantastic primer that goes more in-depth on this issue from an economics and markets angle of internet platforms.

What Doctorow does here is more of an autopsy, an analysis of how we have gotten here with these platforms and what we can potentially do. The book’s focus on interoperability was also something I vaguely recalled from Cloud Empires, but Doctorow gives it a proper breakdown here. There is also a history, of course, because any good explanation will contain some sort of history or record of the steps that got us here. Both of these aspects were incredibly informative and insightful, and I appreciate that he is willing to dive into this issue from different methodologies—not just economy, but the legal and political backbones as well.

Doctorow’s writing style is concise and engaging while also being decisive. It is hard to resist the flow of his arguments, and of course I am biased, but I don’t see how anyone could. Of course, tech giants may feel differently. Interoperability would absolutely destroy their bottom line, their profit margins, etc. Perhaps their only hope is that while Doctorow’s solutions are powerful, it is hard to imagine how we could begin to implement them to scale. The internet is vast, and yet much of internet traffic is directed to the same handful of websites. Many people are not concerned in their daily life, even while bemoaning how much Twitter/Facebook/Instagram sucks.

This book is a great primer I would recommend to anyone who has an iota of concern for how the modern internet has become what it is today. We have a fantastic advocate and writer in Cory Doctorow, and my only regret here is that too few people will read this book or even concern themselves with the ideas therein. If you’re reading a review for this, just go read this already! I read this from my local library for the great price of free, though Cory Doctorow also has a great online writing platform at Pluralistic. We must hold Big Tech accountable and remind ourselves why the internet is one of the species’s best creations, rather than its worst.

This is a noir-indebted alternative history novel focusing on the urbanized Cahokia in the 1920s—it’s a weird mix of elements, but one that seemed quite tailored to what I would like. And fortunately, I wasn’t wrong. It does get off to a slow start—some of the more standard detective-y openings, seemingly stunted characters, etc. But don’t let that put you off it—it does get better, and the characters and plot are more interesting than they would seem at first glance. As far as historical fiction goes, this book manages to ace that core aspect of transporting the reader to a certain time and place. The storytelling is concise and well-paced, too. Spufford is certainly an author I am going to look out for—and his catalogue of previous novels seems promising.

The characters were delightfully complex and palpably flawed beings. Our protagonist, Joe Barrow, is an everyman character that the reader can easily empathize with. He is of indigenous and Black descent, but he was a child of the foster system and thus is disconnected from his identity. Yet, this is still the 1920s in America, so the color of his skin is a significant part of the plot. (I related a lot to his difficulties in being spoken to in a language he is expected to know but does not understand.) But more than being a detective, he plays jazz piano. At first, I was confused by the title’s emphasis on this part, but while reading, I came to realize that it is, more than anything else, what makes Barrow fundamentally Barrow. His attempts to grapple with his sense of found-family was also endearing and heartfelt.

The novel opens to Barrow and his partner discovering a grisly murder crime scene on top of a state building. Spufford populates this fictionalized Cahokia with a large cast of characters—yet they all have distinct personalities and voices. Some of the backstory and gradually revealed motivations of certain characters was surprisingly in-depth. Some of the characters will seem familiar to people familiar with history—the Klan members, the robber barons, and the mobster bosses. These are all part and parcel of the noir type, too. Yet Spufford manages to incorporate them in a way that doesn’t feel so cut-and-paste, but… realistic. For an alternate history novel, this was a stellar accomplishment. Spufford also clearly knows his way around language, as his fictionalized racial terms and conlang, Anopa, show. (He based Anopa largely on a pidgin used as a trade language by indigenous Americans at the time of European colonization.) He even manages references to Latin and Cicero, which only won me over further. His prose is clever and imaginative without being cumbersome.

Of course, any novel that touches on race relations, police-work, and America is going to feel oddly contemporary. Perhaps the oddest thing about this novel is that it is alternate history, despite reading so pertinent—just switch around a few descriptors. There is a KKK mob scene that almost feels ridiculously dramatic, but recent history has taught me otherwise. Barrow’s greatest obstacle in the novel is figuring out who he is and where he belongs—eternal themes, to be sure, but deftly handled here. The narrative wraps up quite satisfyingly, though I did have some issues with some of the villainous figures being a bit static or the pacing of how Spufford develops his characters’ depth.

This is a novel I look back on fondly, and one that reminds me why historical fiction (especially alternate history, which I feel doesn’t get as much love these days) and noir can be such great genres. Also, this may be a silly point to end on, but I was rather surprised to learn that Spufford isn’t even American—he’s British; yet it seems oddly fitting that his understanding of indigenous language and history in the US is only leagues ahead of Americans. I can only hope to see more from him (and a part of me really wishes he would turn the final appendix section explaining his narrative choices into its own book), and I really ought to go see the mounds!

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘It is a circular dance, from birth to death to resurrection, through arches of flowers, and arches of bread, and arches of skulls. We dance the turning world, and it dances us.’
※ ‘Everything he saw, he packed away in the suitcase of his heart. He was Thrown-Away Boy, and that was how he possessed things.’