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Que desilusión. Un comienzo fuertísimo, impresionante, pero de ahí se fue a pique, con irritaciones que seguian aumentando hasta que no pude más: narrador sin promesa de redención; caracter secundario con pinta de héroe pero quien es mentiroso e ignoble; demasiados milagros de coincidencias simplemente para avanzar la narrativa; intrusiones en la narrativa, en forma de cartas o crónicas de tercera persona, que explican puntos importantes pero no explican cómo tal caracter pudo tener el conocimiento que narraba (los pensamientos íntimos de otra persona); idioma ridículamente florido, hasta colmo que el autor se burla de sí mismo — «Abrevie, Fermín, por el amor de Dios» — pero sigue que te sigue; y, finalmente, un misterio que no es muy interesante, con sorpresas inesperadas las cuales, francamente, tampoco son interesantes. Como si Ruiz Zafón hubiera planeado una serie de «plot twists» para asombrar al lector, y entonces forzado una historia alrededor de ellos.

Abandonado, p. 310, justo pasado la mitad. Sólo 250 páginas más... pero no, soy gran creyente en la falacia de costos hundidos. Seguro que encuentro otras 250 páginas más preciosas.

«Suspiro...» A este paso no voy a terminar mi meta de libros para el año...

Abandoned, p.65: another it-doesn’t-work-that-way mess and I can’t handle another one so soon after [b:Station Eleven|20170404|Station Eleven|Emily St. John Mandel|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1680459872l/20170404.SX50.jpg|28098716]. It’s obviously YA, and clearly intended as a fable, but even in those there should be some way to figure out the rules. None of the logistics make any sense: not the building complex, its power generation, plumbing, life support; nor the technological marvels built from “scrapped circuit boards,” nor the too-human emotions in all the robots (one of which is a cowardly-lion Roomba named Rambo—get it?—another, a sadistic medical-caretaker named Nurse R.A.T.C.H.E.D.—get it?); and not the fleeing-parents setup nor the child being raised and coming out well-adjusted despite zero human company.

Maybe I could chill, accept magical handwaving as the explanation for it all, not try to ask questions. Or maybe everything is explained satisfactorily on page 66 (if so, someone trustworthy please let me know, and I’ll give it another try). But it’s also heavyhanded, another form of sloppiness that irks me. So many glowing reviews, such high hopes, but life is short.

Quite a rollercoaster; I’m so glad it’s over. Wish it had ended a little before it did.

That doesn’t mean it was in any way bad... just... painful, and probably not for the reasons you might think: suicide I can handle, but drama, not so much, and Eve the narrator is tiresomely self-obsessed. Most of the book is beautiful, insightful, emotionally raw; but a lot of it is tedious self-pity. I was often tempted to DNF it but kept going because holy shit can Nwabineli write. Even though the Eve we read about is annoying, the Eve who’s writing—the older wiser Eve who made it through—her voice is exquisite. She writes with awareness and humility and sometimes even a little chagrin; not to excuse traumatized-whiny-Eve but to ... here I’m not so sure ... to help us learn from her? This is a tremendously compassionate, intelligent, and even funny book, snarky and witty, and at the end I can’t tell you if it’s anti-suicide, pro-suicide, or some sort of mindful caring hey-it-happens. And I really loved that.

The story itself was a bit contrived and became ever more so as it progressed; some aspects of that were easier for me to accept than others. On the whole, despite the annoyances and inverisimilitudes, I found it hard to put the book down. Eve was surrounded by kind, caring, competent people, and I genuinely cared for each of them. I cared about future-Eve, too, the one narrating with so much heart, and wanted to know how the Eve in the book, the one who shows no promise, transforms.

Finally and most importantly, the book’s treatment of suicide seems fair. Not always—this was part of the rollercoaster, all the different takes and angles and perspectives she whirlwinds through—but at the end I feel satisfied that no corners were cut. Suicide is a ferociously complex topic, one that we rarely if ever talk about (except in overly simplistic, condescending fly-bys: “call the hotline mkay see ya”), and Nwabineli honors that complexity. Brava.

UPDATE, few days later: can't believe I forgot to mention my favorite topic, asymmetry. So many kinds of it in life and in this book! Some asymmetries can be rebalanced given time and energy and desire. The asymmetry of understanding—of being with others, seeing them, feeling them—that to me is the most mystifying one, and one that I seem to be devoting more and more of my life to addressing even while knowing how unsolvable it is. Death is the ultimate brick wall in that effort; unexplained suicides add a giant middle finger to those left behind. So if you’re considering suicide—and I hope you’re not, but can empathize if you are and can even accept under some circumstances—anyway, this is a great book to read, because it really helps one understand how not to be a dick about it.

There’s so much wrong with this book. Every fundamental plot device is silly: the existence of a spirit after death; the idea that said spirit could see hear smell (violation of laws of physics); that said spirit could have desires and emotions (chemical/biological processes); and then the gimmicks on top of that, like the amnesia thing, how convenient; all of it makes for a book I would toss aside in the first few pages.

But I didn’t. And it wasn’t a stick-with-it thing: I enjoyed every page—okay, almost every page; some of the violence was sickening but I breathed through that—and despite the absurdity I fell deeper and deeper in love with the book. And the payoff is oh so worth it.

The book triggers so many of my hot buttons (in good ways) but I’ll focus on asymmetry because so many central themes revolve around it and because Karunatilaka does such a masterful job weaving it into every element of the story. Porous asymmetries: Maali’s spirit is thrown into an afterlife whose rules are only partially explained, ... with dangerous gaps; the amnesia gimmick is an effective tension-building device, leaking information slowly to Maali and the reader, information that changes the context of what has transpired so far. In addition to the information asymmetries there are asymmetries of power, of attraction/attractiveness, and of morality. The unusual second-person narration is powerful: I often find that gimmick distancing; here it drew me in, made me identify with and feel a strong connection to Maali.

Some of my other hot buttons: Letting things go. The value of life. Compassion. All of them exquisitely handled, not necessarily with the resolution I would’ve preferred, but one I find more than satisfying.

For someone who doesn’t really like YA, I sure seem to be reading a lot of YA lately. I blame my friends. In particular, this small group of remarkable people, kind & smart & patient, each one apparently feeling obligated to make me a better more open-minded person by foisting books on me that I would otherwise turn my snobby nose up at.

This one, like [b:that other book I just finished|58388343|Some Desperate Glory|Emily Tesh|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1668621616l/58388343.SY75.jpg|91580340], was almost unbearably painful at the start. This one, too, paid off after initial effort. Here the setup was cartoonish; the protagonist a humorless, soulless, unlikable bureaucrat; and the dialog made my teeth hurt from gritting them. But I kept going, because see above. And then somewhere near page 50 my brain just did a flip of sorts and I started getting it... and, soon, really enjoying it. This is escapist fantasy, a chance to snuggle safely with warm lovely marginalized people -- which is why we read [a:Becky Chambers|17650479|Becky Chambers|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png], after all, though that’s a parallel that only just came to me; I didn’t make the connection while reading.

The story arc is predictable, but only broadly speaking: you know Plot Trope X is coming, but when it does it’s not quite how you thought it would be. Maybe the best way I can describe the book is “charming”: it charmed me.

Thank you, friends.

It’s like Valdez Quade read the Dunning-Kruger paper and thought, OMG, this explains so much! And then set out to write about what she’s seen. Every story here features losers of different degrees: people we know or may have been ourselves, with poor impulse control and judgment; all the way to people we hope never to have in our lives, worthless ignorant irresponsible leeches who serve only to drag everyone down.

Underdeveloped prefrontal cortex is a prominent theme in every one of the stories. Unsurprisingly, religions play a strong role in about half of them, and Valdez Quade brings out their full creepiness. I wondered often what a believer-type would think of these stories.

So, why would you want to read this? I’m not making it sound pleasant, and it often isn’t, but it’s rewarding. The stories are all infused with compassion. Not necessarily for the worst of the losers, but for those around them: their young children, the parents who have to support them, even for our own selves, because we’ve all been losers at times. And, of course, the settings are especially enjoyable: mostly New Mexico, with two elsewhere in the Southwest.

It was a painful book to read: it hurts me so much to see this kind of needless suffering. I read it over about two weeks, which tempered the pain. I’m glad Valdez Quade publishes infrequently, it’ll give me time to be eager for her next book. (Human incompetence being an inexhaustible resource, she is likely to have writing material for the rest of her life).

Holy shit. This was so, so, so good. Sassy; insightful; tender; enraging; illuminating; suspenseful; and smart as hell. And to think I felt dubious going in, fearing it would be fluff! Quite the opposite: I’d call it dense, and if that conjures up a negative impression, let that go. There’s just so much in it: toxic masculinity, domestic violence, poverty, injustice, consent, ... but all of it served with a loving heart and a pretty hefty dose of brain. Let’s say it’s packed. I wasn’t able to finish it in one day—see below—but I shuffled priorities to nibble at it every chance I had.

You’ve read the blurb, you know the premise... but you have no idea where it’s going. I felt off-balance for most of the book, thinking I had a grasp on the situations and characters, then things change: circumstances progress in interesting ways, and the characters, we learn more about them, information that changes how we see them. Really beautifully done: Shroff writes crisply, sparingly, with an impressive vocabulary, a wry wit, and a poker player’s sharpness. We learn what she wants us to learn, when she wants us to learn it, and it’s masterful. Cruelty, kindness, nuance, complexity; the book makes demands of the reader, and it rewards in kind.

On the subject of demands: Shroff throws a big fuck-you to non-Indians. I spent many minutes, cumulatively easily over an hour, getting up to sit at my laptop and look up Gujarati or Hindi words, Indian customs. Sometimes she explains them a few pages later, more often not. Sometimes they’re clear from context, sometimes not. Navrati, kabbadi, crore, gadheda... my time was well spent, and I was curious, and I learned. I am thankful to Shroff for not pandering to me.

I loved this book so much that I ordered a copy for myself, to reread and to loan out. (To you, should you wish). But before you read it: if you are not Indian, please take time to learn about Phoolan Devi first. I read [b:this graphic novel|50162467|Phoolan Devi, Rebel Queen|Claire Fauvel|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1575492203l/50162467.SX50_SY75.jpg|72611481], which J. at Samizdat had pressed on me some months ago, mere days before Bandit Queens—very, very fortuitous timing. Knowing about Devi was infinitely helpful to me in understanding context.

Many parts don’t add up: some suspension of disbelief is required for the coincidences, a few character interactions, plot gimmicks. All of these are completely forgivable. Wow, what a book.

A beautiful, accessible way to tell a difficult and (in the U.S.) unknown story. I had never heard of Devi, and that’s a shame: she deserves to be known and celebrated.

This is a violent book, TW everything. “Violence is not the answer,” some people proclaim, but I firmly believe it is part of the answer process, often a crucially necessary one. I feel fury over the trauma inflicted on Devi and countless others like her, but my fury does nothing to prevent it from happening again and again today and tomorrow. Heroes like Devi: they help, and, more importantly, inspire others. It was cathartic to see her neutralize those who hurt her and would hurt others. We need more of that.

Finally: this graphic-novel adaptation is clearly oversimplified, with an almost infantile tone at times—perhaps to reinforce Devi’s own lost innocence? In any case, this is not a book for children. Also, the adaptation is based on Devi’s autobiography. There may be biases. There may be more to her story, some of it less flattering to her, some of it possibly ambiguous. Almost as if she was a real, complex human being. I still think this is worth reading: much as I love objective truth, a little hagiography is OK from time to time, and everything I’ve found in my followup reading tonight suggests that she was a worthy person.

Mmmm, I love it when you talk nerdy to me. Blend it with meaningful human connection and I’m all yours. This is the most scientifically literate work I’ve read by Chambers, and it’s exquisite. Four beautiful, complex characters (one trans, one ace!) in a loving polycule, all of them committed to an achingly lonely mission of searching for extrasolar life... and no human yet has experienced this level of commitment, in which the Earth you return to—if you return—will be unrecognizable. The emotions of leaving your home and loved ones behind could merit a book in themselves, and are not the main focus here, but Chambers does a respectable job with them.

There are big plot holes: crowdfunding six deep-space missions, uh, not likely. Onboard fuel and energy. And, four planets, with only one landing site each? That goes into “inconceivable”[1] territory. But the story wouldn’t work otherwise, and oh, how the story works. The bioadaptation gimmick is fascinating; the exotic life forms tantalizing, the moral dilemmas heartbreaking. And, finally, this is Chambers, so her characters are on the too-good-to-be-true side (virtuous, decent, flawed but self-aware and self-correcting) and I just love that. It gives me hope for what we can be.

[1] “You keep using that word.”