Reviews and Comments

I am ashamed it took me until 2023 to finally get to Shirley Jackson’s longer works, but I am so glad I finally took the plunge. Eleanor is perhaps one of the most fascinating protagonists—from the get-go, her anxious manner and hyperactive mind spin the reader along with hardly a moment for reflection. ¬The Haunting of Hill House is atmospheric in every sense of the word—from the moment you arrive to the house, the story draws you in as if you were one of the guests. Few books can get it so perfectly right.

The characters were surprisingly nuanced and well-defined—none felt like a caricature or repetitive. Of course, Eleanor steals the show, but her relationships with the other guests and even the professor are worth noting; Jackson does a great service here by rendering these interaction with the complexity they deserve. All of this, of course, serves to not only illustrate the characters’ foibles, but also to demonstrate the character of the house itself.

Jackson’s writing is also fast-paced and lacks for nothing; it also does not dwell on itself overly much. You can tell that each sentence, perhaps even each word, has been crafted precisely with a specific purpose in mind. Thus, the novel comes together seeming both crafted but also watertight in its logic. I truly enjoyed reading this, even though at times the plot could drag a little bit—especially towards the end. Some of the wonderment of the house’s atmosphere and suspense has worn off, and there are a few turns in the narrative that didn’t make as much sense. But, all in all, I was pleasantly surprised by this book (and forgive me if I did not give Jackson proper credit to begin with).

Oh, past me, how naively optimistic you were. Utterly disappointing. This book largely follows the recent trend of overly modernizing Greek mythology retellings without adding anything of substance to the original myths. I had some hopes because Casati actually studied in a classical lyceum, but apparently that is not sufficient to ensure a proper retelling.

Certain aspects of this were attempts at being accurate to the historic period, but too much was an uninspired blend of modern characterization and attitudes merely supplanted on Greek names and stories. Reading the actual tragedies yourself would be a better use of time, in my opinion. I suppose, if anything, the only positive in the novel would be gaining a familiarity of the major players involved in the Oresteia.

To Casati’s benefit, there was a slight effort to attempt lyrical prose in the style of the original poetry; but this ended up coming up as entirely forced and somewhat stilted in English. There was a tinge of purple prose to the whole affair. It was peppered with cliches and witty aphorisms every-so-often, just to keep the illusion of literary writing. (I find that quite often in contemporary fiction, unfortunately.)

The characters were as expected; if anything, Clytemnestra seemed rather defanged compared to her characterization in Euripides. Casati’s choice to depict her in a more ‘consensual’ marriage before her time with Agamemnon was an odd choice; I sensed it was an attempt to build some empathy for her character, but it was ultimately a lot of off-page action that was all too brief, so it didn’t have as much of an impact as she might have intended.

On occasion, Casati’s depiction of ancient Sparta imparted some sense of historical place, but it felt more like the feeling you get watching characters against a theater backdrop, rather than, say, reading Mary Renault. This is a debut novel, so this may seem a bit harsh; but I am really exhausted by this deluge of Greek-myth-inspired novels that pile up every year that are essentially copy-paste revenue sources. (Yes, I mean you, Sennifer Jaint.) Can we please move on?

If I ever become dictator of the world, I would immediately put in place a moratorium on Greek myth retellings; any waivers or exemptions must satisfy Latin and ancient Greek language requirements as well as demonstrating an established body of published fiction.

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(Prior to reading.)
Finally, an ancient Greek mythology retelling by someone who actually has a classics background and knows what they're talking about! Maybe this one won't be half bad.

I might be biased, but Prof. Shubin is a fascinating guy, and he has a penchant for telling stories in a way that reels you in—whether you think you will be interested or not. So it was for me with Tiktaalik, and this book, to my surprise, was not just about Tiktaalik, but about the evolutionary history of the human body. This is a tale told through specific discoveries and referencing specific parts of the human body. In a sense, I had familiarity with this due to being lucky enough to take a course on this very subject with him; however, this book delves a lot deeper into the particularities than I can remember from that course (discredit to my memory, not to Dr. Shubin).

This book hammers in the idea that the universe is a magnificent and wondrous place, one in which living beings are connected to each other even in the smallest details. Human evolution is not a mere ‘theory’, as some ideologues might claim. You can actually see it playing out in our very own body—through the development of limbs, fingers, and even the tiny bones in our ear that are derived from prehistoric jaws. It is so difficult for me to understand how there are human beings who can be skeptical about evolution and the majestically powerful forces of nature when facing facts such as these… but then, I suppose, many of them fail to do that.

His approach to these topics remains accessible and well-written, almost narrative in a way. If you aren’t familiar with biology at all, this would still be an engaging and informative choice. It does reference research and relevant studies, but it doesn’t belabor the science, since this is aimed at a general audience. Even though the book is a bit dated, the information presented is still quite relevant and a solid foundation for further study on the topic. You can even check out Prof. Shubin’s recent work, such as his “fish gym”.

Fair warning: I’ve been procrastinating and falling behind on my reviews, so this is going to be ridiculously out of date. I read this book almost 3 months ago. In writing this review, I went back and looked at some other reviews, like this one by the New York Times, to inform my recollection.

One of my favorite novel formats is the long family saga, but they are incredibly hard to pull off in a convincing manner. Nathan Hill’s The Nix manages to craft a tale that is spellbinding, taking turns through moments in history—interweaving past and present—and relating the story of Samuel Andresen-Anderson, a disillusioned college professor in 2011. Samuel’s story is one that takes him back through his family’s history and in all sorts of unexpected directions.

Nathan Hill was an author who was new to me, which is something that I regret took so long to rectify. This book had already come out to wide acclaim in 2016 and will hopefully see some resurgence after Hill’s success with Wellness, which is also in my sights. I became interested in this one because it dealt with two things I care a lot about—Midwestern American cities and the protests surrounding the 1968 Democratic National Convention (which is somehow merely one of the many main features of this enormously rich book).

This is a novel that deals with remembrances, family ties, and crafting one’s legacy as an intentional act against one’s fate or ancestral history. In essence, the age-old question of determinism vs. free-will, how much our actions are actually under our purview. Perhaps I’m getting a bit too grandiose here for this novel, but if so, it is only because it delves into such themes. Yet, it is also strictly grounded in reality—especially the counterculture movement of the 1960s as well as down to modern political protests, like Occupy Wall Street. There is a core element of realism to the novel which reflects itself in our contemporary political issues and is as relevant as ever.

The protagonist, Samuel Andresen-Anderson, is sort of a wimpy character; he has fallen behind on his book deal and was once thought to be the next greatest up-and-coming writer. He teaches as an adjunct professor (alas) at a local college to students who try to convince him they should be allowed to plagiarize. (Seriously, the scenes with Laura Potsdam are a work of art in and of themselves—a bit unconventional in style, but wholly realistic satire).

Hill based Samuel, and the other characters in the book, on real figures, including himself; apparently, he even had to reassure his family that the book was indeed fictional, even if it did seem uncannily familiar. This lends the characters a great degree of depth to them. They have their individual personality quirks that make them seem like real human beings, flaws and all. Samuel isn’t necessarily the most likeable, but he certainly can be relatable; ditto for the rest of the cast—including Pwnage, Samuel’s gamer buddy, and Faye, whose upbringing is familiar to anyone who has grown up in the confines of a small town and a claustrophobic family with unsettled trauma.

The plot is epic in scope and starts all the way back at Faye’s father immigrating to the United States from Norway. We eventually end up in modern times and find ourselves, along with Samuel, unraveling this mysterious family history. Initially, it may seem disjointed with the initial scene, which shows Faye’s ‘protest’ and subsequent arrest; but Hill manages to weave these disparate strands together beautifully in a way that makes complete sense.

Then there is also the matter of Samuel’s own childhood lost love and what led him to make the choices he did—and to have settled for his current station in life, which is something that brings him great dissatisfaction. We see these broiling questions intersect with those of his mother’s past, and Hill suggests, in a way, that no matter how much we might like, we are inevitably tied to our family’s history. (I know, it gives me no great joy to accept that, either.) In a book this length, you have to be a skilled writer to keep my attention sustained, especially when there are as many moving pieces here as a shogi board. Hill achieved this to great effect and does so seamlessly.

As I’ve hinted, the novel contains some interesting and well-developed thematic concerns, such as family history, inherited trauma, the nature of memory and remembrance, and what shapes our knowledge of person, to name a few. It also touches on the idea of agency, and to what degree we are responsible for our current state of affairs (as opposed to the actions of others). One of the central issues in the novel is that Samuel’s idea of his mother is but a fraction of who she really is, and in large part, his discovery of the rest of his mother’s identity is integral to his own self-understanding. I don’t know how he does it, but Hill manages to craft a narrative that ties together these wide-ranging themes in a way that just… clicked. Nothing is drawn out or overly bearing; Hill understands that he can show subtle hints or signs and trust the reader to figure out the connections. Kudos.

This is undoubtedly contemporary literary fiction at its best, and I can see why Nathan Hill has become a respected author so quickly after this novel was published. It is so grand in scope that I initially didn’t believe it would come together at the end… but it does. And for the time I was reading it, I was entirely gripped by this story; it is one I am glad to own (thanks to a giveaway, no less). If you are at all curious about the novel, give it a go; I am pretty sure it is hard to resist the alluring call of The Nix. (Also, kudos to Hill for choosing such an enigmatic yet intriguing symbol—the Nix, or Nixe, is one of my favorite Germanic myths. Interestingly, “Nix” is masculine whereas “Nixe” is feminine; one has to wonder who the Nix/Nixe in this story may be—and there are multiple possibilities.)

Disclaimer: Thank you to Goodreads and Vintage for providing me with a complimentary copy of this book, which I received in a Goodreads Giveaway. My review reflects only my honest opinions.

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘The things you love the most will one day hurt you the worst.’
※ ‘Because one thing she’s learned through all this is that if a new beginning is really new, it will feel like a crisis. Any real change should make you feel, at first, afraid. If you’re not afraid of it, then it’s not real change.’
※ ‘You never even decided your life would be this way—it’s simply the way life has become. You’ve been carved out by the things that have happened to you. Like how the canyon can’t tell the river which way to shape it. It just allows itself to be cut.’
※ ‘Everyone loves a prodigy [...]. Prodigies get us off the hook for living ordinary lives. We can tell ourselves we're not special because we weren't born with it, which is a great excuse.’

DNF at 15%

I tried to get into this book; the premise seemed to fulfill my hopes that it would be a enjoyable read (and namedrops books I quite enjoyed, like Piranesi and Station Eleven). I like it when post-apocalyptic books get you to think about the world they depict, and especially how that reflects on our own. However, this book has a bizarre writing style, not to mention a protagonist whose way of thinking was alienating rather than inviting. There’s also a really strange quasi-sex scene in the first part of the book that felt really out of place. The book sends a lot of mixed signals on what type of book it is trying to be, and the mysterious nature of the setting and the characters only made me frustrated, not intrigued.

After trying to pick up this book several times, I am going to cut my losses—it’s just not for me. I don’t know if it necessarily deserves 1-star, but it was a 1-star read for me, so that is how the cookie crumbles.

Disclaimer: I received this book as an ARC from NetGalley. Thank you to Abrams and The Overlook Press for the opportunity to read and review this book.

I had only vaguely been aware of Temple Grandin before. When I found out about this book, as you can see below, I was immediately intrigued. Having ‘aphantasia’, I do not mentally visualize at all; and yet, here was a book examining the advantages and prowess of being able to do so. It’s inevitable that I would want to check it out. Granted, Grandin is a prodigy when it comes to visual thinking—she doesn’t deny the ‘benefit’ of greater visual thinking abilities due to her autism (compared to the neurotypical population). Even so, she highlights various elements and stories that champion the power of visual thinking and argue for a renewed interest in and incorporation of visual thinking, particularly in schools and in the workplace.

The structure of the book is laid out clearly, and the writing is straightforward and easily digestible. Grandin begins by discussing the idea of visual thinking itself—including a fun survey to test where you lie on the continuum of ‘visual—verbal’ thinking. She also critically examines the current state of modern education, which she argues prioritizes skills that shortchange visual thinkers. On this point, I am not sure I fully agree—lacking this ability, I experienced difficulty in quite a lot of subjects and teaching methods in school that rely on visual thinking, even when it pertained to not obviously ‘visual’ subjects. Even so, I was able to excel in my niche as a verbal thinker (thank goodness for the reading/writing-heavy humanities). Nowadays, the focus on STEM, and in particular computer science, seems to emphasize parts of the brain that visual thinkers excel at.

Other parts of the book also discuss, in addition to areas where visual thinkers excel, the ways in which different types of visual thinkers can collaborate and work well together. Grandin identifies that visual thinking itself is a plurality; some-people are better at visual-spatial skills, which lean into object visualization and tangible reality. Others are more attuned to visual-spatial skills, which can include a proclivity for abstract patterns—these are the mathematicians and engineers.

One point of contention I had with Grandin is that she admits a continuum between verbal and visual thinkers, and then further identifies subtypes among visual thinkers. However, she seems steadfast in her view that visual and verbal thinkers are mutually exclusive, or even that the subtypes are mutually exclusive. This book led to me to a lot of great discussions about ways of thinking with friends. I noticed, especially among my more math and STEM-aligned friends, that they often fall into a mixed bag of traits from both subtypes. Grandin doesn’t delve into this ‘combined’ nature as much, and also doesn’t seem to grant that some people can excel both verbally and visually (those lucky ducks).

Some of the book is also devoted to discussing the ‘genius’ type and the effect that neurodiversity can have on different ways of thinking, with a focus on visual thinkers, of course. This was an interesting section to read; although I already read a few things on a similar subject, Grandin has a way of describing things in simple, concise language that is very engaging. The discussion is somewhat surface-level, good for beginners, but not really going as in-depth as I would have appreciated. More research could have supplemented this section, though the anecdotes were nice to read.

I want to give a final mention to the last, but not least, chapter of the book, which delves into animal consciousness and ways of thinking. Here, Grandin posits that animal thinking has more in relation with human visual thinkers than verbal thinkers; I can understand this argument, since language itself is a contentious thing that some argue characterizes human beings, while others begrudgingly admit some animals to have forms of communication. But, even in those cases, it seems to align with Grandin’s view—for example, the noted ‘hive dance’ of bees to communicate locations of nectar has its roots in some kind of spatial understanding.

All in all, this was an eye-opening reading and an enjoyable one at that; Temple Grandin’s research and background as a visual thinker and an advocate for autism (especially for the notion of ‘not preemptively limiting kids because of their diagnosis’) lends credence to her arguments here about visual thinking and educational and workplace reforms. Certainly, I agree that more energy could be invested in collaborating with and elevating visual thinkers, rather than forcing these children into the traditional careers-focused rat race. Grandin would not have found her life’s work without chance encounters on her relatives’ farm, working with cows and other farm animals. I definitely benefited from the modern structure of schooling, with its emphasis on written work, but I can also see that this is far from a ‘one size fits all’ solution for every child.

The human mind, in all of its variance, is incredible. Definitely recommend giving this one a read if you are at all interested in the subject.

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Curious about this book precisely because I am very much not a visual thinker.

What a stunning, breathtaking novel—definitely one of my favorite reads of 2023. Chandrasekera is a new author to me, and this is his debut novel, but he’s already published a great number of short stories in respectable outlets. Thus, this is a debut novel without the common beginner writer errors you often find, wrapped up in a deftly written narrative inspired by the environs of South Asia—political, social, emotional, and possibly more—as well as, clearly, the author’s own experiences of living in Sri Lanka. It is a tale you could call magical realism, with a story that sometimes veers towards the too-real and other times towards the unfathomable. I had heard of the title previously, and considered it interesting enough to mentally file away for later; yet it was thanks to my library branch having a copy of it in the ‘new books’ section that it managed to get pushed right up to the top, and I am very glad it did.

This is best categorized as magical realism, but in an unexpected turn, this is one of those magical realism novels that finally to me felt like it edges closer to the ‘magical’ realm of things than the ‘realism’ side. For one, the world is extremely fictional (set in Luriat, a cosmopolitan city clearly inspired by South Asian urbanity), taking its cues from the real world but also impossible to place as any one actual place. Chandrasekera imbues the story with clever worldbuilding details that don’t stick out like a sore thumb but are seamlessly integrated into the narrative; even though the reader does not get explicit explanations for everything, they somehow make sense. I was immersed in the world and rarely needed to backtrack a detail that pulled me out of it. That’s not to say everything is self-explanatory, but the mysterious nature of the world, and the fact that the reader is foreign to it, is part of the book’s inherent charm. The setting is clearly depicted through showing, though there is some telling—yet it is incorporated into the narrative in an unobtrusive way. The worldbuilding feels rich and evocative, yet in a way that makes sense—it isn’t trying too hard or over-the-top.

The characters are well-written, contain multitudes of depth, and felt like actual humans. Our protagonist, Fetter, is a complicated mess of a human being, driven by his own trauma and still coming-into-himself as a twenty-something. Can’t get much more relatable than that, I suppose. The other characters are also portrayed as three-dimensional beings—neither black nor white, but flawed humans who are doing their best given their ideals and circumstances. Thus, Fetter comes to belong to a group of radicals, some of whom are commendable and others not; some who are transparent and honest and others who are morally grey. Don’t get me wrong—this is very much a story about Fetter, but his relationships with other people are a key part of his development as a character; in particular, his relationships with his parents are a key part of the story, and Chandrasekera did a great job of exploring how the trauma of family relationships can come to bear on one’s life and self-understanding of one’s purpose. How do the people that we surround ourselves with contribute or hinder who we are meant to be? How much can we resist the knowledge of our fate? Fetter participates in a therapy group even, which feels so quotidian to a contemporary reader, almost making this other world seem like a mere reflection of our own; yet it’s a therapy group for ‘unchosen ones’, the Chosen Ones who are left behind. And the veil is raised once more.

Chandrasekera’s writing is skillfully consistent and adheres to the principles of ‘show, don’t tell’ as well as ‘why use lot word when few word do the trick’. Yet, it also leaves room for tasteful poetic lines throughout. I really regret the fact that my e-reader had an error that led me to lose a lot of my highlights from this book; otherwise, I would’ve had a whole list of quotes tacked to the bottom of this. The effect is one of evanescence and occasionally feels aimless, like our narrator; yet it all comes together at the end beautifully. His experience as a South Asian was also palpable; so many elements were culturally familiar to me that it felt like being seen and vivisected, forced to confront my own demons—for example, the stark contrast of the discussion of mental health and old parents refusing to believe that it matters, or the strict expectations mothers place on their children, with little regard for their child’s agency.

The plot takes a while to start, and at first it can be intimidating because of how many different threads there are. There are the titular Bright Doors, which pose some kind of mystery; there are the curious characters from the therapy group; there is the mystery of Fetter’s father, who has a crowdfunding campaign. All of these disparate elements manage to interweave in unexpected ways, and the ‘twists’ at the end of the novel were truly surprising. Still, you have to get through some moments of feeling untethered or confused, wondering where the story will take you; but have faith in the author, because he knows what he is doing.

I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention the strong themes in this book—I only hope I can scratch the surface briefly in this review. For starters, the political overtones are strong with this one; given the events that Sri Lanka has been through, some of these notions aren’t surprising; yet, they feel ever more relevant in our current time as we watch more violence erupt in every corner and distrust and misinformation grow insidiously. And of course, these issues pertain to all of us, not just Sri Lankans. Fetter’s world is one of castes and pogroms, which almost seem otherworldly here yet are very much still alive in today’s world; of religious cults and fanatics; of political and ecological violence; of brutal dictators and doublespeak; on the one hand, my brain wants to firmly categorize it in the ‘magical’ side of its classification, but I know it is much closer to the ‘realism’ side than I want to admit. This is the type of novel that makes you even more appreciative of how it sheds a light on the darkest corners of your own reality that shy away from attention or that are easy to ignore—not so, here.

It is a rare author who manages to make evoke such strong feelings of sympathy and care for a book and its characters. Since reading this, I’ve bought myself a copy (after returning the library’s immediately so someone else could read it) and ventured into the author’s short stories, and they manage to recreate some of that feeling—but I am definitely going to be on the lookout for his next full-length work. Kudos!

Favorite quotes forthcoming when I get a chance to review my physical copy again.

It took me far too long to get to this classic Nacirema tale. I was finally pushed to read this after reading “Body Ritual among the Nacirema”, an article written decades ago by Horace M. Miner. Despite its age, it was still quite relevant to modern life (aside from a few references). So too is this book, which is best read in print (which is why I waited until I got my library copy). The illustrations are part of the experience, not to be taken separately from the accompanying text. Like a good museum book, this exposes the reader to a new lens of experiences and marvelous ancient objects. (My alternate reality self who stuck with anthropology was full of delight with this one, obviously.) However, in this case, the objects are immediately recognizable to any modern reader.

The fun in reading this one is not the recognition but the treatment of the objects from the future perspective that is looking towards its past. The gimmick does run its course though, and by the end, the conclusion of the story is a fitting end to what is setup for us in the beginning. As is with most things in this category, it reminds oneself to spend time critically gazing upon contemporary society—not taking it for granted—as well as the old adage: plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose (‘the more it changes, the more it’s the same thing’).

‘Faire sauter le monde colonial est désormais une image d'action très claire, très compréhensible et pouvant être reprise par chacun des individus constituant le peuple colonisé.’ (‘Blowing up the colonial world is now a very clear, comprehensible action image that can be taken up by each and every one of the individuals making up the colonized people.’) —Les Damnés de la terre, Frantz Fanon

I was quite eager to pick up Babel, one of the most hyped books in historical fantasy in recent years. R. F. Kuang is an author whom I’ve not yet read, but Babel fulfilled the role of acquainting me with her style and areas of concern. Also, life happened, so it’s been three months since I’ve finished the book… suffice it to say I will not have anything groundbreaking to say on this. I had some major issues with the novel, so even though its themes and the writing were commendable, I found it wanting. Parts of the novel also dragged for me. That is not to diminish Kuang’s talent at all—she is quite accomplished, especially for publishing so many novels at her age (which is terrifyingly close to mine). The characters were intriguing to start with, but they lacked the kind of depth I was anticipating. Robin, our protagonist, feels quite shallow for much of the novel—his actions are reactionary, merely parroting what is going on around him, and his own thoughts being as muddled and shapeless as the reader’s (perhaps intentionally). We are told rather than see the effects of his Victorian upbringing, and that too occurs at a breakneck pace. Robin’s fellow Babblers are interesting characters in that I liked the dynamic each brings to the group. Ramy and Victoire were a great balance of depicting the marginalized experience at an elite institution, contrasted with Letty, the admiral’s daughter, who has certainly fought for her place but neglects to acknowledge the advantages she has. Still, though the group dynamic was heartwarming at first and heartbreaking later on, I didn’t get to see the experiences that bring the group together so much as I was told about them, and the time skips do not help. Moreover, since we primarily have Robin’s perspective, the reader’s understanding of the group dynamic itself is rather narrow. The characters had the bones of something meaningful, but as a reader, we get merely a surface-level glimpse at their interactions. Perhaps one of the things that irked me about this book is that I had been told and thus expected something like an antithesis to The Secret History, or an in-depth examination of the darker side of ‘dark academia’ with respect to colonialized populations. There is some of that, too, but a lot of it is also reinforcing typical stereotypes about Victorian England that I’m already quite aware of. Yes, people mock Ramy and Victoire, who are more obviously ‘other’ than Robin. Yes, people in Victorian-era London are racist and propagate colonialism with every breath. On the other hand, we happen to meet members of a parallel ‘secret society’, who of course are meant to be the rebellion in the subtitle of the novel. Despite that, we get only hints as to their intent until the final section of the book. I kept thinking to myself—when will the “rebellion” actually happen? The blatantly black-and-white, good vs. evil dichotomy felt juvenile and uninspired. Reality, especially when dealing with complex issues like colonialism, can be messy and very grey. Kuang could have dived into that complexity a bit more; as a whole, it ended up feeling like a very surface-level examination of colonialism.On the other hand, I had the expectation of a fantasy alternative-world Oxford. This, too, was a disappointment. As it stands, Philip Pullman’s fantasy Oxford had significantly more interesting worldbuilding than this did. This just felt like a vaguely interposed version of modern Oxford (where the author clearly sourced things from memory, which in all fairness she does admit at the outset), Victorian Oxford, and a hint of magic underfoot. That’s about it. It wasn’t hard to forget that magic exists in this universe at some point; even without the power of silverwork, the humans in this tale are cruel and exploitative. So in terms of a magical Oxford that bends around the power of a seemingly ‘limitless’ magic, we don’t actually see anything that looks like a product of its circumstances, but rather a product of our own. We got the same two or three facts about the magical properties of silver, and then the obvious Chekhov's gun was so obvious that it felt like a punch in the head. The ways in which magic impacts Oxford’s society is a parallel to colonial attitudes and their effects; but in essence, this leaves the narrative feeling very predictable and mundane. The pacing and plot were lacking as well. I found the ending to be quite bizarrely executed and the pacing very imbalanced, especially since the first third of the book drags, and while the second finally picks up a little, the third rams at you like a freight train at full speed with little semblance of buildup or follow-through. Certain aspects of the plot were incredibly formulaic. Though I did find some parts exciting, they came far too late in the book for me to enjoy them as much as I would’ve otherwise. The intrigue of the plot lost its charm by the middle portion, as I kept reading mainly to get closure and find out how things would resolve, rather than by the force of the narrative itself.As with the book, I’ve rather lost my steam with this review; indeed, it’s been a few months at this point since I’ve even read the book. I’m certain I had a lot more to say once, but whatever it was, I will have to resign it as lost to time so I can move on with my life and finally finish this review. Also, Kuang got some of her Latin text glaringly wrong, in a book that is emphatically about language, so I can only imagine what other seemingly minor details were overlooked in editing that affect the overall (il)logic of this book.

This is one of those rare books that happens to hit upon nearly every niche interest and reading preference I’ve got: first contact stories, futuristic-but-analogous-sci-fi, linguistics, snarky/deadpan humor, characters more jaded than Mesoamerican artefacts, and a thrilling plot that manages to keep you hooked throughout. I’ve had my eye on this book (and its amazing cover) since it first released in 2016, but only just now decided to randomly pick it up. (I’m trying to cut down on my TBR, seriously.) I was immediately enthralled in the unconventional format of interview transcripts and the hints of something otherworldly that permeate the book from its first page.

The characters are all incredibly strong and definitive. The main cast of characters includes a physicist, helicopter pilots, and a linguist, not to mention the mysterious narrator who is interviewing all of them. To what end? I rather enjoyed that Neuvel fleshes out each character’s personality quite distinctly, and that the female protagonists are strong characters who, for the most part, don’t immediately fail the Bechdel test. There is also a romantic subplot thrown in which is integrated quite well into the overall narrative and doesn’t feel like unnecessary fanservice. Over the course of the book, I grew to like and empathize with the characters, which is a rare feat. Some of their personalities were slightly incongruent with stereotypes, but I find that this added to their depth rather than took me out of the story; but I can see how it might not suit everyone. The mysterious narrator also develops as a character throughout the book, which I didn’t expect but quite appreciated; by the end, it was hard not to root for them.

The plot is a straightforward first-contact mystery, suspense, and thriller all rolled into one—or so it seems. The big picture questions of ‘what is this giant robot’ and ‘why are these people being interviewed’ propel you through the first parts of the novel at a blazing speed. This high-octane energy does start to wane a bit towards the end, but since the novel is short, it doesn’t feel onerous. The pacing is solid throughout, with a breakneck start powering you through all the way to a final cliffhanger at the end to keep you reeling. The science and military elements feel realistic, but then again, I know very little on the specific subjects. Neuvel has clearly done his research, at the very least, with the linguistics that lies squarely in his wheelhouse. There are logical steps to the plot that are delightful to unravel and piece together once you get closer to the climax.

Perhaps one of the reasons I enjoyed this so much was due to the investigative, mixed-media format of the book. It comprises interview transcripts, newspaper articles, and personal journal entries—all the while, the reader pieces together from these data a sense of the story and the characters’ motivations. It reminded me of Janice Hallett’s The Appeal in that way, although the stories are very different. Neuvel’s writing style was punchy and captivating without getting lost in the dregs or ridiculously long descriptions. Of course, the limit of the interview format does restrain the narrative and stretches believability at times, but it didn’t manage to disrupt my experience. However, it kept the dialogue and interactions realistic and to-the-point, which I liked; the humor was also subtle but quite distinct.

The novel does dip into philosophical themes at times. I enjoyed the hints of mythmaking, legends, and space colonization we get in the novel. It isn’t anything too deep, since at its core it is a mystery/suspense, but it does entertain some universal questions—humanity and its place in the universe, what we might sacrifice in the name of progress, the nature of/ethical concerns pertaining to global cooperation and government conspiracies, and even disarmament of WMD. (There’s a nice nod to Oppenheimer in the book, which must have been a much more subtle reference pre-July 2023, but having recently come off the Barbenheimer train, I couldn’t help but get excited over it.)

I really didn't think I would be into a mecha story, but it's a rare book that manages to delightfully overturn my expectations. Also, I know I’m repeating myself now, but that cover design is just so brilliant. I’m looking forward to the next books in the series!

Favorite quotes:
※ “Stories are there to entertain, preserve history, or serve a societal purpose of some kind.”
※ “I was smart enough to know it was wrong, but not brave enough to stop them.”
※ “Generally speaking, people tend not to question what they’ve been told was true. Scientists are no different; they’ve just been told a lot more things.”
※ “Those are not my words. In fact, I had to look up the exact quote. Like everyone else, I only knew ‘I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ We tend to romanticize good quotes, and I always imagined Oppenheimer uttering those words while staring at the mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion. In reality, he spoke those words during an interview for an NBC documentary in 1965. He had had twenty years to think about it.”

In anticipation of the upcoming movie adaptation, I went ahead and read this prequel novel. The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes focuses on a young Coriolanus Snow—the eighteen-year old before he becomes the villainous and lawful evil President Snow that we see in The Hunger Games trilogy. Ballad tells us about how Coriolanus becomes one of the first ever mentors in the Games, a trial project where they decide to recruit the Academy’s brightest minds to help mentor the tributes from the districts. However, the Snow family has fallen on hard times, so Coriolanus has a lot to juggle between being a mentor, helping his family maintain appearances, and pursue his own growing ambitions. Although the book provides a nice viewpoint into the early world of Panem and tackles some eternal questions on morality and human goodness, Ballad as a whole fell flat for me, being somewhat short of an enjoyable and well-developed read.

The novel does boast a large cast of characters; besides Coriolanus, there are several fellow students who are also mentors in the Games, and several tributes. This makes it hard to keep track of who is who, especially when the deaths begin. Coriolanus of course has a core group of a few students—of these, Sejanus is the most eminently likeable, given that he is portrayed and characterized by his Lawful Good nature of being a bleeding heart. Sejanus definitely grew on me, but his hyper-goodness was almost comical, since it came off as so naïve in the environs of the Capitol. His worldview is incredibly black and white, lacking any sort of nuance; and part of that is due to his naïve understanding of the world, but contrasted with Snow’s ruthlessness, it seems unrealistic almost. Still, he deserved better than to be associated with Coriolanus, and I wasn’t very surprised by his character’s arc, given what we know of the future President Snow. Tigris was also an interesting character here, but we mostly just see her fawn over Coriolanus; perhaps it was an attempt on the author’s part to humanize him somewhat, but it didn’t really work since we are already aware of Snow’s future… baggage, shall we say. Lucy Gray Baird, the tribute extraordinaire herself, was an interesting figure, and I enjoyed her portrayal as someone who isn’t necessarily the strongest tribute but still one who is resourceful, cunning, and adaptive; she manages to exhibit her strengths quite well in the Tenth Hunger Games. I will say that I appreciated Collins depicting Coriolanus as a calculating, coldhearted villainous psychopath from the start, as opposed to going for a redemption arc or transformation motive like you often see in these types of narratives. However, the book gets a million negative points for its pathetic excuse at the ‘romance’ between Lucy Gray and Coriolanus; it never managed to fully convince me, yet so much of the plot and character development hinges on the acceptance of the romance angle.

The setting of the Capitol provides a decent backdrop to the narrative; given that we don’t know much of how the Capitol reacts to and develops after the rebellion and ensuing war, it was fascinating to read about how the Capitol’s citizens also struggle and succumb to some pretty horrific ends to survive due to the rebellion’s siege. Still, while it almost makes you want to sympathize with the Capitol, hearing about it through Coriolanus’s self-righteous lens only soured me on the Capitol further. However, some of the later scenes in District 12 become almost comical with how much of it is a callback to the original trilogy. Clearly, Ballad is aimed at fans who are nostalgic for the originals, but it leaves this novel feeling more like a remix than an original work.

Collins’s writing style also seemed quite odd here. Sure, it is slightly improved from the extremely barebones style of the original YA trilogy, but it isn’t quite to the level of literary fiction either. There are several points that felt very YA to me—for instance, a character would say or do something, or Coriolanus would think of a certain event. Then, immediately after that line, the book would explicate the underlying thought process to the reader, as if they were too stupid to figure it out themselves. This happened enough times for me to be extremely annoyed about it. Moreover, some of the dialogue is very abrupt and periodic, with characters speaking in phrases or half-sentences, and sometimes not sounding very realistic for their role. When I get a chance to upload the highlights from my e-reader, I’ll provide some examples.

The plot and its pacing were also all over the place. The first two-thirds or so of the book proceed at a snail’s pace… not much happens. We mainly follow Coriolanus as he experiences being a mentor and getting to know Lucy Gray while the plot’s action happens around them. We even get scenes of Coriolanus being mindlessly bored at the Academy or thinking through his homework. Why? This book could have been a lot shorter had Collins or the editors cut out some of the fluff. Moreover, I hinted at this earlier, but the plot was extremely predictable. We know who Coriolanus Snow is going to become and how he becomes that person from the original trilogy, so I saw little point in getting worked up over certain characters when their ends were imminently clear from the beginning. Some of the events were also rather convenient for Coriolanus—hell, the family motto of ‘Snow lands on top’ came off as extremely over-the-top and ridiculous because of how conveniently things fell into place without explanation or reason.

If this novel were a standalone and not a prequel to one of the most well-known YA series, this wouldn’t have been half bad. Indeed, Collins imports some heavy-handed themes of human goodness, absolute morality, and the natural state of man—just take a look at the epigraphs that start the book. These are hefty ideas, no doubt. Yet, because this is a prequel, Ballad quickly became overwhelmed with references and callbacks to the original. District 12 popped up in various circumstances a suspicious amount of times—of course Coriolanus mentors the female tribute from District 12, no wonder there, but we see it over and over. Even Sejanus’s character arc is explicitly detailed if you look at the first few paragraphs on his name source’s Wikipedia page. There are dozens of references sprinkled to the original trilogy per page, what amounted to a nauseating barrage of familiar phrases, terms, and even songs. At one point, the characters stop to point out the ‘katniss’ plant—yes, we get it, we’re reading the prequel to The Hunger Games! Thank you for the reminder, I almost forgot! Again, this would be fine if it were just a handful of times, but this happens several times per chapter at the very least.

Moreover, the lofty ideas about human nature and morality are so heavy-handed that Ballad is practically dripping with them. As someone who is decently familiar with Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau, among other Enlightenment thinkers, the themes come off as heavy-handed instead of thought-provoking. Read the epigraphs and that pretty much sums it all up, anyway; it doesn’t get much more complex than the sentiments expressed there. I do appreciate the ideas Collins wants to draw attention to, particularly about human nature and whether our innate humanity is inherently good or evil; however, she could have explored the ideas much more deftly. From the reader’s point of view, I almost felt like I was being spoon-fed the ideas.

To sum it up, some parts were interesting and even a fun look at the Capitol of the previous era—seeing how things came to be a certain way in the present trilogy was enjoyable enough. It was also a bit predictable and over-the-top at times. The characters and plots could have been much better, though I suppose they weren’t absolutely terrible either. This book doesn’t inspire much strong feeling in me, so I think it’s going to have to be a ‘meh’ from me, and not recommended—unless you’re a superfan who can’t fathom not reading the prequel, I guess.

I am ashamed at myself for taking so long to finally get to the Avatar graphic novels, but I finally have. The Promise picks up right where the TV series left off, and even though I hadn’t seen the show in a while, I was able to get immersed in the story fairly quickly. The characters we all know and love are back—and to my surprise, each gets a fairly significant and balanced amount of ‘screen time’ in the narrative. The main focus in this volume is on the conflict between Aang and Zuko, the new Fire Lord. At its heart lies questions on whether one has a duty to one’s conscience or to one’s commitments, as well as some significant undercurrents about relationships one has with both friends and family and their influence on our own moral calculus.

Of course, the narrative is fairly simplistic, but it is the ‘how’ of the plot that will be interesting here, even for older readers and fans of the show. These characters have clearly matured since the first episodes they appeared in, and this book partially highlights the difficulties they have to overcome in the process of growing up and filling in the shoes of their very adult ‘roles’. Aang, of course, has his diplomacy to bear, and Zuko his responsibilities as the Fire Lord; both find that these roles come with their own expectations and perhaps nuances that they do not yet fully understand.

The side characters were also surprising, and I was happy to see some minor figures from the show pop up here again and get a bit more fleshed out. There is also a lot of emphasis on the burgeoning relationship between Aang and Katara, much to the chagrin of Sokka, of course. I know we can’t get too much character development in just one volume, but we do start to see some interesting hints as to the direction of the characters’ arcs… particularly for Zuko, I am eager to see where the writers will go with it.

If you’re a fan of the show, you’ve definitely got to check out the graphic novels! Don’t even hesitate. It is a joy to be back in the world of Avatar, and even to get a glimpse of Uncle Iroh in retirement, who is objectively the best character.

The follow-up novel in the Cemeteries of Amalo series, The Grief of Stones brings us back to Thara Celehar and his endless task of solving mysteries and investigating the dead—this time, with an apprentice. Since this is the second in the series, the characters and settings are well-established, though we do get new additions that mix things up somewhat. We get to explore areas previously mentioned in the first book in greater detail and we get to hear about some of the characters’ backstories, adding further layers of complexity to the series. Though the mystery elements in this book didn’t quite wow me, I appreciated the chance to see the world Addison has built up through Celehar’s perspective, and I also enjoyed how she touches on the theme of grief, among others.

As usual, Thara Celehar is one of my favorite characters, and here he once again takes the helm as a stellar protagonist. He is flawed, but not overly much; he is inquisitive and intelligent, but not showy about it. Despite the nature of his work, he maintains the compassion and good-heartedness that help him to easily win over the reader’s favor. In this book, I appreciated getting to see Celehar coming out of his shell more now that he realizes he has a support network of people that care about him and wish him well. Though, of course, he is reluctant to rely on them at first, he gradually grows more comfortable with the notion of leaning on them—and also thereby increasing his own self-esteem somewhat. His apprentice, Velhiro Tomasaran, was a welcome addition to the cast of characters; her ability to be a witness vel ama provides an interesting contrast from Celehar’s, since her abilities emerge so suddenly and in someone with very little training. She provides a fresh perspective, if a bit naïve at times. Of course, we also get to see Iäna Pel-Thenhior plenty; his character brings no shortage of delight in seeing Celehar attempt to organize how he feels about the doggedly persistent opera composer. The secondary characters, including some scholars from the University in Amalo, round out the balance sheet, especially considering the villainous figures who are almost kind of cartoonishly evil.

We also get to explore more of Amalo—not only the other cemeteries and shady prelates, but the setting focuses on a foundling school for young girls, and we also enlist the help of scholars from the University. By this point, the locations in Amalo have become more familiar to me, and it feels oddly familiar when Celehar and co. step on a tram or walk through certain neighborhoods; and there are even some callbacks to the previous novel’s characters on occasion. Once again, I’m not sure exactly how, but Addison manages to build a world that is quite immersive and engaging. With this book, I got quite comfortable following the characters do what they do, even if it wasn’t particularly groundbreaking, precisely because the world felt like it made a lot of sense, and the characters felt like their roles were reasonably apportioned within that. Addison’s writing style is impressive as usual, with her trademark descriptive-yet-not-overwhelming setting of scenes and slight edges of humor, even in dreadful situations. (There is a scene where Celehar laughs. Yes, he actually laughs, and it shocks the other characters.)

As with the other novels in the world of Ethuveraz, the plot is more of a light seasoning rather than a full-bodied flavor. However, it works well in this case, even for me, who typically prefers more plot-based action to move the story along. The mystery itself isn’t earth-shattering and fairly easy to figure out, but seeing it come to its conclusion was still quite satisfying. Celehar’s investigations bring him to heads with powerful people and conflict as well as serious danger, so there are still some stakes, but you still feel quite confident that Celehar will ultimately prevail. Of course, any serious victory must involve some degree of sacrifice, and Addison certainly doesn’t shy away from that concept here. If I might take issue with something, it would be that the mystery in this book was slightly less compelling than in the previous one, but that is perhaps because the main portion of the mystery is solved relatively early on within the book. Still, the remaining parts of the book were no less exciting, as there are of course plenty of politicking shenanigans and even scholarly discoveries that await.

I almost forgot to mention the themes that the book touches upon—chiefly grief, of course, but also trauma, what it means to have a purpose or calling, and how one’s identity is influenced by their purpose (or lack thereof). The latter of these is especially pertinent to many among my generation, particularly in the current turbulence of the times. This novel, as is hinted at in the previous book, also entertains the notion of questioning societal norms; here, young girls are ripe for abuse and mistreatment, particularly because they have very little recourse or function in Amalo’s society. Women are also scorned if they are seen as too foolhardy or determined to bring about reforms, as is our main murder victim here. These details are woven into the narrative with subtle yet deft hands, and Addison once again reminds us that fantasy is, among many other functions, a great way to reflect on our own society and norms. Celehar also struggles with his own grief, which he has been struggling with for pretty much all of the books—but here, he finally realizes what holding that grief means for him, exactly, and why he may be reluctant to let it go. Generational trauma and survivorship trauma also play a role here, but I won’t delve into too much detail since it could get into spoiler territory.

I am eagerly anticipating the third volume in this series, and I can only imagine how the characters and interactions might develop from where we have left them at this novel’s conclusion. I feel pretty confident about reading anything else that Katherine Addison could write in this world and trusting that it will go well. Thara Celehar goes through so much, and I really hope he gets a good bout of events to turn some of his luck around; at the very least, he has begun to expand his social circle and put away some of the lingering ghosts of grief and guilt from his past.

“Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.”

I read the Donald Keene English translation, titled No Longer Human. I had a phase of reading Mishima Yukio a long time ago, and I had heard about this book even back then. Yet this is the first time I have managed to actually pick it up; it’s a short read, but don’t let that fool you—it is a dense and thought-provoking book. The protagonist is a character whose mindset is perhaps incredibly alien to most of us, and at the same time, has remnants of relatable desires, emotions, and thoughts. Who hasn’t felt the loneliness and alienation Yōzo feels in the novel, at least once? That this novel is a thinly veiled retelling of the author’s own only hammers that point further. The themes are highlighted by the frame of the novel, which is depicted as a kind of ‘found’ manuscript, with commentary seemingly from the author. Much as with other literary Japanese novels I’ve read, much of the themes and ideas in the novel are never stated outright; they are subtly implied or deftly woven into the tapestry of the story without being directly presented to the reader as such. At times, this does make it a bit confusing if one is not paying enough attention, and I had to forcibly push through to get a broader picture of the narrative and fill in some of the blanks for myself. That is a mark on myself as a reader though, and not on Dazai. What this novel truly impresses in is the stark depiction of despair; it doesn’t just permeate the novel, but despair is what enlivens the novel, in a way. Yōzo’s despair at not being a ‘proper human’, at failing his family’s expectations of him, at failing the women he falls in love with… whatever the subject of his despair, it is seemingly endless. Yet this is not limited to his perspective; in a way, even the world itself presents a source of despair, given how Yōzo is often tempted to blunt its effects with alcohol or drugs. He numbs himself not only from other humans but even himself, his existence only an additional barb that provokes his mind. The discussions of suicide and self-reprobation are blunt and unforgiving, and one almost feels like Dazai’s own thoughts come through most strongly at these points.The characters we meet are interesting, especially since we see them through Yōzo’s perspective, which is of course biased in a way. It was interesting to note how often Horiki and Yōzo interact with each other and in what ways, and although they have a kind of nominal friendship, it ranges from being entirely one-sided to a kind of mutual détente to preserve some sense of dignity, perhaps. Some characters are entirely one-dimensional, but it didn’t seem quite as offensive here, since we have an unreliable narrator who openly professes disdain for these same characters; it is oddly fitting here in a way that it wouldn’t be in the writing of a less talented author.Of course, given the themes of suicide, depression, and alienation, among others, the novel is incredibly bleak. I felt weirdly uplifted through reading it, as though somehow the despair of the novel could only stand in contrast to my own lack of it. It is an odd feeling reading this in this particular stage of my life, which has been quite transitional in many respects. I can only wonder how a younger, more misanthropic version of myself would have reacted to the novel. I remembered reading Confessions of a Mask and heavily relating to some of its dark themes and finding comfort at seeing them expressed; here, it’s almost like looking at that past version of myself through the veil of the years and experiences I’ve had with greater compassion and understanding. I can extend that somewhat to Yōzo here, whose pain and struggle I can sense as very real and yet also as something oddly transient. I have a feeling that this is one of those books that changes vastly depending on what season of one’s life it is read; and I ought to really re-read it to give myself time to fully digest the themes and narrative. However, it is definitely a dark and depressing read, with a slightly obsessive pull towards that ever-present despair; it will likely be some time before I get around to reading it again. Even so, it is a seminal work of Japanese literature and indeed world literature, if I can say so, and I would recommend everyone to give it a try at least once, if the thought of reading about the particular subject matter doesn’t deter you. Though it provides very little direct insight on its own questions about humanity, this novel is a centerpiece of that everlasting notion of what it means to be human which has plagued the species since time immemorial.

“The sound of the freezing of snow over the land seemed to roar deep into the earth. There was no moon. The stars, almost too many of them to be true, came forward so brightly that it was as if they were falling with the swiftness of the void.”

It was well into July when I read this, the dog days of summer, as you could call them; now it is August when I am (finally) writing this review. Needless to say, I am exhausted by summer and long for the cold and quiet days of winter—the best season. This book was a fitting read for the occasion, taking me to a landscape full of snow, quietude, and even comfy hot springs/onsen as a reprieve. The atmosphere is one of my favorite things about this novel, though Kawabata’s writing left many good impressions. This is the first Kawabata I’ve read, but I am henceforth eager to read more, especially his The Master of Go. Apparently, Snow Country is (rightly) considered a classic of Japanese literature, and was even one of the novels that led to Kawabata’s Nobel Prize. At its core, the novel is one of many contradictions. We have the contrast between the protagonist, Shimamaura, and his beloved courtesan, Komako; one is cold and almost lifeless, and the other is warm and red, almost burning with ardor. The landscape shifts between winter and spring for Shimamura’s visits. Shimamura himself is an urban professional, a white-collar ‘knowledge worker’ who himself acknowledges the quasi-meaningless of his own work; Komako is a relic of the provincial country town setting, eager to get away and make something of herself, but almost entirely stuck in her homespun ways. Then there is the stark beauty of Komako, the centerpiece of the novel and of Shimamura’s desire; it is almost a self-contradiction in itself, since Shimamura veers between obsessive admiration and an inability to even look her in the eye at times. Kawabata’s characters bring the story to life, really, since there isn’t a classic plot. As with most other Japanese texts I’ve read, the plot is a thinly veiled skeletal structure, only there to prop up the actions of the characters and demonstrate their interactions with each other. Komako and Shimamura are our protagonists, but they share significant space with secondary characters—chiefly, Yoko, a young woman who also catches Shimamura’s eye, but also smaller figures, such as the onsen staff and the various boarding families that Komako stays with. The world felt decently populated, and the characters’ relationships were depicted in a dynamic and realistic manner.The novel is punctuated by vignettes, various scenes ranging from Shimamura’s first meeting with Komako to the climax of the novel and its aftermath. At times, the writing style did confound me, just because I am so used to a solid structure from the perspective of western novels. There are, as seems to be usual for Japanese literature, many ideas that are left unsaid or so subtle so as to be missed if you aren’t carefully considering them; thus, I did feel confused or have to re-read some lines a few times to make sense of the broader implications. However, this didn’t detract from the reading experience, but it added a deeper layer of complexity that I grew to appreciate. The scenes were also masterfully descriptive; the setting of an increasingly industrializing and modernized Japan in a mountainous winter onsen town was well encapsulated in Kawabata’s descriptions. Moreover, there is a certain scene in which the tone of the novel achieves its climax with the difference of just one word—truly incredible. The ending seems to come upon the reader somewhat too soon, but its parting image is a thoughtful one; I couldn’t help but wonder about it for quite a while after finishing. Although the overall story of the love affair didn’t strike me as much as I thought it would, the simplicity of Kawabata’s telling of it definitely struck a chord with me. This is likely a novel that will stay with me for a time, and I definitely recommend checking it out.