tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31112714666946131352024-03-16T12:52:01.695-06:00Basso ProfundoBook Reviews that Sound a Deeper NoteLuke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.comBlogger502125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-39687679210275514182024-03-13T12:45:00.005-06:002024-03-13T12:51:03.325-06:00"The Rise and Reign of the Mammals" by Steve Brusatte<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hGxXk6F8EkCmhJw4RcgXgineFhWEkXUvwdm-lxcBQfqR1zH3N_tSgMiSs3zP4IOLEConIkWdfpHIcCEYXn4Nix40KcMxwnrt_u29CIoD8-52py3hHkIsHpCytiixU9rV7rhZd7xH0LyVk2rtOlhX5J_cA7yx9e5b8ljvoCol8WdaDajLh45rTmdlsVc/s500/Mammals.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hGxXk6F8EkCmhJw4RcgXgineFhWEkXUvwdm-lxcBQfqR1zH3N_tSgMiSs3zP4IOLEConIkWdfpHIcCEYXn4Nix40KcMxwnrt_u29CIoD8-52py3hHkIsHpCytiixU9rV7rhZd7xH0LyVk2rtOlhX5J_cA7yx9e5b8ljvoCol8WdaDajLh45rTmdlsVc/w133-h200/Mammals.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><b><span style="color: #4c1130;"><i>Subtitled</i>: A New History, From the Shadow of the Dinosaurs to Us</span></b><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">A few hundred thousand years after the asteroid impact that killed the dinosaurs, a tiny individual primate called <i>Purgatorius</i> died in the Purgatory Hill badlands of Montana. Its tiny fossilized teeth led scientists to conclude that it was the species that broke away from its insect-eating cousins and was the first primate. Much, much earlier, in the Carboniferous period of Paleozoic Era, about 330 million years ago, the first synapsids split apart from their reptilian contemporaries and started the lineage that led to mammals. <br /><br />These are two salient points in Dr. Steve Brusatte’s </span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><i>The Rise and Reign of the Mammals</i></span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">. Brusatte, PhD, is an American Paleontologist who teaches at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. The book’s notes identify him as the author of the international bestseller <i>The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs</i>. The paleontology advisor on the Jurassic World film franchise, Brusatte has named more than fifteen new species, including the tyrannosaur “Pinocchio rex” (<i>Qianzhousaurus</i>), the raptor <i>Zhenyuanlong</i>, and several ancient mammals.<br /><br />This is a book by a scientist for the general public. It’s conversational, not overloaded with jargon, and personal: he declaims his own take on the state of the science, and peppers his insights with idiosyncratic anecdotes about the principal intrepid scientists whose discoveries preceded his own. His reverence for these pioneering specialists — his heroines and heroes — never flags.<br /><br />If you have an interest in the evolution of mammals, I can’t imagine there is a better book or a better author with whom to start.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZycFnBd62zVqjlpgvkOr4A-sKz4xTJVWoy9XlM5Zvwbuh_wS3t5iofQE4FPY8m2YjvG2B-FyIU6LKeb2CS6WuM-o3gHWIISugRhl3BIu96vLAs-Fo2st2vcd_QX3SkGFLwiEagd3FLZDG0u2DGSCyLf8NCKmR622etEg1uPe5g4Dv2NHvSVRmh-VDZNU/s81/85Feather3.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="81" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZycFnBd62zVqjlpgvkOr4A-sKz4xTJVWoy9XlM5Zvwbuh_wS3t5iofQE4FPY8m2YjvG2B-FyIU6LKeb2CS6WuM-o3gHWIISugRhl3BIu96vLAs-Fo2st2vcd_QX3SkGFLwiEagd3FLZDG0u2DGSCyLf8NCKmR622etEg1uPe5g4Dv2NHvSVRmh-VDZNU/s1600/85Feather3.png" width="81" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-88748960628916489412024-02-29T13:44:00.000-07:002024-02-29T13:44:17.533-07:00Q & A With Edward Hamlin, Author of "Sonata in Wax"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTpUNlkpaaiRmy2QfGhyphenhyphenNY_5g2xuBobZyXFzqw3mvEYYYlZi-7wSbyEhJcVsGFjXVpTDD1W0cz6ruH_QQEQBecHNdI9AXe4sIqiqcYMJRQoKDDmGZH9ku-hcn3U4I2nUD67FmPkP-UKPU1p6zGepZ4BIzrAbqoeEYCyRo4ZkVmzEiegjWsKmiKZT4wRs/s500/sonatacvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="340" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTpUNlkpaaiRmy2QfGhyphenhyphenNY_5g2xuBobZyXFzqw3mvEYYYlZi-7wSbyEhJcVsGFjXVpTDD1W0cz6ruH_QQEQBecHNdI9AXe4sIqiqcYMJRQoKDDmGZH9ku-hcn3U4I2nUD67FmPkP-UKPU1p6zGepZ4BIzrAbqoeEYCyRo4ZkVmzEiegjWsKmiKZT4wRs/w136-h200/sonatacvr.jpg" width="136" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;">I peppered Edward Hamlin, author of the soon to be released <i>Sonata in Wax</i>, with questions about his novel, and he was gracious enough to answer them. Below are his replies to my impertinent interrogation.<br /><br />[<b>WARNING</b>: Some of the information that follows contains what might be construed as clues to outcomes, or broad hints, about plot, authorial intent, or sources, etc., pertaining to <i>Sonata in Wax</i>. If you definitely don’t want any information on the book, that probably means you intend to read it, which is certainly the best outcome. If that’s the case, you can give what follows a pass, and return to it after you’ve finished reading the book.]<br /><br /><br /><i><b>Basso Profundo</b>: In a piece of correspondence, you mentioned that I “got what you were trying to do" in the novel. What did you mean by that?</i><br /><br /><b>Edward Hamlin:</b> When I said I thought you got what I was doing, that was mostly about the centrality of the actual music and the musicians’ interpretation of it—the fact that the music (not just the sonata) was in some ways an important character in the story. Also, you saw how the dual timelines each contribute to the unearthing of the mystery, with the reader having to pick up clues from both. <br /><br />Let me extract your other questions one by one:<br /><br /><i><b>BP:</b> I like how Jacques’s performance of the piece is handled so obliquely. And that you had Loeffler and Casals in the room for it. I doubt I would have had the sophistication or the know-how to handle it as low-key or as subtly as that. The sonata you describe is wildly ahead of its time, with its apparently free form and its jazz passages—I loved it. The presaging of jazz seems like a bold choice on your part. Did you ever have second thoughts about describing it that way? <br /></i><br /><b>EH:</b> There were a couple of key plot events that I decided to handle somewhat off-stage—the first performance of the sonata in the Boston timeline, which we experience only through Elisabeth’s fond but fraught recollection, and Robin’s actual breakup with Ben, which we experience only through Ben’s painful memories. These pivotal events are not played out in scene. I could have gone either way with it, but in both those cases the central thing was the protagonist’s lived, emotional experience of the events; I wanted the reader to directly and empathetically experience that response, not so much the events themselves. The emotional gestalt of the events was what was most real for them, so I wanted it to be most real for the reader, too. <br /><br />As far as the jazz elements in the sonata, no, I had no second thoughts about that. They were always part of the piece musically.<br /><br /><i><b>BP:</b> You also did an amazing job of capturing the zeitgeist of the time—what horrors they went through, both the butchery in faraway places and plagues at home. Did you rely on any family lore for that theme, or was it more general, in the well known way a novelist uses his imagination to achieve verisimilitude?</i><br /><br /><b>EH:</b> It was mostly research rather than family lore or pure imagination. The really minute details—Elisabeth walking out at night in her “Louis heels,” for example—came from research, but then I had to decide how to use them. Two helpful resources were my friend Ellen Knight, the Winchester town historian who helped me immensely by unearthing articles about the Sanborns all through the writing, and my firsthand familiarity with the Sanborn mansion, which I’ve visited twice. Aigremont has been reclaimed and restored and is now a cultural center. It’s where my grandmother, Helen Sanborn, grew up, as portrayed in the novel. And it’s where my great-grandfather, Oren, frittered away all the money, none of which made it to my generation.<br /><br />Ellen Knight was very helpful in filling in the blanks in my knowledge of the house. For example, the layout of the basement morgue and the parking spot in back where the corpses were loaded onto trucks, or the back stairs where Westerlake and Elisabeth meet—these were things Ellen helped me fill in and visualize, sometimes with photos she went and took even though the pandemic was on. She was wonderful.<br /><br /><i><b>BP:</b> You sure made economical use of your characters. Having Nikki and bringing back Robin as an ally was a very generous tack for your readers. I found it gratifying. Was it part of the plan from the get-go?<br /> </i><br /><b>EH:</b> No, I didn’t know about that until deep into the writing. I had the sense that Nikki would always be at Ben’s side, and I hoped Robin would reappear in his life, but it wasn’t until the big concert began to develop that all the details came to light. I like that element of surprise. <br /><br />I actually wrote a coda, parallel to the Plum Island coda, to explore what happened with Ben and Robin after that night, but decided in the end not to go there. Better that we all wonder.<br /><br /><i><b>BP:</b> Are any of your fictional world class musicians based on actual people? This would probably take a one-word answer, since you obviously can’t name names.</i><br /><br />Only obliquely. I’m not immersed enough in the classical music world to set up a guessing game like that. Jérôme Assouline was at one point an actual musician instead, but I later fictionalized him because I wasn’t comfortable making up so much dialogue for the actual, living musician. Ana Clara has elements of several concert pianists of her generation, but she’s her own unique mix of brilliance and hubris. I had a lot of fun creating her, but I really don’t see us being friends anytime soon.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Many thanks to Edward Hamlin for his gracious candor. These answers are great, sir!</b></i> </span></span><br /></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-35523495567151577612024-02-27T16:52:00.002-07:002024-02-29T18:58:47.859-07:00"Sonata in Wax" by Edward Hamlin<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZD0RUQl7qBA5GeM838wyewbmKT8KA4Wn84JgH0dlwsoQJDWb2UgiVfX6BqcTlVUsuGOl8uYKPNDtQUWw0FPrF9fai5jecs2u3lIxT9ZDkuuIOJgwqVbLKTd1Mtpvlkfry1yvQjgK_xgKAedNdv4V-rMLvztVoBG35yIOcJRnAYrGfXydE2RAqZopyl4/s500/sonatacvr.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="340" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZD0RUQl7qBA5GeM838wyewbmKT8KA4Wn84JgH0dlwsoQJDWb2UgiVfX6BqcTlVUsuGOl8uYKPNDtQUWw0FPrF9fai5jecs2u3lIxT9ZDkuuIOJgwqVbLKTd1Mtpvlkfry1yvQjgK_xgKAedNdv4V-rMLvztVoBG35yIOcJRnAYrGfXydE2RAqZopyl4/w136-h200/sonatacvr.jpg" width="136" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">Your cup will run over when you read Edward Hamlin’s thrilling <i>Sonata in Wax</i>. The author supplies two enthralling narratives which are linked by five frail pieces: Bell Graphophone wax cylinders of a sonata recorded in Massachusetts during the First World War. Both threads contain the dark stain of perfidy: the archaic story arc takes much of its color from the “Kaiser’s War,” which turned Europe into a charnel house; the more recent narrative features the more personal savagery of a revenge-minded piano-playing diva whose gargantuan ego has been injured. This novel will sweep you up in its hundred-year timeframe, make you marvel at Hamlin’s deft balancing act as the two head to their dénouements. It’s a beautiful book.<br /><br />The present-day narrative starts with world-renowned recording engineer, Ben Weil (our hero), receiving five wax recording cylinders, recorded 100 years prior at a private piano recital in Boston. An antiquarian from Maine has shipped them to Ben at his Chicago studio with the request that he identify the artist/composer if he can, and please report back to her. Ben immediately becomes intrigued, and he somehow fits his research into his already crazy-hectic schedule. <br /><br />The story from one hundred years earlier deals with Elisabeth Garnier, a pretty young Frenchwoman, who works for Alexander Graham Bell, presenting the company’s wares to Boston’s Brahmin elite. Her father Jaques is the virtuoso piano player who has composed the marvel of a sonata. Ben’s research turns up a few tidbits of arcana, but through a misunderstanding arising at a point when Ben is ill and vulnerable, Ana Clara Matta, Brazil’s prima piano virtuoso finds his attempt at scoring the piece and thinks it’s his own composition. The ‘2018 Chicago’ narrative consists of Ben trying in vain to contain the lie that’s not entirely his fault. In his insular world, in which he is a widely respected and sought-after world class professional, the exposure will sink his reputation and end his career in disgrace.<br /><br />As a layman music lover, I am thrilled at Hamlin’s descriptions of not only lovely passages of music, but also his knowing touch with the subtle flourishes and emphases world-class players add to make them their very own. It is these touches of genius in the rarified air of the very best that make virtuosos rich and famous. He is equally strong when capturing the zeitgeist of World War I Boston; the war plows an entire generation of French men into their graves, and this horror is followed up by another equally ghastly scourge, the 1918 flu pandemic. <br /><br />Hamlin alternates his timelines expertly, unfolding his two plots to build a terrific tension. His two protagonists are vivid, honestly drawn, and very sympathetic. His secondary characters are fully nuanced, and even his portrayal of historical characters rings true. The clever construction and unerring imagining of characters is the true draw here. This novel builds tension, ties several generations of a prominent American family together, celebrates brilliant music and its equally brilliant performance, and leaves the reader in awe. This is Hamlin’s first foray into full-length fiction; he already won the Iowa Short Fiction Prize in 2015. Take up this lively and imaginative work, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.</span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdmgnBXH1WcXijQJdQcIzPzBeeLRdKpGpBz5Dw3RlryNLMHiz0srpBq0kQc0Qvqrrk05g5MDWJVqzebuxelCGwHBPTz5fvCjUWfuXOGJo1vUJfy69Lw6ff6eJWv0zG7SgL3DUh2GJc6mBqNPL-Ok4BNsyA7nzDTT3YGB2f1Ez7lVb10ksiWeLx4_FXHI/s119/85Feather45.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="119" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdmgnBXH1WcXijQJdQcIzPzBeeLRdKpGpBz5Dw3RlryNLMHiz0srpBq0kQc0Qvqrrk05g5MDWJVqzebuxelCGwHBPTz5fvCjUWfuXOGJo1vUJfy69Lw6ff6eJWv0zG7SgL3DUh2GJc6mBqNPL-Ok4BNsyA7nzDTT3YGB2f1Ez7lVb10ksiWeLx4_FXHI/s1600/85Feather45.png" width="119" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><br /><br /><br /><br /> </span><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-48705258415198415632024-02-05T18:15:00.000-07:002024-02-05T18:15:42.482-07:00"Homo Deus" by Yuval Noah Harari<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GtSzdirC92G9XkEeODPSAa5cHh5tEUimN6-lzQHcSfWhQTH7Jy7b9v2MxP3m1O6T2E8zPdxBI74oA3I7Ld1l2RzK34Kwy42qSk5n3a9kvReaDXty8I0BNpeierJzPq70wdy6L_RyuYemPRE97lay5Vdv-Z2JJo-6EUXOH_81ppW1x-YEDT4Rhym6vhk/s500/homocvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="335" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GtSzdirC92G9XkEeODPSAa5cHh5tEUimN6-lzQHcSfWhQTH7Jy7b9v2MxP3m1O6T2E8zPdxBI74oA3I7Ld1l2RzK34Kwy42qSk5n3a9kvReaDXty8I0BNpeierJzPq70wdy6L_RyuYemPRE97lay5Vdv-Z2JJo-6EUXOH_81ppW1x-YEDT4Rhym6vhk/w134-h200/homocvr.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">Subtitled: A Brief History of Tomorrow<br /><br />The ubiquitous public discourse about the moral, technical, and ethical implications of artificial intelligence serves as a pivot point in, and may actually wake people up to, the baffling future that we are in fact facing today. Yuval Noah Harari, the Israeli historian and social philosopher, has done an excellent job recapping a broad range of the outré possibilities humankind faces today. The fact that he calls his book <i>Homo Deus</i> gives a broad hint about some of the things we may see in that future. <br /><br />Harari briefly treats the prevalent fictions in earlier historical epochs, from our hunter-gatherer roots through to today to trace how these fictions grew and how completely they dominated human thought. First Nature, next God, and finally human beings themselves came to rule the world and to give meaning to the universe. But this historical era won’t last forever, he says. It will give way to a future which features much more extensive human-computer interchange, where machines will know us better than we know ourselves.<br /><br />Consider: humans already have a broad range of artificial implants in their bodies. They regulate our heart rate, they help motor-compromised people use their limbs, blind people see shades of light, and formerly deaf people hear. Nanobots are currently being used in cancer detection and treatment. We can measure our pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and glucose level with something we simply wear—no implant required. Harari is not alone in thinking that medicine is trending even today toward upgrading the health of healthy people, in addition to its traditional role in treating disease.<br /><br />Harari spends a significant portion of his book describing the relationship between brain activity and emotion. It’s an acknowledged fact neuroscientists have detected the relationship between areas of the brain and such functions as emotion, perception, language, and so on. Harari hangs his hat on the link between brain processes which we can observe and their corresponding emotions and states of consciousness, and the claim that these process are not free at all, but probabilistic. Here, however, is a quote from one third of the way through the book:<br /> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">However, nobody has any idea how a congeries of biochemical reactions and electrical currents in the brain creates the subjective experience of pain, anger or love. Perhaps we will have a solid explanation in ten or fifty years. But as of 2016, we have no such explanation, and we had better be clear about that.” </span></blockquote><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">Nevertheless, the author arrives very quickly at the conclusion that not only are deterministic neurochemical reactions responsible for your choices and outlook, but soon, a network of computers, or super computers, will compile all your Likes, hates, opinions, reviews, and arguments in cyberspace, and build an algorithm of you. You’ll be able to compare two job opportunities, alternative places to live, even choose between potential mates…you won’t have to do your own soul searching, the algorithm will do it for you.<br /><br />And compilation of everything that I am encompasses and presupposes the most objectionable assertion in the book: that our experiences will mean nothing if we don’t upload them for the world to see. Keeping secrets from the network of information, or otherwise limiting the free exchange of it, becomes the worst crime you can commit. I’m sure I’m just being damned old fashioned when I find this concept a ghastly affront. I cannot see a future in which I agree that I don’t feel anything unless somebody else tells me I do.<br /><br />Where are the medical advancements headed? Harari sees a possible future where humans who can afford it are given the ability to see in much broader range of the EM spectrum, or can comprehend what it’s like to be a bat, or a dolphin, or an ant. These are the superhumans of the title. One grand thematic contribution of his book: the belief that human life and emotion and freedom will eventually become obsolete (along with free elections and freely consumed goods and capital) in favor of the recognition that organisms are algorithms (already scientific dogma today), and that Earthly existence (or existence anywhere in the universe) will simply be the rapid, efficient, and free processing of information.<br /><br />This is not a difficult book to read, although long sections of it require you to accept statements that cannot be verified. Harari even says this. This is a visionary piece which deals with human trends and possibilities. As such, it is a highly useful and thought-provoking document. Harari remains one of the more clear-sighted and accessible cultural seers currently available to us. Take this volume up, definitely, if current trends and their possible futures interest you.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBlmcOud_FgxTJCuiI70blzvOfVWGpJW17vgIb6fDDKDKki438Mq-B1Lzh0HHitub3Jypy4OzISAR-I6U7yCpY2_9dNdxYH2hBuC4VRsq8OSlVBPkZSAz6dVVi5Q8-i7A5skjxRU2zWsIZudT5yANroqfBGmZXildF3ua1VlUPNNfy-qDv5BBxVnqXlc/s102/85Feather4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBlmcOud_FgxTJCuiI70blzvOfVWGpJW17vgIb6fDDKDKki438Mq-B1Lzh0HHitub3Jypy4OzISAR-I6U7yCpY2_9dNdxYH2hBuC4VRsq8OSlVBPkZSAz6dVVi5Q8-i7A5skjxRU2zWsIZudT5yANroqfBGmZXildF3ua1VlUPNNfy-qDv5BBxVnqXlc/s1600/85Feather4.png" width="102" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><br /><br /> </span><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-90355229690962546142023-12-26T10:55:00.001-07:002023-12-26T10:55:38.511-07:00"Offerings to the Blue God," stories by Shirani Rajapakse<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8wSDxQnA9TyR4QnMHQlzT3o74QFOXmvb2aALLXQPQYV4yz6xbbvCU3zBZM-db17qiZprmP8yPL_ZO7p9WWPOnMSp53KxOZk-KCVwoAaIViCT7nNY1b4KVzE5AZ7weoThlW6zsAwEMvPm72oScXQYlWYoHxHzQ5BWS5x21xWzryp3XJ5JX54l9Ffld36Y/s500/offeringscvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="334" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8wSDxQnA9TyR4QnMHQlzT3o74QFOXmvb2aALLXQPQYV4yz6xbbvCU3zBZM-db17qiZprmP8yPL_ZO7p9WWPOnMSp53KxOZk-KCVwoAaIViCT7nNY1b4KVzE5AZ7weoThlW6zsAwEMvPm72oScXQYlWYoHxHzQ5BWS5x21xWzryp3XJ5JX54l9Ffld36Y/w134-h200/offeringscvr.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;">In her latest collection, <i>Offerings to the Blue God</i>, Shirani Rajapakse revisits themes on which she has expressed herself so forcefully in the past: the cheapness of non-combatant human life when bullies fight wars; the absolute terror many women must feel during life’s ordinary transactions; children forced into a lifetime of slavery, and the particular hopelessness when that child is a girl; and the self-defeating and sometimes infuriating steps one must take to follow pious rituals in supplication to gods whose representatives on Earth are only in it for the money. These themes recur with renewed focus and force in <i>Offerings</i>, plus we glimpse other tropes and new sophisticated structures which flare and flourish in her writing too.<br /><br />For instance, Rajapakse shows terrific aptitude with stories that harbor surprise twists and “gotchas” at the end, and in each of the two cases here the door slams or the precipice disintegrates, and the results are indeed shocking, even ghastly. <br /><br />The memorable character in a predicament, and the unadorned, straightforward language are both here in abundance, as we have come to expect from Rajapakse. Her decision to present her evidence in simple, forceful declaratives serves her purpose best, and she uses the tactic to good effect again. She lets her anger show without flash or authorial rant; she lets her readers’ natural vituperation well up from the stories.<br /><br />But, like a couple of stories published here, this collection itself flies a silver lining, a final story that provides the “gotcha” of a young woman’s decision to turn her back on superstition, cynicism and greed. She makes an emphatic and highly symbolic gesture of discarding the old, which amounts after all to a scrap of paper scrawled with pious claptrap, into a drain in a gutter, flowing with mud and filth. </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;">Pick up <i>Offerings to the Blue God</i> for her fresh take, and for the promise of hope for a rational world in the future.</span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihmlRPQhAxVPABQMm6klcRiNLs2eWn6nHjWbfeuPJ73itW00vaq5CYwrIgImTe_BiBgMcVee0f45xu7YfcPKo49ruQ2wX_0-gEnXQz1bjWiprfmdzH2hKwslKi2R23xhZHYnmgX0g6m7kMo4WAf1siV0_cI6_h99byYBhnee8lWwTC_6VzWymPUByNHqY/s102/85Feather4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihmlRPQhAxVPABQMm6klcRiNLs2eWn6nHjWbfeuPJ73itW00vaq5CYwrIgImTe_BiBgMcVee0f45xu7YfcPKo49ruQ2wX_0-gEnXQz1bjWiprfmdzH2hKwslKi2R23xhZHYnmgX0g6m7kMo4WAf1siV0_cI6_h99byYBhnee8lWwTC_6VzWymPUByNHqY/s1600/85Feather4.png" width="102" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /> </span><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-67046746718594677992023-10-30T11:10:00.000-06:002023-10-30T11:10:36.716-06:00"The Story of a Marriage" by Andrew Sean Greer<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ppyT1nt2HtAF1sjFYBY1CqyXtKluiVVhCjh5xZnV1D9KbE3V3nhf00kROS1XrGppWBE50y4ZhxHN8wzg4eylcZtaFjh79CAX3YwmZJT_ODxx6DjKR4YdWnK4LYlIADyft3UvaQ-YHU-DxQjuowXC7Pgn_KBoeTTuN_e3wlIX76asxoS25NeaxIma0LM/s278/marriagecvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="180" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ppyT1nt2HtAF1sjFYBY1CqyXtKluiVVhCjh5xZnV1D9KbE3V3nhf00kROS1XrGppWBE50y4ZhxHN8wzg4eylcZtaFjh79CAX3YwmZJT_ODxx6DjKR4YdWnK4LYlIADyft3UvaQ-YHU-DxQjuowXC7Pgn_KBoeTTuN_e3wlIX76asxoS25NeaxIma0LM/w129-h200/marriagecvr.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><i>The Story of a Marriage</i> is an intimate meditation on the unknowability of other people, even people we love, as in spouses, friends, or relatives. A housewife in mid-20th Century San Francisco assumes that she understands her husband, knows who he is, and knows he loves her. This challenging novel is an example and an exercise in finding out how wrong such assumptions are bound to be. As stiff a challenge as this piece was to write, Andrew Sean Greer handles all the structural and all the narrative-order issues with a sure hand, never missing a beat or a cue. The result is convincing and memorable, and satisfies the reader that the author’s powers were equal to the task. The result has satisfying twists and turns which make a gratifying whole.<br /><br />The story weds Holland, a strikingly handsome man who effortlessly captivates everyone, and Pearl, a woman whom Holland finds beautiful, much to her surprise. They seem destined to be together: they were teen sweethearts in wartime Kentucky before Holland was conscripted; they meet again a few years later by utter chance at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. They embark on married life and have a son, but a few years into this son’s life, a man comes to Pearl’s home and introduces himself as someone who knew Holland during the war.<br /><br />Thus begins the heart of the novel. It takes quite a bit of time for Pearl to learn why this man, himself handsome, well-dressed, and mannerly, visits their home. Once she does, however, she feels her life begin to spin away from her, her young family and her way of life in jeopardy of disintegrating. The novel consists of her reaction to this realization, the dear assumptions she must abandon, and a suspenseful discussion as she readies herself for wrenching change.<br /><br />All this is, as I say, very competently handled by Greer. However, Holland remains a cipher throughout most of the book. He’s the fulcrum, the nucleus of the story, and without knowing his mind, or how to read the signs of how he feels, we are held in suspense. The ultimate reveal occurs very near the end of the narrative, but even after the result is made known, this character remains mysterious.<br /><br />And perhaps that is Greer’s pièce de résistance, the fact that we as the readers remain just as much in the dark about this man as do the characters in the book.<br /><br />This novel is disciplined, logical, and satisfying. We dwell for a long time in a woman’s mind, a woman who suddenly has a lot to lose, and she comes believably across in that role. It evokes the <i>zeitgeist</i> of the time (the U.S. just as the Korean War winds down, but the Cold War remains at its peak) to a T, and has twists and turns enough to surprise and give us reason to appreciate the work as well-handled. </span><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkT8S7GXN1RVe1z30zFwTErhQD-jj8nqzx4LMqNUYS67LZ0R9xzJkaW-zIAtAb1MWTEuPn7LpCoAC1Uz2MBo1CDEnjaH-NqEZ0VM6YY1ZSKsNWfsewGGYj6DNgFpgGj8q6R4xxDvHoaAbg4Sqm5oa2ltkWmIy9pk_OF08OepMWMtM2i7G620REo7OVfE/s102/85Feather35-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkT8S7GXN1RVe1z30zFwTErhQD-jj8nqzx4LMqNUYS67LZ0R9xzJkaW-zIAtAb1MWTEuPn7LpCoAC1Uz2MBo1CDEnjaH-NqEZ0VM6YY1ZSKsNWfsewGGYj6DNgFpgGj8q6R4xxDvHoaAbg4Sqm5oa2ltkWmIy9pk_OF08OepMWMtM2i7G620REo7OVfE/s1600/85Feather35-1.png" width="102" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-53186413791017280222023-10-21T14:49:00.001-06:002023-10-21T14:49:55.493-06:00"Hamnet" by Maggie O'Farrell<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3DBnQFneUffbaaihsygntaaBlv7oydD3RuXa8uNZn2L65DVj2znkondDkG_jUOtHkijssq36lx2_AJQM8x3b66gfpFobc2i4Tuyk3DwRx5lDsHoMwAxIvBvywF7hxOaxHP4s2uBBzec68jENJoz0IuCXUYGByLbr03erk3VPBq2kS9apSRwEG7sceS8/s278/hamnetcvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="180" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3DBnQFneUffbaaihsygntaaBlv7oydD3RuXa8uNZn2L65DVj2znkondDkG_jUOtHkijssq36lx2_AJQM8x3b66gfpFobc2i4Tuyk3DwRx5lDsHoMwAxIvBvywF7hxOaxHP4s2uBBzec68jENJoz0IuCXUYGByLbr03erk3VPBq2kS9apSRwEG7sceS8/w129-h200/hamnetcvr.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">In <i>Hamnet</i>, Maggie O’Farrell takes on the staggering task of imagining Shakespeare’s family life in the 1580s and ‘90s, and particularly, the devastating effect of the 1596 death of his son Hamnet, aged only eleven years. In the face of this forbiddingly risky enterprise she executes a stunning, bravura narrative of the Bard’s family milieu before and particularly after this tragic event. She sets this framework up and aligns it with events we sketchily know about; the result is a vivid, emotional, and utterly believable tale of the composition of <i>Hamlet</i>, the first—and perhaps most personal—of the immortal playwright’s great tragedies.<br /><br />O’Farrell places us squarely in late 16th-Century Stratford, with vivid people and their fraught relationships; a muddy, smelly backwater town which includes the Shakespeare family and its company of glovers—dominated by John, the brilliant poet’s ostracized two-fisted abusing father. The story of Will and his sweetheart/wife, Agnes (which I, following hints in the text, pronounced with the Continental diphthong, <b><i>An-yess</i></b>), while speculation, provides charm, depth, and color. When pestilence strikes its devastating blow and takes their son and heir, Hamnet, the family splinters, and each member (father, mother, two sisters) suffers their own private isolating grief.<br /><br />The father can turn this personal tragedy into an acclaimed, all-time triumph of art. O’Farrell imagines the immortal playwright doing his very utmost to right the tragic wrong; the production of the play, and an unexpected journey for Agnes form the captivating, gratifying climax.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">As book-length speculation goes, this novel will stand the test of time. With exceedingly well-known protagonists and events, O’Farrell answers her self-challenge with a work of art of her own. She has fashioned an extraordinary novel: artistic and beautifully paced, she lays it out in a very gracious way that honors her readers; brilliantly does it meet and satisfy the flinty gaze of the expectant reader. So brilliantly that it exceeds any anticipation we might have of plot, result, personality, or setting. Fully, heartily, confidently recommended.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXy4QMuii_GJx2_exhHxqx8padOZd3YzGeByj4rmtll5HS31Di9WZa3Oh5XYemK0M8u8VLPPL2o6K2yVMs3xo6Bsb07ANuOQ5YtmfdakqctMcyfVhQpD1_5J40rmi1AY-_O_jxZgA39N1aVl7iyAygSFTok6rNioKAAXKSHgkXU-7slFR52yvEzl6YHg/s121/85feather5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="121" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXy4QMuii_GJx2_exhHxqx8padOZd3YzGeByj4rmtll5HS31Di9WZa3Oh5XYemK0M8u8VLPPL2o6K2yVMs3xo6Bsb07ANuOQ5YtmfdakqctMcyfVhQpD1_5J40rmi1AY-_O_jxZgA39N1aVl7iyAygSFTok6rNioKAAXKSHgkXU-7slFR52yvEzl6YHg/s1600/85feather5.png" width="121" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-36860760724830677112023-09-19T14:13:00.000-06:002023-09-19T14:13:49.738-06:00"The Cause" by Joseph J. Ellis<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKcvLMTKJNMwp_BWa_rMafX-c5fDTYyvihqStsNBBGbZS_ms6IpOZ39ZHwSGtXSOFwIbwSYBsbpQ6FS5yenimulEX-MJh5vwrb8oiKqP-_7PM8Nm1cQOlR9AXzRSA4zIuUrpkY2WQTbQpHScEXKtCvyQyLAwFLQo_HWaYmXma1RaFK8hwyH9HZpFvUsU/s500/causecvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKcvLMTKJNMwp_BWa_rMafX-c5fDTYyvihqStsNBBGbZS_ms6IpOZ39ZHwSGtXSOFwIbwSYBsbpQ6FS5yenimulEX-MJh5vwrb8oiKqP-_7PM8Nm1cQOlR9AXzRSA4zIuUrpkY2WQTbQpHScEXKtCvyQyLAwFLQo_HWaYmXma1RaFK8hwyH9HZpFvUsU/w133-h200/causecvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">Subtitled: The American Revolution and its Discontents<br /><br />It was clear to me that in <i>The Cause</i> Joseph Ellis, a Pulitzer-winning historian, who sets a high standard for himself, and has covered the American Revolution comprehensively, will go over much of the same ground in this entry. I didn’t expect to learn as much new material as I did, however.<br /><br />We know George Washington struggled throughout the war to equip, pay, and feed the Continental Army, and really never succeeded in convincing Congress to spend the funds necessary. We know he waged a desperate war, a war in which he could never engage the British toe-to-toe; he led his army through force of charisma and loyalty, and benefited from an inordinate amount of pure good fortune. In this volume, though, we clearly see that Washington’s staff was far from unified in its admiration for their leader; we encounter Washington’s tardy realization that New York was no longer the key battleground at the end of the war; and that the dilatory system of information from and to England played a pivotal role in the outcome.<br /><br />Some historical facts that I had not known before picking up this volume: I was not aware that George III had literally bought and paid for a majority in Parliament who owed their seats, their very careers, to His Majesty. I learned of the infighting at the top levels of the military on both sides (Horatio Gates and Arthur Lee both had it in for Washington; Sir Henry Clinton was despised, and his orders as commander in chief widely ignored, on the British side). <br /><br />I finally comprehended the animus in the erstwhile colonies against forming a federal government—they had just succeeded in throwing off a remote, greedy, and tyrannical government. The last thing they wanted was to set up a new one to replace it. And finally, Ellis avers that the war the British wanted to fight was doomed to failure from the start. The only historical fact you need in support of that assertion is the savagery with which the militias in the Southern states treated the British regulars.<br /><br />Other tidbits worthy of note: the Oneida tribe, alone among the Six Iroquois Nations, supported the Colonists’ cause; and the bulk strength of the French fleet, instrumental in the British Army’s final entrapment, was only off the coast of Virginia because of the approaching hurricane season in the Caribbean. <br /><br />Needless to say my understanding of the Revolution and the politics surrounding it is more complete and nuanced than before reading <i>The Cause</i>. Yours will be too; if the American Revolution interests you, and you haven’t picked up this book, I urge you to do so right away.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivelZ_PVfD4ZS8T2imtS5IvAOl_A4y2epGfjQZWW5_QxabyR_n-xl8QEH2J4_dfQ9FGJ4x28MMhhTa6Sf8nd-z1lYAvfXM04BwtU8nYxO4OTmkqw4jH-sA4DB5qiInuKN0LFbhOLJk3GCtvB5gsYSs-JlIFZr9lIpsU7KBj6U0i9fgzhwTjQ_q6AJsK28/s102/85Feather4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivelZ_PVfD4ZS8T2imtS5IvAOl_A4y2epGfjQZWW5_QxabyR_n-xl8QEH2J4_dfQ9FGJ4x28MMhhTa6Sf8nd-z1lYAvfXM04BwtU8nYxO4OTmkqw4jH-sA4DB5qiInuKN0LFbhOLJk3GCtvB5gsYSs-JlIFZr9lIpsU7KBj6U0i9fgzhwTjQ_q6AJsK28/s1600/85Feather4.png" width="102" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-22391524379644134532023-09-15T13:48:00.004-06:002024-02-05T20:13:53.633-07:00"Nickel Mountain" by John Gardner<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCazxEkXxoIK-cIV2iRXM7eeL0Uh-mWYEV3NhPNNdAC-jJ0hyMU9B_700-GgxoGIsYb4XfCL87DCIa9plLpzhf_7AXs9BCa7UtTRjTUNhkVJb7lqSuymr0IoOaeYOay5QpBa5N3KH5SbJcMJNah_eTj9UKZSN0_Kx-4bZFqy_tf73H1JsNFyCR076WMA/s481/nickelcov.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="360" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCazxEkXxoIK-cIV2iRXM7eeL0Uh-mWYEV3NhPNNdAC-jJ0hyMU9B_700-GgxoGIsYb4XfCL87DCIa9plLpzhf_7AXs9BCa7UtTRjTUNhkVJb7lqSuymr0IoOaeYOay5QpBa5N3KH5SbJcMJNah_eTj9UKZSN0_Kx-4bZFqy_tf73H1JsNFyCR076WMA/w150-h200/nickelcov.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">At the outset of John Gardner’s <i>Nickel Mountain</i>, Henry Soames owns and runs a diner by the side of a Catskills highway. He does a better job of that than of controlling his own giving heart; because of his charitable nature, he ends up not only married to a young woman who is pregnant with someone else’s baby, but also opens his home to a Jehovah’s Witness no one likes or trusts, and who may be an arsonist. The novel’s events swirl around Henry, its enigmatically passive-active agent at the center, and through it all the locals for better or for ill, prove that in Gardner’s hands, human nature is endlessly fascinating.<br /><br />Also as fascinating are the apparent machinations of the gods, or impersonal forces with which humans must contend. A young would-be car designer and racer throws his dreams away and attends Cornell Ag school, as coerced by his businessman father. Henry’s bride finds him impossible to live with part of the time, but also unalterably admires his good acts. Other regulars come to Henry’s roadside diner and complain or shake their heads about nature, or the follies of their fellow characters, and nothing apparently changes over time. The town’s doctor, who doubles as its justice of the peace, carries around and expresses the anger and confusion for everyone’s benefit. <br /><br />The tides of fortune and folly pursue all; no one is immune. Some suffer more than others, as usual, but through all the health challenges and commercial difficulties Henry wrestles with, his surprising wife and child turn out to be improbable blessings, even to the point of a comprehensive upgrade of his business. Gardner prepares us for certain confrontations which end up occurring outside the narrative, and it’s hard to find the purpose in some of the conflict on offer.<br /><br />But the direct, persuasive, effective passage is always within the author’s repertoire: early on (at p. 66 of 454), as Henry emphatically blubbers on on some subject or other:<br /><br /><blockquote>“But was he saying anything at all? he wondered. All so hopelessly confused. And yet he knew. He couldn’t do it and maybe never could have, but he knew. He was a fat, blubbering Holy Jesus, or anyway one half of him was, loving hell out of truckers and drunks and Willards and Callies—ready to be nailed for them. Eager. More heart than he knew how to spend.”</blockquote></span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">A constitutional inarticulateness afflicts the hero Henry: his compelling ideas, in the midst of his trying to express them, become amorphous as he loses his way. In spite of the mental and emotional challenges, he blunders ahead anyway, and comes out somehow ahead of the game. This, and the plain, direct, and vivid descriptions the author gives the other characters and their misadventures, drive the narrative, and attract and reward the reader. It’s all a mystery, and the Henry Soameses of the world, for all their difficulty in expressing it, know it better than the rest of us.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7kBs99QREoXtjMoeMTzOzsZmH-f6MOlEiD9kNFLwbahk65a6QK-uSfxt4RAOnVca87sdi9U2uPzQ95TMtkklIQ1GLAofsZf9KHDlJw-sCZ1Ajefxbk5ncyUGGYT6ImGUOv15XBqDEYshPgK0gwXbmd1e9mpupyuuRx9HL95G28qDtZDQQnJwH6gl6Xs/s102/85Feather35-1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7kBs99QREoXtjMoeMTzOzsZmH-f6MOlEiD9kNFLwbahk65a6QK-uSfxt4RAOnVca87sdi9U2uPzQ95TMtkklIQ1GLAofsZf9KHDlJw-sCZ1Ajefxbk5ncyUGGYT6ImGUOv15XBqDEYshPgK0gwXbmd1e9mpupyuuRx9HL95G28qDtZDQQnJwH6gl6Xs/s1600/85Feather35-1.png" width="102" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-41515726887611443972023-08-22T13:18:00.006-06:002023-08-22T13:22:05.890-06:00"This Other Eden" by Paul Harding<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThYd_vl8pt3UYZQTZ_zVPHXSb87J9ExEYXG-roiNAeIkVdKX4i0pQ0sw4Cd_xJMhRZ5b2LZrLfDKAEbvvgleLcduGPTQgldbKFWzg1rxIHKWot_vOJTAlD_E7PU2Y2LuDlKTKcpNE60_mmZ8l3eC3Hp98RXd5SWDWYQ13vdW0k97wyviYPMrXEabYfcg/s500/otheredencvr.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThYd_vl8pt3UYZQTZ_zVPHXSb87J9ExEYXG-roiNAeIkVdKX4i0pQ0sw4Cd_xJMhRZ5b2LZrLfDKAEbvvgleLcduGPTQgldbKFWzg1rxIHKWot_vOJTAlD_E7PU2Y2LuDlKTKcpNE60_mmZ8l3eC3Hp98RXd5SWDWYQ13vdW0k97wyviYPMrXEabYfcg/w133-h200/otheredencvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">At a climactic moment in Paul Harding’s <i>This Other Eden</i> a naked, skin-and-bones old man walks off Apple Island and wades out into the Atlantic Ocean carrying a few motley belongings over his head. He struggles against the outgoing tide, just as all the characters in this brilliant, haunting book struggle against the bitter, inexorable tide of American racism. In this spare economical work, Harding reaffirms his penchant for yoking highly effective, beautiful language to serve his lofty goals. This is truly astonishing and gut-wrenching work; after his <i>Tinkers</i> won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, his current offering has been shortlisted for the 2023 Booker Prize.<br /><br />Harding sets his tale in 1911 and 1912, to coincide with the real-life Maine legislation to evict a small group of settlers from Apple Island, a small, hardscrabble bit off the state’s coast. First settled in 1792 by a former slave and an Irish woman, Apple Island has been home for more than a century to abjectly poor people, some directly descended from Benjamin Honey, the original slave, and others whose forebears immigrated and stayed. Collectively they display an uncertain racial heritage; most are undernourished and only rudimentally educated, and barely eke out an existence. <br /><br />The retired missionary Reverend Diamond tries to tend to their souls and to educate their young; this well-meaning soul doubts himself even to the very moment he brings destruction and diaspora. The only exception to the eviction plan is Ethan, a young and highly talented artist, who rates the consideration not only by virtue of his gift, but also his light-skinned, red-haired appearance. The preacher arranges for him to be sent the the home of his distinguished friend in Massachusetts. The boy Ethan,15-ish years old, meets Bridget, a lovely maidservant in the old gentleman’s mansion, and in a bright, golden chapter, they fall in love in their own Edenic time.<br /><br />The state takes it upon itself to catalog the evils of the other residents, observed and checked off on a list, to be “epileptic, feeble-minded, insane, interbred…paralysis, migraine, neurotic, criminalistic, sexually immoral, self-abusive…” etc. etc., and proceeds to arrest and assign some of the squatters to state institutions for the insane. They consign the rest to the four winds. Thus is this other Eden cleansed.<br /><br />There are levels of prejudice, levels of narrative nuance, reverberant images, and thought-provoking language here, enough to satisfy, and indeed to surfeit, the most demanding palette. Here is Esther Honey, direct descendant of the island’s original patriarch, musing over her offspring as they return from digging up clams about 33% through the book: </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;">Esther followed their progress and as they got closer she found herself overjoyed by them, each her own little modest person, each unself-consciously taking care of one another, even as they teased and screeched and laughed and complained.</span></blockquote><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">There is the careful and minute observation of Ethan’s artist’s perception of color: how his sister’s skin changes color as daylight and evening proceed. The staggering sights and sounds of busy, crowded Massachusetts as Ethan tries to process it all after his arrival there:</span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit;">Shock and aftershock struck and echoed and shaped the vastness of the world across the inside of his skull, or so it felt. It was no more than seeing his first automobile idling at a train stop, and so also seeing his first driver, in a mud-spattered long coat with a pair of goggles strapped to his face…It was no more than seeing brick mills that appeared to be larger than the whole island he came from, with smokestacks that appeared not just to reach the clouds but actually to be making them or possibly venting them from the insides of the earth…” </span></blockquote></span><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">Such vivid passages draw the reader’s sight and capture the reader’s heart in this novel which pierces to the bone. Take this up and compare it to Harding’s prior triumphs, <i>Tinkers</i> and <i>Enon</i>. It has the same mastery of image and plot, and hits as deeply as either of these masterpieces on the higher thematic plane of faith and prejudice, and the higher artistic plane of language and image, rhythm, mood, and reflection. From Harding, another for the ages.</span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBDnlhi03Tui8AIJd16k-hX4AXoUONUWSsPw3_9a4OT7_yFcZGSIriRlqyLTUjxk1C7RqsNdPmHiYBsSUNP-w7uF1cm2reQmKd2Nol8BgbOX3r5Y01HWwKffDEJpaz-m3DooG7OgyZ-93KSiLDuiW6Yd4QBO_WuliGKdPX-caIncJdhUJoZRQeSu2sfCU/s121/85feather5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="121" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBDnlhi03Tui8AIJd16k-hX4AXoUONUWSsPw3_9a4OT7_yFcZGSIriRlqyLTUjxk1C7RqsNdPmHiYBsSUNP-w7uF1cm2reQmKd2Nol8BgbOX3r5Y01HWwKffDEJpaz-m3DooG7OgyZ-93KSiLDuiW6Yd4QBO_WuliGKdPX-caIncJdhUJoZRQeSu2sfCU/s1600/85feather5.png" width="121" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-69282551540604840352023-07-19T15:56:00.000-06:002023-07-19T15:56:16.750-06:00"Like the Appearance of Horses" by Andrew Krivak<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAz-T4YHT1oBjzkCS_s5l06RCrFrR3T97bady0Igq9-ziTdgZ1zuTPa0F0NlDI-wU87eKzAVNutd4z0HDtEhbl98ilIXKan67k0XW40uymPSk2dqNrIjduqCinI007IHoLJbfMSyGXKKelyX6l6EnUZUR4VYsv33nttK8gAMhFgMMWHKSJIgCKjYRVaY8/s270/appearancecvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="180" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAz-T4YHT1oBjzkCS_s5l06RCrFrR3T97bady0Igq9-ziTdgZ1zuTPa0F0NlDI-wU87eKzAVNutd4z0HDtEhbl98ilIXKan67k0XW40uymPSk2dqNrIjduqCinI007IHoLJbfMSyGXKKelyX6l6EnUZUR4VYsv33nttK8gAMhFgMMWHKSJIgCKjYRVaY8/w133-h200/appearancecvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;">This novel completes—and adds a great deal of depth to—Andrew Krivak’s stunning and award-winning Dardan Trilogy. Covering the life of Jozef Vinich and his two grandsons, Bo and Sam Konar, these three books—<i>The Sojourn </i>(2011), <i>The Signal Flame</i> (2017), and <i>Like the Appearance of Horses</i> (2023)—state their themes with frankness and power, cover their very memorable characters with charity and clarity both, and exhibit a rare, an ineffable, art, worth every moment you would devote to them. Andrew Krivak deserves the awards which have greeted his marvelous writing.<br /><br /><i>Like the Appearance of Horses</i> takes its title from the second chapter of the Book of Joel, in a passage describing the unstoppable rush of an army that lays waste to the land. This quote enunciates the principal theme of the three books supremely well. War unites this family in heroism, devastating loss, and in tempering the character of all whom it touches. <br /><br />This novel belongs chiefly to Sam Konar, Jozef Vinich’s second grandson, who, after a series of misadventures (chiefly, engaging in one too many drag races in his hemi head hot rod) is directed by the authorities that his only alternative is to enlist (in the mid-60s) in the Armed Forces. <br /><br />What follows fills much of the book. Sam does two tours in Vietnam from ‘66 to ’72, near the end of which he is captured and winds up in the notorious North Vietnamese prison dubbed the Hanoi Hilton. There he is forcibly turned into a heroin addict by a creepy NVA prison guard, and must live by his wits—and extemporize from heroin fix to heroin fix—as he gains his freedom and returns Stateside. Throughout this ordeal, Sam retains his principles, even with their altered focus, and eventually reunites with his battalion commander from when he was in country. <br /><br />In some ways Sam hoes the most difficult row of any of Krivak’s characters. Within the narrative, his experience wraps up the soldiering history of the Vinich and Konar men. Krivak treats Sam’s heroic re-emergence from addiction and imprisonment with blunt realism and steady sympathy. It is a harrowing, but rewarding, element of the novel, perhaps the book’s most important.<br /><br />The Dardan trilogy will stay with me forever. Its beautiful prose, its comprehensive insider’s treatment of the natural world, and its oh-so-compelling characters make it a unique achievement. Take these books up and let yourself be carried along by a master.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrqa7z9xDAvO-3ZTZ8NZG6nJiScCrUoczveXWSEw4KIXNjF9ubOpkxHdFamwPJToFUPueUueQBDmGVlI26gmHJQ3XbgHc77ti2bLZVoBF-qcTvF4dghDfil9mkNGpnwalwpYzMyDV1_jpPo-2ftfsNogbA9NyCOmE_LFRZ7FNnHYzborxOEhEcSdj1BU/s119/85Feather45.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="119" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRrqa7z9xDAvO-3ZTZ8NZG6nJiScCrUoczveXWSEw4KIXNjF9ubOpkxHdFamwPJToFUPueUueQBDmGVlI26gmHJQ3XbgHc77ti2bLZVoBF-qcTvF4dghDfil9mkNGpnwalwpYzMyDV1_jpPo-2ftfsNogbA9NyCOmE_LFRZ7FNnHYzborxOEhEcSdj1BU/s1600/85Feather45.png" width="119" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-20382131633978719852023-07-19T14:10:00.002-06:002023-07-19T14:10:40.554-06:00"The Signal Flame" by Andrew Krivak<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDOmYcNusiGOJih2LsvXP20YlJWUjwsdOy1TSDrxPmkcRgOcuHOAf7px8VGTqu7KufUoMut03DLwMm_8FZO0KOr3vRHglbpLmhOykw0ud8jre6z9RjtAMO29QIP0tFc4gOwDvQrY3obymGMevFe7OyVRN7OTHj3lOW-Rj8HBDApPG0BPKDJh_puXYhgk/s271/signalflamecvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="180" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDOmYcNusiGOJih2LsvXP20YlJWUjwsdOy1TSDrxPmkcRgOcuHOAf7px8VGTqu7KufUoMut03DLwMm_8FZO0KOr3vRHglbpLmhOykw0ud8jre6z9RjtAMO29QIP0tFc4gOwDvQrY3obymGMevFe7OyVRN7OTHj3lOW-Rj8HBDApPG0BPKDJh_puXYhgk/w133-h200/signalflamecvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The Signal Flame</i> is Andrew Krivak’s 2017 second entry in the Dardan Trilogy, after a fictional town in Pennsylvania, the stories’ home setting. <i>Signal Flame</i> shares the last events of the multigenerational saga with the third book, <i>Like the Appearance of Horses</i> (2023). The overarching story traces the remarkable life of Jozef Vinich, who fought for the Austro-Hungarians in the Great War, and through hard work, guts, and brains, eventually came into ownership of a sawmill in Dardan, one of the town’s main employers. Please note, the events of this family’s lives, while vivid and dramatic, do not in themselves make the story remarkable. It is the character, abilities, honesty, and strength of the main characters, and in particular the men, which do so.<br /><br />The second book, <i>The Signal Flame</i>, features Bo Konar, the elder of Jozef Vinich’s two grandsons. After his father dies, Bo spends his childhood at his grandfather’s side and he learns not only the practical lessons of working a farm and tracking game, but also the wisdom and strength of character only available from someone like Jozef. Bo leaves college after only one semester; the shock of the accidental death of a fellow student with whom he was falling in love, moors him to home. At home in Dardan he begins his career at the sawmill, an operation he will eventually own. Events swirl around him and his family: his father is accidentally killed in a hunting accident in 1949 (when Bo is 8 years old); in the 1960s a flood crashes through the town and Bo acts in a superhuman way, jumping from a bridge into a raging, overflowing river, to save the woman who is pregnant with his niece. <br /><br />Through it all, the stalwart virtues of honesty, level-headedness, receptiveness, fairness, and worldly wisdom carry the main characters, Jozef and Bo particularly, but also the Catholic priest who provides practical help and succor to the family, and Hannah, Bo’s mother, who grieves the loss of her husband. As a follow-up to 2011’s <i>The Sojourn, The Signal Flame</i> fits supremely well, which is a grand recommendation on its own. It continues the clarity and sturdiness of the prose, the gratifying virtuousness of the main characters, and even the non-essential characters have their full human traits, foibles, beliefs, and skills. <br /><br />This second book in the trilogy is a worthy entry; it stands on its own if you want to immerse yourself in this part of the story, but my recommendation is to start with the memorable and inspiring (and award-winning) <i>The Sojourn</i>. It’s just a book you should not neglect. And neither is <i>The Signal Flame</i>.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0NgYQ3GuD-fg8fExub8NnNpyN6Upsjc33N7IRhvAMKvA7J_kBjoRclwIUB5gUF6wa9FNLV_nx1OlqKuALqq8bjchIIf7gJGd4wDYkQM5oyfJYh6vYZEZZ5oZzK9pkHYzebFCduxFqmRJJQ_pC_eUL_VXgX_tL26DPhumD7OynJMuSgcShzclGHtzt9A/s102/85Feather4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0NgYQ3GuD-fg8fExub8NnNpyN6Upsjc33N7IRhvAMKvA7J_kBjoRclwIUB5gUF6wa9FNLV_nx1OlqKuALqq8bjchIIf7gJGd4wDYkQM5oyfJYh6vYZEZZ5oZzK9pkHYzebFCduxFqmRJJQ_pC_eUL_VXgX_tL26DPhumD7OynJMuSgcShzclGHtzt9A/s1600/85Feather4.png" width="102" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-72936316718519004772023-06-05T14:58:00.000-06:002023-06-05T14:58:00.791-06:00"Is the Algorithm Plotting Against Us?" by Kenneth Wenger<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjoD7OJ_GCe_CHAzf0sNAJBdoQR4XVPCOpWiNk2aW2xZ6HYr35M3mudmo3cS4V1lfOlSdzNRrinwUOgs9mtKGv-flyu19FQA7UyhUdpVvYaAZf5Z6DM7kFBL1wkz3zstLIXqXXjOI7t-C3E5tMu7J8043-ya9TWp2Zn9C_CqnFEPZWZec3n0FFeWV/s500/algorithmcvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="334" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjoD7OJ_GCe_CHAzf0sNAJBdoQR4XVPCOpWiNk2aW2xZ6HYr35M3mudmo3cS4V1lfOlSdzNRrinwUOgs9mtKGv-flyu19FQA7UyhUdpVvYaAZf5Z6DM7kFBL1wkz3zstLIXqXXjOI7t-C3E5tMu7J8043-ya9TWp2Zn9C_CqnFEPZWZec3n0FFeWV/w134-h200/algorithmcvr.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">If you have any awareness of current science events, technological advances, social or public conversations, or media editorials, then you have read something about Artificial Intelligence, or AI. The discussion is highly public, held at a high level, and freighted with far-reaching dicta by all involved. These statements all too often—and very unfortunately—feature sweeping gloom-and-doom pronouncements. Additionally they are catnip to media outlets which crave them for the clicks they can get, but do very little to illuminate a very important emerging technology.<br /><br />Cutting through this thicket is well worth it. This is where Kenneth Wenger comes in. He’s the director of research and innovation at CoreAVI and chief technology officer at Squint AI. His book, <i>Is the Algorithm Plotting Against Us?</i>, is a tonic. It’s a very useful and well-laid-out primer on the nuts and bolts of AI, and a convincing agenda for informing the discussion of many of the concerns being expressed.<br /><br />He makes the logical assumption that his audience knows nothing about computer science, the structure of microchips, or the architecture of neural networks. And yes, he will lead you step by step to a good grounding in the science and technology of it all. Concise, highly readable, and logical, he takes his readers from Square One to a good basic understanding of the pitfalls and the potential of this technology. That is the main reason he sat down to his word processor, and the chief virtue of the book. He is eminently successful at the task he set for himself.<br /><br />Without digging too deeply into the normative social issues—you should read the book!—Wenger gives the reader a crystal-clear perspective on current problems, and thereby establishes where the current debate should be. While acknowledging the sometimes rash and far-fetched statements made by scientists and “thought leaders,” Wenger would have us focus on current problems besetting this technology, which is in its infancy. His finishing touch is polemical, in fact, since he has observed, and has grave doubts about, some of the applications to which AI has been put.<br /><br />I could go on, because I enjoyed and value this book very much, but I would make a hash of it: I would never be able in a review of this length to present the flow and logic as elegantly as he does. There is a fair amount of math in it, but don’t let that put you off! Wenger always explains it, and always in terms that an 8th-Grade math student could follow.<br /><br />If you want to follow the public debate, or if you want to participate in discussions with friends and family, this book is a superb place to start. It’s a straightforward, basic guide not only to the brand-new technology, but to the social issues surrounding it. Wonderful! Take it up! </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLvrZ3ufTQnpg-sONE0uyC_1d5tjUW3Rl9SnsNaF3vXuX_ScI42HyAMzcng9cT9tx3p2v8VpD4OfGjF6FtTOxXTRFEoy60xALBhGG34C4Tj3aRwXRQalEPccHZvIdSWGz_w2T3jMvv-fxUeGgR1lytWKgSilCvRwo-Aoz8Fb_m-DZqFHaYUWu4sMe/s119/85Feather45.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="119" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLvrZ3ufTQnpg-sONE0uyC_1d5tjUW3Rl9SnsNaF3vXuX_ScI42HyAMzcng9cT9tx3p2v8VpD4OfGjF6FtTOxXTRFEoy60xALBhGG34C4Tj3aRwXRQalEPccHZvIdSWGz_w2T3jMvv-fxUeGgR1lytWKgSilCvRwo-Aoz8Fb_m-DZqFHaYUWu4sMe/s1600/85Feather45.png" width="119" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-19532769731083516752023-05-07T16:09:00.000-06:002023-05-07T16:09:20.261-06:00"When Your Marriage Ends: The First Months After Divorce" by Vivian Hodges<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qbtcpqjyl2PNzDPhVC26oxJD0ex15B6P1Ys_FLj1IqUtvaxbVPp9ASYclEtm-5p67bwKdteVnTpAUhLZx6cqYzXH6A_4HF4gBsFlWgPEwlLh75DZXlzB_5XeEiZxjct5Xco_68tz2pcqag6dS6O_Ks5ntJ504NhHO2VQwIkUyT490nCa2OG4zbly/s500/marriagecvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8qbtcpqjyl2PNzDPhVC26oxJD0ex15B6P1Ys_FLj1IqUtvaxbVPp9ASYclEtm-5p67bwKdteVnTpAUhLZx6cqYzXH6A_4HF4gBsFlWgPEwlLh75DZXlzB_5XeEiZxjct5Xco_68tz2pcqag6dS6O_Ks5ntJ504NhHO2VQwIkUyT490nCa2OG4zbly/w133-h200/marriagecvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">If they get nothing else, readers of Vivian Hodges’s <i>When Your Marriage Ends: The First Months After Divorce</i> will come away with healthy advice and practical insights for a more realistic way of looking at life in general, and an unblinking assessments of oneself. But what a shame that would be. Hodges’s book is so much more than simple prescriptive checklists. Throughout it, I could feel the support, the empathy, and the desire to help that only a woman who has been through the wringer of divorce can feel.<br /><br />Written primarily for women, this book does provide a practical and comprehensive guide to getting through a wrenching, maybe devastating, time. It’s complete, with practical, no-nonsense exercises that require the reader (or sufferer) to honestly assess everything from changes in finances to changes in our own self-image. The language is down-to-earth, satisfyingly direct, and sprinkled not only with hard-won wisdom but with enough humor to remind the reader that this author knows her readers will come all the way back. And wants like crazy to be part of that process.<br /><br />I envy this: I envy the actualizing effect this book had on its author. Her good will, generosity, and love come through on every page, and I exult in the satisfaction this gave her. Her hope that she helps others through a crappy experience shines through every section, every page. I admire the flow, the organization, and the combination of logic and sympathy this author shows.<br /><br />I hope I speak in plain enough terms. For the person in need, this book is a treasure trove.</span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif8hTHZAy2wAlhUSgO3JOCnjOca0DocO8KIQEYgNd-QoI4qspkE3Ld_UkkpyeCj0j_MzNotLpDTw3feIQFQ2AaaSOSSs64FDqcorddM-6K1qpR-2K0rLrq4stYyXiYy8yUvQcx8ofqwgoXV0GVdHWzKgr2by-JV_IJG2Smk-JjUqLhCJEgrLxYAD4d/s121/85feather5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="121" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif8hTHZAy2wAlhUSgO3JOCnjOca0DocO8KIQEYgNd-QoI4qspkE3Ld_UkkpyeCj0j_MzNotLpDTw3feIQFQ2AaaSOSSs64FDqcorddM-6K1qpR-2K0rLrq4stYyXiYy8yUvQcx8ofqwgoXV0GVdHWzKgr2by-JV_IJG2Smk-JjUqLhCJEgrLxYAD4d/s1600/85feather5.png" width="121" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-80432951483797829332023-02-03T11:43:00.000-07:002023-02-03T11:43:14.674-07:00"Samsara"by Shirani Rajapakse<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OqGTHICsl_s6eFebu-Gqs88PHhxMchMhWLQ6k2Rm7sYdHxIkOaX2waLh3bI7dFKbtUeC5fN8Eio6KDzcSjGG5fvf9111l-HTXGXYLxKFitSlQSKwCXx2P7uAsZILkwP1GDa299Qm7etOImfiFKSK8s0jym47-YrxLvyvk7e0Mbw3YYGR8YDprM47/s270/samsaracvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="180" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OqGTHICsl_s6eFebu-Gqs88PHhxMchMhWLQ6k2Rm7sYdHxIkOaX2waLh3bI7dFKbtUeC5fN8Eio6KDzcSjGG5fvf9111l-HTXGXYLxKFitSlQSKwCXx2P7uAsZILkwP1GDa299Qm7etOImfiFKSK8s0jym47-YrxLvyvk7e0Mbw3YYGR8YDprM47/w133-h200/samsaracvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;">In <i>Samsara</i>, her new volume of poetry, Shirani Rajapakse demonstrates intriguing new perspectives with a deft and heartfelt diction. The poet generally chooses to illustrate a finite set of themes, and this allows her to deal with them a number of times, in a stunning variety of ways. For instance, she brings us a much wider range of visual images than in prior work, and they’re a delight: rich, vivid, and sometimes quirky. Another tool this award-winning poet uses: she anthropomorphizes certain ordinary natural phenomena, like the waving branches of a tree, the dancing of its leaves, or the simple activities of animals.<br /><br />But the salient feature in Rajapakse’s poetry remains her magisterial stance regarding her themes. She treats reincarnation, love, Buddhist and Hindu faith, human relationships and spirituality, and the nature of reality, with a sure hand, and delivers her usual unflinching judgments on all. This is a very accomplished work, mature in its perspectives and starkly clear in its verdicts.<br /><br />Besides these attractions, this volume has what struck me as a thesis statement. This is quite unusual in her work. In “Musing,” she writes, “I lift my eyes to the goings on in the garden; / the noisy chatter, yet / my eyes see through this all to what hides / behind, inside spaces no one can see.” This deep peering into the known but unseen, into the hidden sense of things, recurs throughout the poems, and always illuminates a facet of a larger idea. <br /><br />These pieces are a delight for those who trust contemplation and deep thinking, and in the efficacies of the written word. I liked these offerings quite a bit, as you can tell.<br /><br />The title of the collection is a Sanskrit word meaning the suffering-laden cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, wherein the Earthly plane is seen as illusory, appealing overmuch to the senses, and encouraging the empty pursuit of things. The poems explore these facets a number of times; in some pieces she decries the emptiness of life, but sometimes she arrives at an elegant moment where the deeper truths are hinted at, or yearned for. And there is quite a bit here about loneliness, about humans who have become separated and now must adjust to life by themselves. Samsara indeed.<br /><br />I honor Shirani—for her gift with felicitous phrases and her clear insight into the spiritual realm, among all the other features of her growing oeuvre. Among her poetical work, this is clearly her finest to date. </span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLGmCNsBFZJvdLzdmK_i1LNcTTj9TDpcIYNC5GXBI8JrrlEUfyd0zYhqmSNaxdA7_dy3zZzM5J3SGT3qtnal6oF7hnvtLMMVl3cfXYlySBEbHHS6q8KGh9S-kxALh3sVEXJhgk_6VVZwKjiOws8x7SvNkkOHEFkWlkeMonrJyesw5hAWHmCFkivlu/s102/85Feather4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLGmCNsBFZJvdLzdmK_i1LNcTTj9TDpcIYNC5GXBI8JrrlEUfyd0zYhqmSNaxdA7_dy3zZzM5J3SGT3qtnal6oF7hnvtLMMVl3cfXYlySBEbHHS6q8KGh9S-kxALh3sVEXJhgk_6VVZwKjiOws8x7SvNkkOHEFkWlkeMonrJyesw5hAWHmCFkivlu/s1600/85Feather4.png" width="102" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-38407060906669977772023-01-26T14:48:00.001-07:002023-01-26T14:48:31.351-07:00"Properties of Thirst" by Marianne Wiggins<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfukFwLYnY_uj55r9bLCio6Z0fLaC5iaUWkXd8sTeKQ5cy2yA8SmFEdubpWvKmPNYx6bFicDP65Iv6ua_Dzf1Izl_quBEwdZPtmk7hECyNWn-Lo8bU3mKAXunnTJUmvcFyQM5kY4u4veuI866uK_o4QVwObm4Ubdgiv1XS_P3AJxecQC7sJDjr_9oH/s500/propertiescvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="329" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfukFwLYnY_uj55r9bLCio6Z0fLaC5iaUWkXd8sTeKQ5cy2yA8SmFEdubpWvKmPNYx6bFicDP65Iv6ua_Dzf1Izl_quBEwdZPtmk7hECyNWn-Lo8bU3mKAXunnTJUmvcFyQM5kY4u4veuI866uK_o4QVwObm4Ubdgiv1XS_P3AJxecQC7sJDjr_9oH/w132-h200/propertiescvr.jpg" width="132" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s impossible.<br /><br />It’s impossible that prose could be <u><i>so</i></u> distinctive and unorthodox yet never lose its power or its focus.<br /><br />It’s impossible that characters could be so larger than life, so diverting, so compelling.<br /><br />It’s impossible that in <i>Properties of Thirst</i>, Marianne Wiggins could alloy into one narrative two frightful examples of American Might Makes Right: the internment of American citizens of Japanese descent during World War II, and the bullying theft of Sierra runoff water by parched and undeserving Los Angeles. <i>Tout ça c’est un soufflé étonnant</i> [The whole is an astonishing soufflé]: unified, sturdy, audacious, and unforgettable. Brilliant.<br /><br />Marianne Wiggins has such stalwart and brilliant artists as Ruth Ozeki and Colum McCann in awe and envy with this utterly surpassing novel. <br /><br />In the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, an idealistic Interior Department lawyer named Schiff is tasked with constructing and administering in California’s Owens Valley an “internment camp”—a prison—for Americans of Japanese descent. This assignment affronts every principle Schiff holds dear; he struggles with this duty, little better than a seeming bit of flotsam amid all that swirls about him. Characters orbit around him strutting and fretting:<br /><br />Rocky, the patriarch settled in the mountainside mansion for nearly twenty years, who bitterly fought with LA Water and lost; his cultured, sardonic twin sister Cas; and his dazzling gourmet cook daughter, named Sunny; they all encounter Schiff at the most trying, challenging moment in his life. (And Sunny is the reason I wrote a sentence in French. To find out why, you must read the book.)<br /><br />Add to these <i>dramatis personae</i> the hysterically funny and awe-inspiring GI supply officer who marshals the materials and manages the construction of the camp, and seemingly every Hollywood stock character of the era is represented. In fact, Hollywood companies descend on the town for location shoots, but skip out on their bills. Rocky mentions Tom Mix of early Westerns fame, and later Bogart’s and Katharine Hepburn’s names are dropped.<br /><br />This cinematic connection intrigues me. The greed, hatred, and jingoism fueling this maelstrom remind strongly of movies back when they actually wrote plots and characters. There are also the vivid visual features, with the rocky Sierra Nevada mountains, the brilliant blue of the sky and its myriad strange effects, and the toxic lakebed, casualty of the LA Water Wars, utterly desiccated and spreading respiratory disease on the air to internee and soldier alike.<br /><br />These are some of the ills falling out from war and murderous greed. The story carries these weights freely, effortlessly: we are treated to scenes of wide-eyed wonder at the natural world, of heart-melting attraction and love, of rage-inducing neglect and callousness, all to the tune of the never-ceasing delights of Wiggins’s prose. Her eye for detail and her ear for wit, her felicity with phrasemaking and her driving pace—these all shine forth in the reader’s massive payout of joy and wonder. We could cover more, much more, in this bravura offering, but I will cut my excitement and floridity short. Please do yourself the honor of taking up <i>Properties of Thirst.</i></span></span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBYtqwj2gJU6GrK9HjYtAbcqUqdffGi4nstlJ8HO3WrPJgejnvI01nUtM57r_ZfNdKrJfGqWpJQPnJ-cKu_IR1qa04dQW5DFd0rqXuUIDUPVr-YLvHPYrHFR9-ZqAfHFOcLz94_lBufiaoyvf8om9HciuI9XPE5Ol8DKv97joTP5-gqBYAfycVcSw/s121/85feather5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="121" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBYtqwj2gJU6GrK9HjYtAbcqUqdffGi4nstlJ8HO3WrPJgejnvI01nUtM57r_ZfNdKrJfGqWpJQPnJ-cKu_IR1qa04dQW5DFd0rqXuUIDUPVr-YLvHPYrHFR9-ZqAfHFOcLz94_lBufiaoyvf8om9HciuI9XPE5Ol8DKv97joTP5-gqBYAfycVcSw/s1600/85feather5.png" width="121" /></a></div><br />Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-12498708413084673392022-12-08T16:45:00.002-07:002022-12-08T16:45:25.356-07:00"Our Missing Hearts" by Celeste Ng<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7-b9Zw-qbgCwiK2gDmimxwW4Jlc4BQuBVDVaSBkABFNtl_2qtlcLB2ePFPxbPr0Yizwqlx1WvLr9HqMcWJaKH7wfXqqAQG-4FqRYR52eX7x3ZUHkgaOYrkzJCpOj94sFMYwFS57Qz57Lk44IWMGGsl8eHnAU7IpeDWEU2TYbhBFYpeGNrgRpycAH/s500/missingheartscvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7-b9Zw-qbgCwiK2gDmimxwW4Jlc4BQuBVDVaSBkABFNtl_2qtlcLB2ePFPxbPr0Yizwqlx1WvLr9HqMcWJaKH7wfXqqAQG-4FqRYR52eX7x3ZUHkgaOYrkzJCpOj94sFMYwFS57Qz57Lk44IWMGGsl8eHnAU7IpeDWEU2TYbhBFYpeGNrgRpycAH/w133-h200/missingheartscvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;">Celeste Ng imagines a present-day—or near present-day—dystopia in <i>Our Missing Hearts</i>, where a wrenching economic depression in the U.S. has revved up government surveillance of its own citizens to a fever of paranoia. Ng’s portrayal of this America recalls Stalin’s Soviet Union where citizens are rewarded for informing on neighbors. And for good measure she overlays that chilling memory with the contemporaneous and sinister ethnic hatred which infected Nazi Germany. This is the ghastly backdrop for Ng’s powerful novel, in which courage, the power of words, and the importance of memory provide their countervailing force. This book is gritty, hauntingly effective, and beautiful.<br /><br />As we meet Bird, he’s just entering junior high in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He lives in a high-rise dormitory on the campus of a famous university with his father, Ethan Gardner. Ethan shelves books at the library, but used to be a lecturer in linguistics. He has plummeted in the workplace and in society’s esteem, because an innocuous nature poem published by his wife Margaret Miu becomes the focus of resistance to the government’s institutionalized ethnic hatred.<br /><br />With strong curiosity and a growing sense of his mother’s soul, Bird runs away to New York to find her, following clues as well as any detective. This quest shows courage and resourcefulness, and is told in fairy tale terms, complete with a beautiful, enchanted queen, and a counterbalancing shocking violence. The climax, with its pervasive and stunning act of resistance, ranks as one of the most powerful fictional episodes in my memory. It is a testament to the power of storytelling and memory, particularly when the story being told carries moral weight. Oh, take up this book for its ultra-worthy and reverberant climax.<br /><br />Needless to say, you won’t pick up this book for a neat-and-tidy ending; there’s no pretty bow to untie and store away. For this is a book that hits modern society hard, and highlights in bright relief the need, the desperate requirement, for connection and understanding.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4OWCssvjcBqAslWUpcnnoUK_4ElrTSGsQVbQeEs2HnVo6YEGTkRKYcYK9LEcR8llEMioyf0ioYrXlG6_fiy2QT0GL6U-KH_pcckAck6VCfOEWlZoL9wjteVsMctYRNMauS2N983cFMUdcNCZS10CLUxhahuN5Jven3bJprrj-0jRgoNiAR2VmFfJY/s121/85feather5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="121" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4OWCssvjcBqAslWUpcnnoUK_4ElrTSGsQVbQeEs2HnVo6YEGTkRKYcYK9LEcR8llEMioyf0ioYrXlG6_fiy2QT0GL6U-KH_pcckAck6VCfOEWlZoL9wjteVsMctYRNMauS2N983cFMUdcNCZS10CLUxhahuN5Jven3bJprrj-0jRgoNiAR2VmFfJY/s1600/85feather5.png" width="121" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-21838451017078368272022-12-03T14:57:00.000-07:002022-12-03T14:57:08.003-07:00"Dinosaurs" by Lydia Millet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5sQjBJ4Un7oUtnqQJbZI0Tiv2gro5xkF5BJjoioGRK3Jv66WxmLcFvHIoYdTLIcRs4c0jvMW41spQzgLrP8JVDcXEvZQRulsdkxGa7TC1aCY1oMpSRtWck4YIrFigHckY2QvA0Mnc_7fkpFnuGqHthLypPBk2zpwj7_NqHUjmRYFvuRBKIIDMPlIE/s500/dinosaurscvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5sQjBJ4Un7oUtnqQJbZI0Tiv2gro5xkF5BJjoioGRK3Jv66WxmLcFvHIoYdTLIcRs4c0jvMW41spQzgLrP8JVDcXEvZQRulsdkxGa7TC1aCY1oMpSRtWck4YIrFigHckY2QvA0Mnc_7fkpFnuGqHthLypPBk2zpwj7_NqHUjmRYFvuRBKIIDMPlIE/w133-h200/dinosaurscvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;">Prior to the events of Lydia Millet’s novel <i>Dinosaurs</i>, Gil sells his Madison Avenue flat and walks…that’s correct, <i>walks</i>, to his new home in Phoenix. This epic journey on foot comes, in the fullness of skilled storytelling, to represent the realignment of a man with the unimaginably ancient streams of life. Without exaggerating, he finds his soul, which at story’s outset, he has abandoned. The stunning and highly enjoyable <i>dénouement</i> of this lovely novel portrays Gil’s rebirth and re-occupation of existence.<br /><br />And it’s a good thing, too, because when we meet this protagonist, he pines for the woman who has figuratively sent him packing. He takes more than his share of abuse from her; she has spent years in a relationship with him because she’s aware that he has money—<i>how much</i> money she isn’t too clear on, and that’s probably a good thing, too. But Gil is an unusual case: his parents die in a car crash when he’s ten, so before he comes—completely unexpectedly—into his inheritance at 18, he was shunted from relative to uncaring relative. During this period he had nothing. Gil arrives in the desert friendless, without an agenda for his life, and nearly devoid of self-esteem. Without overtly articulating it, he needs to grow, he longs for it.<br /><br />He sets out to <i>do</i> something after he leaves New York. He volunteers at a home for abused women, takes a benevolent interest in his next-door neighbor’s two children, and stalks the heinous man who illegally hunts raptor birds. Eventually he becomes entangled in a complicated romantic situation, fraught with secrets, during which his motivations and actions center around the interests of the others involved. He remains unselfish to the core.<br /><br />In this sweet, subtle novel, Gil’s motivation and his growth hold center stage; these features hold, and eventually gratify, our rooting sympathies.<br /><br />Yet again Millet holds our interest and attention. And especially our hearts. She proves her versatility, her wisdom, and her moral compass yet again to her appreciating audience. This one is definitely recommended.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMt_Rd2iAHBhYXxJtfWjtAD5ECT8wyNSaDqS1QmUV6-TuyMZSlulpEqUcYVfj8GXMJZ4_wUqCsUNR3fV0xvRrJwKYempgoB8fYIO_Xahaz2Zl4BiDbRzFk0224uMGAJBt9csTPRvrbY5fCkSo0BTeyOUOjop9nyF2qgFfyOLvcl3NvhJCg7ltnOJYn/s102/85Feather4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMt_Rd2iAHBhYXxJtfWjtAD5ECT8wyNSaDqS1QmUV6-TuyMZSlulpEqUcYVfj8GXMJZ4_wUqCsUNR3fV0xvRrJwKYempgoB8fYIO_Xahaz2Zl4BiDbRzFk0224uMGAJBt9csTPRvrbY5fCkSo0BTeyOUOjop9nyF2qgFfyOLvcl3NvhJCg7ltnOJYn/s1600/85Feather4.png" width="102" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /><br /><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-84071066411596437872022-11-24T12:16:00.001-07:002022-11-24T12:16:46.123-07:00"Lucy by the Sea" by Elizabeth Strout<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE28R1Eu4ulN3YoFPSfwqjWJRzM502S-Fw5pveCwb5VKiaJVDmiMNgRQrHDSbvMUtD7YQoR9GWd0w2H0CbME-Y956dU-mLXL8ODcPlk-hTICxNEAgWtOYJMEU2POwePOFpMbjUzOf098JbYBh8BSVVbm8aHLUJ3DfvYCyQYIAolFZ-8UBS4J1Mcgt/s500/lucycvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE28R1Eu4ulN3YoFPSfwqjWJRzM502S-Fw5pveCwb5VKiaJVDmiMNgRQrHDSbvMUtD7YQoR9GWd0w2H0CbME-Y956dU-mLXL8ODcPlk-hTICxNEAgWtOYJMEU2POwePOFpMbjUzOf098JbYBh8BSVVbm8aHLUJ3DfvYCyQYIAolFZ-8UBS4J1Mcgt/w133-h200/lucycvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;">Very near the end of <i>Lucy by the Sea</i>, Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout’s unforgettable character, implores her older daughter not to have an extramarital affair. Her two cents is a sophisticated and highly effective analysis of her daughter’s—Crissy’s—psychological state. The fact that Lucy can be so insightful and so persuasive after all the self-doubt and mortification she feels, surprises us. Flabbergasts us. She has spent very nearly the whole story recounting her disappointment, her dread of the judgment of others, that we wonder at and cheer her powerful skills. <br /><br />And this book-length clear-as-crystal look at Lucy’s mental processes, her internal dialogue, leads us to expect yet another moment of doubt and indecision. And the fact that Strout gives Lucy a wand to wave for her loved ones, given the hopelessness and shame of her early life, flattens us. The ringing reverberation pealing from this novel certifies again the author’s dexterity. She’s a magician; I’ve felt this way since <i>Olive Kitteridge. Lucy by the Sea</i> is, I’m thrilled to say, more of the same miraculous magic. <br /><br />When last we visited with Lucy and her ex-husband William, they took a trip from New York to Maine. The principal framework for the novel <i>Oh William!</i> was that William found out, rather late in life, that he has a half-sister in a little town there. In this new entry, William insists Lucy accompany him back to Maine, to escape the Covid virus as it rampages through New York. People stand off from one another, distance and masks hold sway over all interactions, and the effect on human behavior can be hard to predict. We observe all this through Lucy’s eyes, through the lens of her background, which inclines her late in life to compassion and understanding. <br /><br />And this compassion and understanding mark Strout’s treatment too of the soul searching in which all chief characters engage. Her touch never errs, her wisdom never flags. Lucy’s absence from New York forces her to feel her grief over her husband David’s death. William reflects on a life that he regrets, but he settles on a solution and reaffirms his decision to pursue it. Lucy’s two grown daughters make life-altering decisions too. <br /><br />We can only be thankful that Lucy and the rest of these characters keep up their residence in the author’s vivid imagination. Take and enjoy.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Hq4TJHpRJqvEO8loxGI8XpOsY3dGGy39iMhkBC5smgEPOMhJhRNlXHOuXT9vcyx73jdZ7IGcyCbQPO5Q03qw7xhXiIp7URQXUGL9vd0v2BD9stVcLma1-nxm02PLDpmZfaRBfmet57W8n82dceXSUG27KdGeI1zFOst6ajmsmUs5Hqfms2aNEgMR/s119/85Feather45.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="119" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Hq4TJHpRJqvEO8loxGI8XpOsY3dGGy39iMhkBC5smgEPOMhJhRNlXHOuXT9vcyx73jdZ7IGcyCbQPO5Q03qw7xhXiIp7URQXUGL9vd0v2BD9stVcLma1-nxm02PLDpmZfaRBfmet57W8n82dceXSUG27KdGeI1zFOst6ajmsmUs5Hqfms2aNEgMR/s1600/85Feather45.png" width="119" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-15966134631748851682022-11-19T20:41:00.005-07:002022-11-19T20:59:06.365-07:00"Nights of Plague" by Orhan Pamuk<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsd92ZhNwcz_c3W-7INABwXjqREJE31NoTRbv8bUu7B5o6L5KJoi3NoQa0-Qi48fN1ljB90eRPcXqbcbu16fZ-hYNUJ6A0tIui8yw5RC9X6cjK4Zxod14cgH-vJfBlj-tV86aYmteNN4s4Op7lf-rEXNVR5SHnX3Sm9vsoNsZLzYogcX9rmNHlQ1E/s500/plaguecvr.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="342" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsd92ZhNwcz_c3W-7INABwXjqREJE31NoTRbv8bUu7B5o6L5KJoi3NoQa0-Qi48fN1ljB90eRPcXqbcbu16fZ-hYNUJ6A0tIui8yw5RC9X6cjK4Zxod14cgH-vJfBlj-tV86aYmteNN4s4Op7lf-rEXNVR5SHnX3Sm9vsoNsZLzYogcX9rmNHlQ1E/w137-h200/plaguecvr.jpg" width="137" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Translated from the Turkish by Ekin Oklap<br /><br />Nobel Prize-winning author Orhan Pamuk constructs 79 chapters—plus preface and 50-page epilogue—recounting an outbreak of plague in a fictional Mediterranean island in 1901. Along the way he portrays authoritarian government tactics in suppressing its population; backward religious scruples proscribing life-saving modern medicine; and the jingoistic tendency of inferior historians to hew their stories to align with beloved legends, and thereby to get things hilariously wrong. It’s an impressive rendering of an ingenious and captivating tale.<br /><br />In the fictional eastern Mediterranean island of Mingheria, which at the beginning of 1901 is a province of the Ottoman Empire, bubonic plague breaks out, and the imperial government in Istanbul sends a medical official, a doctor celebrated in political as well as medical circles, to impose a quarantine. News of his arrival spreads quickly on the island, but he is very soon summarily despatched, murdered by a faction that wants no measures taken against the epidemic nor anything else to do with modern medicine.<br /><br />We soon learn that this violence stems from some combination of Islamic teaching and a desire to intimidate the Orthodox Greeks—half the island’s population— into leaving and returning to Greece. The authorities then send another doctor, a Muslim, one famous for his administration of quarantines in other Ottoman provinces, and this one is newly married to an out-of-favor Ottoman princess. He labors mightily with the provincial governor to bring both the fundamentalist fanatics and the disease under control.<br /><br />Through a series of unlikely events which nonetheless lead to inevitable human responses, the Mingherians cut themselves off from all communications from the Ottoman empire, declare their independence, and set up a new government. Before very long, the work of controlling the epidemic is shot to hell when a leading sheikh stages a coup and becomes briefly the head of state. All quarantine measures are abolished and the plague increases in virulence and begins a new terrible rampage through the population.<br /><br />In describing these events, Pamuk demonstrates his mastery of human motivation and emotion; he holds up for our edification the idiocy, the venality, and the lust for power which drive politics. To get a flavor for his tone and stance toward these proceedings, understand that the governor leans heavily on a secret police service called the “Scrutinia,” and its director is called the “Chief Scrutineer.” His take on government ethics is an oppressive classic: in Mingheria, political enemies are routinely arrested and held without charge or due process. The sectarian regime which briefly holds power looks very much the same.<br /><br />I felt for a time while reading that the story was a miniature treatment of the Ottoman Empire itself, a microcosm. The author mentions more than once that the empire was referred to as “The Sick Man of Europe,” and I took the pestilence as a stand-in for the decay that infected it. But the issues of authoritarianism, and the utter failure of regimes which take their legitimacy from religion, are much bigger than one outdated empire. They are for all time, in all places.<br /><br />Pamuk wraps his story up in a framework of a serious historian working with primary sources, and thus adds a clever layer of play for the reader: the light, almost tongue-in-cheek tone of the preface contrasts with the serious theme of the strife between the old and hackneyed against the new and proven. He also wants to poke fun at the writing of history, by presenting an apparently rigorous treatment of what happened and how these events represent a confluence of historical forces, while also poking jabs at how often history is simply a colorful embellishing of outright falsehoods.<br /><br />I’m impressed that this author can clothe such a sustained narrative in garments of fancy, while still weighing in so bluntly on superstition, murderous greed, and official criminality. Clearly it holds manifold attractions for today’s discerning reader. Its depth and breadth lead to length, but the sustained energy and interest are also quite worth it.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_2wkYHbhRhokoaqjIJQl9wdLnGXXYKUPunDOd8nsVN2XZnY4JpEB5Z04zYBfQbdaVD44DTnWqu2gungsLPSja2Xj84Jvnbt7v1D3DT-i6Wwi8D9nbopKzzsn0EZGo4O00PNFJ2q9JYSvmEP2YFxfiK7Nb7zonfKXvfHaVOT54CAU21N5S4PZWc4z/s119/85Feather45.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="119" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_2wkYHbhRhokoaqjIJQl9wdLnGXXYKUPunDOd8nsVN2XZnY4JpEB5Z04zYBfQbdaVD44DTnWqu2gungsLPSja2Xj84Jvnbt7v1D3DT-i6Wwi8D9nbopKzzsn0EZGo4O00PNFJ2q9JYSvmEP2YFxfiK7Nb7zonfKXvfHaVOT54CAU21N5S4PZWc4z/s1600/85Feather45.png" width="119" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-21453784498038010592022-11-08T17:31:00.000-07:002022-11-08T17:31:11.675-07:00"On the Savage Side" by Tiffany McDaniel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmmmcOxjA1hFo1-FC8rLzkTpFPxYNXdDOXzikbhih-aCMFoAt2lKw3v3E68P47Tuxi2CsmXhYpE6iJHBvZI1x0ZvtgYB9K8b6PhoIYs56cySEAYBD1kZrct2Nnqo4FjOIviBajPfO3pu-a7qsJx_rjarorhWYPMSbjd-DqCE4lcSjtPTS0KS30-nL/s500/savagesidecvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="336" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmmmcOxjA1hFo1-FC8rLzkTpFPxYNXdDOXzikbhih-aCMFoAt2lKw3v3E68P47Tuxi2CsmXhYpE6iJHBvZI1x0ZvtgYB9K8b6PhoIYs56cySEAYBD1kZrct2Nnqo4FjOIviBajPfO3pu-a7qsJx_rjarorhWYPMSbjd-DqCE4lcSjtPTS0KS30-nL/w134-h200/savagesidecvr.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In <i>On the Savage Side</i> Tiffany McDaniel sets herself the challenging task of building a novel out of the gruesome and notorious Chillicothe Six murders of 2013-2014. The Chillicothe Six were women marginalized by the town and the town’s authorities, whose approach to the growing body count is a yawn and a shrug: they were either tricked or coerced or forced into drug addiction and prostitution, or their families simply bequeathed these conditions to them. This is a stunning, challenging work, a full flowering of a fine novelist’s powers and compassion.<br /><br />The first-person narrator, a woman in her early twenties named Arcade Doggs, tells the story of herself and her twin sister Farren; they had the bad luck to be born to heroin addicts in a small town in Ohio. Farren frequently spoke in rhymes, and would declaim her verses while standing among the blossoming daffodils, so she came to be called Daffodil Poet, or Daffy for short. Arc and Daffy associate with other women of the street and after they befriend them, these women start to disappear and wash up dead on the shore of the river.<br /><br />With unblinking honesty this book portrays the abuse and the ruined lives some women must endure. The fact that these crimes against women occur, and by whom they’re perpetrated, is met by vast indifference, as I have said. We have a clear object lesson here about the forgotten and ignored sex workers, many of whom are under the thumb of amoral men who simply enjoy being cruel. <br /><br />Part murder mystery, part psychological thriller, and part parable, this plaintive novel pulls us into the squalid and essentially hopeless world these women occupy. After an early, rather desolate stretch, the book begins to soar as Arc and Daffy try to track down who’s doing the killing. Predictably enough, the police make an assumption early on that the murders of the young women are committed by one of their own.<br /><br />Rather than treat these real-life crimes in magazine pieces or podcasts, McDaniel boldly sets her compass in a more rewarding direction. More than simply producing a fictionalized account of a ghastly episode, she has injected elements of wonder, and mystery, and psychological depth. The surprising hyperbolic course the story follows before it finishes, proves the author’s technical mastery, as if further proof were needed after <i>Betty</i> and <i>The Summer that Melted Everything</i>. If you savor technical mastery bolstered by an out-of-the-blue surprise at novel’s end, take up <i>On the Savage Side</i>.<br /><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoicnGQmDqIEHrtucGzJVK0Corcy4dq2Cj1it7cVVicJH7sAdv003nIReUMooVZapIOc1pMDnzntGg5m0ebw0ixGVqqpGGoPHqlsFiGE4UBKkratkr7OkUqBjMcdCT6qQaSMzhXStNu-LMkXj7x0D1bHuzn1pKbQBkPBxiwe7NsPJLK1Rt2PqxKGx/s119/85Feather45.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="119" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoicnGQmDqIEHrtucGzJVK0Corcy4dq2Cj1it7cVVicJH7sAdv003nIReUMooVZapIOc1pMDnzntGg5m0ebw0ixGVqqpGGoPHqlsFiGE4UBKkratkr7OkUqBjMcdCT6qQaSMzhXStNu-LMkXj7x0D1bHuzn1pKbQBkPBxiwe7NsPJLK1Rt2PqxKGx/s1600/85Feather45.png" width="119" /></a></div><br /></span></span></span><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-57451720125113254212022-10-31T08:53:00.000-06:002022-10-31T08:53:08.756-06:00"Natural History," Stories by Andrea Barrett<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUuBxQvP1piwHVdRYAhJCJQhok9EyKAtEt9X13IcbSlZiafbWyM7qdLOx4Px0fSx34dwZ_UW7QpXPcsX9PUhinC8jVux4VeSj7T7rtCe1aCSOz65X717gDKhhLqlLMySgAYg5s6TlMpdYC5RN_u7qFdweQpElILs7YfcOWiNhu-z5Fh2P1ZuKWU7NZ/s500/historycvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUuBxQvP1piwHVdRYAhJCJQhok9EyKAtEt9X13IcbSlZiafbWyM7qdLOx4Px0fSx34dwZ_UW7QpXPcsX9PUhinC8jVux4VeSj7T7rtCe1aCSOz65X717gDKhhLqlLMySgAYg5s6TlMpdYC5RN_u7qFdweQpElILs7YfcOWiNhu-z5Fh2P1ZuKWU7NZ/w133-h200/historycvr.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">Andrea Barrett demonstrates yet again how life tells its stories through aspiration, work, dreams, and disillusion of everyday people. She expertly listens and illuminates for us the inner journeys of a wide variety of sympathetic characters in her collection of stories, Natural History. It is a bravura performance from a well-loved and multi-awarded author.<br /><br />The stories feature a principal group of characters; Henrietta Atkins, born before the Civil War in what might be the Finger Lakes district of New York, provides the focus for 150 years of storytelling. You wouldn’t, however, call this a multigenerational saga, because the short pieces here bring dramatic moments in people’s lives into clear focus, leaving other broad dramas and events out of the scheme. <br /><br />Barrett introduces her characters and we come to know them very, very well. Henrietta is an accomplished amateur natural historian, a type with a long, illustrious history. She teaches high school science, and guides extra-curricular science activities. She eschews one potential proposal through an odd, self-conscious reaction, but does not go loveless through life.<br /><br />Strong relationships between strong women abound in this collection, and provide some of the most gratifying reading. We witness the great and the tragic events of the times—the Civil War and the First World War both occur during Henrietta’s life, along with the 1918 influenza epidemic, the sensational early days of flying by celebrated pilots, and the Volstead Act, inaugurating Prohibition. Throughout, women reinforce each other during strife-torn times, write ground-breaking scientific papers, defy death in flying machines, and pass learning on the the next generation through wisdom and compassion.<br /><br />Andrea Barrett’s power of observation, her kindness toward her readers, and her uncanny felicity with the language lead us to hours of delight and wonder. I recommend this very, very highly.<br /> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFsLlKAb6rosae5LCAuoRej04QT35PRyF15iziz1uN9wU_1Y9QYLBHPOwVCWtA_4l6J75eb22yNj5k7a75nqB82MBkDOWiHrHLnaIoimauLBlRixyw3pQJTkaZgPA9fzlIPxXVB87IGVBHnusQ8EfBdAoc6Ww_aBqTGsnonhlyUfWR7QYEoZyrMT9/s119/85Feather45.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="119" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFsLlKAb6rosae5LCAuoRej04QT35PRyF15iziz1uN9wU_1Y9QYLBHPOwVCWtA_4l6J75eb22yNj5k7a75nqB82MBkDOWiHrHLnaIoimauLBlRixyw3pQJTkaZgPA9fzlIPxXVB87IGVBHnusQ8EfBdAoc6Ww_aBqTGsnonhlyUfWR7QYEoZyrMT9/s1600/85Feather45.png" width="119" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-26614736981126160852022-10-17T08:48:00.001-06:002022-10-17T08:48:37.604-06:00"What You Can't Give Me" by RC Binstock<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnJuBnpYLqd9jg1D0L9umfm3rEThTvVUqEPv0jIQ3QYCK-7oNugdUFy8xb9NzH2geY47kJAkYiNpHyYqq0ne9i0EUXrXtfa0UTdjCBfi3p3RMFaB6Cwzo524EBMdipe6iNt998mM7Lq3-SJtCB_hPvdU_OEFZdk8EwsFmCmZJ_6JrkUIPAnHmRTh_/s500/can'tgivecvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnJuBnpYLqd9jg1D0L9umfm3rEThTvVUqEPv0jIQ3QYCK-7oNugdUFy8xb9NzH2geY47kJAkYiNpHyYqq0ne9i0EUXrXtfa0UTdjCBfi3p3RMFaB6Cwzo524EBMdipe6iNt998mM7Lq3-SJtCB_hPvdU_OEFZdk8EwsFmCmZJ_6JrkUIPAnHmRTh_/w129-h200/can'tgivecvr.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">I feel like the china shop in the aftermath of a visit from a reckless bull. RC Binstock’s collection of short stories <i>What You Can’t Give Me</i> contains a series of punches to the gut, delivered to its characters and readers alike. Its current-day setting requires that it at least takes into account the unprecedented, polarizing convulsion of the COVID pandemic, which tends to plow people’s lives under, whether or not they fall ill.<br /><br />There is a sharp edge in the language in these pieces; they display the author’s enviable handle on 21st Century patter; this skill colors dialogue and exposition alike. Surprising, arresting reactions erupt to the surface in Binstock’s characters here, driving the action in this stunning collection to its memorable, sometimes heart-wrenching conclusion. This collection is a direct broadside hit, among the author’s finest work. <br /><br />You will find yourself in fascinating settings here, whether it’s a funeral home trying to cope with the deluge of unexpected deaths during the pandemic’s first weeks; a grocery store where tension and aggression show a young employee’s surprising insight into the world around him; or a restaurant whose owner has had to fire almost all his employees after the dropoff of business. But it’s the vivid cast of characters which really carries this collection.<br /><br />A young worldly-wise waitress feigns amusement at her boss’s lewd innuendo because she feels sure he’d never assault her; the wife whose husband suddenly and cruelly estranges himself from her and the children, but who won’t leave because of the lockdown; the grocery store bagger with Down syndrome, whose thought process shows the author’s bravura skill; and, a personal favorite, the South Asian immigrant pharmacist who administers vaccines at an assisted living home, only to have her life changed when she meets a sympathetic resident in her 90s.<br /><br /><i>What You Can’t Give Me</i> treats interracial marriage, the #Me Too movement, and the cultural divide in a variety of settings. But in its essence, this collection explores the human need for intimate partnership. In a wide variety of settings, felt by widely divergent characters at various points in their relationships, this very human need is met, thwarted, pursued, or frustrated in the stories, but always, in Binstock’s hands, perceptively, brilliantly.<br /><br />Intimate and immediate, topical and unpredictable, I can’t recommend What You Can’t Give Me enough.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPqnBRfzvvjdmfGrFgAaBr9ua9b9Daa2Mvf2fZXTPBOLwqjheBVX7xiz45OxIlM2YaS5A7LUMEdnSwgLydWq84TLVk9DXrIdKMrm3EAUL6lMEIsVvw3tM9F9g6LlggYYkXJIF2HfVOa56b8h2NSvKDyu0xeWC_-HeitvkMPFoGLpNgynBEROMBTmz/s121/85feather5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="121" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPqnBRfzvvjdmfGrFgAaBr9ua9b9Daa2Mvf2fZXTPBOLwqjheBVX7xiz45OxIlM2YaS5A7LUMEdnSwgLydWq84TLVk9DXrIdKMrm3EAUL6lMEIsVvw3tM9F9g6LlggYYkXJIF2HfVOa56b8h2NSvKDyu0xeWC_-HeitvkMPFoGLpNgynBEROMBTmz/s1600/85feather5.png" width="121" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-72760277840964466012022-10-04T15:36:00.003-06:002022-10-04T15:36:20.865-06:00"Reading in the Brain" by Stanislas Dehaene<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtB6b5EIRpA3tGwyvnd7jCD1iyxAc1qz41-mgFCwDF4AjCNzfD5enQXmeSEmBv4glHT1uEK5UlQwKRZMvE2VMw5NqYinQooJIzhFw9jtPfdl9m4ZAdaDq76M6067DLTiiKO07-qvVHEHnnuB3MD1pyh_roTn8UMBOBkLj9-JmC34DtLWeRNC1udGuU/s500/readingcvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtB6b5EIRpA3tGwyvnd7jCD1iyxAc1qz41-mgFCwDF4AjCNzfD5enQXmeSEmBv4glHT1uEK5UlQwKRZMvE2VMw5NqYinQooJIzhFw9jtPfdl9m4ZAdaDq76M6067DLTiiKO07-qvVHEHnnuB3MD1pyh_roTn8UMBOBkLj9-JmC34DtLWeRNC1udGuU/w131-h200/readingcvr.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><b><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Subtitle: The New Science of How We Read</span></span></span></b><p></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> In 2009, French cognitive neuroscientist Stanislas Dehaene proposed in his book <i>Reading in the Brain</i> a hypothesis to describe brain activity in humans when they read. He calls it neuronal recycling, and it’s based on a few elementary facts.<br /><br />Writing systems and reading have been around for only about 5,000 years, much too short a timeframe for humans to evolve brain structures tailored specifically to reading. So, obviously, humans did not evolve reading as a skill. Dehaene’s thesis is based on MRIs of peoples’ brains while they read, and research into the anatomy of primate brains. In chimpanzee and macaque brain structures, neurologists have learned that synapses within the occipital and inferior temporal areas fire when the subject is shown certain shapes. <br /><br />Dehaene has also found the analagous areas in human brains in use while a person is reading. In simple terms, the author’s hypothesis states that reading “hijacks” these brain structures evolved to recognize certain critical shapes and directed their use to recognizing letters and words. From there, writing systems have adapted to take advantage of some apparently pre-programmed, or evolved, primate brain functions. The result is a literate population who can communicate in great detail with the dead, and can leave communications for future generations after they themselves are dead. It’s obviously a superpower.<br /><br />A survey of writing systems through the last few thousand years revealed some intriguing parallels. For instance, most characters are composed of roughly three strokes that can be traced without ever lifting or stopping the pen or stylus. Dehaene proposes that this formula corresponds to the way the neurons’ react to increasing complexity of the symbols. In all writing systems across the world, characters appear to have evolved to an almost optimal combination that can easily be grasped the multi-tiered way the brain works as we read. At lower levels of our visual comprehending system, the strokes themselves consist of two, three or four line segments. At one level up, in our alphabetical systems, multiletter units such as word roots, prefixes, suffixes, and grammatical endings are almost invariably two, three, or four letters long. In Chinese, most characters consist in a combination of two, three, or four semantic and phonetic subunits. Visually speaking, all writing systems seem to rely on a pyramid of shapes whose golden section is the number 3 plus or minus 1.<br /><br />I confess there are chapters in this book I did not read. They were very technical, written for other neuroscientists, covering dyslexia and the implications for the teaching of reading. The level of detail here is deep and comprehensive. The style is straightforward and clear, comprehensible to any adult reader. I did get the diverting feeling as I read, as I’m sure Dehaene did while writing, that readers of his book had to engage in this marvelous, unique skill, while learning about the marvelous, unique skill they were using. Quite enjoyable.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHNIQrEhMEtfroSbBML4dbDR4ta9Rj4MtqMVTlAkHxQ7rAXesI3j3GiMcvUTaNB22f_T8rhVDF1HbQxva4vbv5vHD7pRxDSMCayxtPauCikAWQxX6x60lDTZ9Lv00WoLHgH-4ZjVRDgVe7Qm9A2BvvGrn8bef7w_PpQrkN9AE-2tusUbxGE3SMmvz/s102/85Feather4.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="102" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHNIQrEhMEtfroSbBML4dbDR4ta9Rj4MtqMVTlAkHxQ7rAXesI3j3GiMcvUTaNB22f_T8rhVDF1HbQxva4vbv5vHD7pRxDSMCayxtPauCikAWQxX6x60lDTZ9Lv00WoLHgH-4ZjVRDgVe7Qm9A2BvvGrn8bef7w_PpQrkN9AE-2tusUbxGE3SMmvz/s1600/85Feather4.png" width="102" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111271466694613135.post-49876019537240625922022-10-02T15:17:00.000-06:002022-10-02T15:17:12.658-06:00"The Man Without Shelter" by Indrajit Garai<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9kA82brDFnzRpD_04YmDwn_lJpIqgUSKvLJXWRqEVTjAdcHQLiXhmBSZxUTQWeLPnk7bHdPDqMruyqyFWTMDD0wlqNPPr6AbYiKvoodLbzez8fZRWomgU3-_vSl0x2l0wKG-W4il_sYa4nrgJQ3OGkxNMHyRVtEtEbTqJl1XGZL76u99EkAeghCl/s500/sheltercvr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="357" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9kA82brDFnzRpD_04YmDwn_lJpIqgUSKvLJXWRqEVTjAdcHQLiXhmBSZxUTQWeLPnk7bHdPDqMruyqyFWTMDD0wlqNPPr6AbYiKvoodLbzez8fZRWomgU3-_vSl0x2l0wKG-W4il_sYa4nrgJQ3OGkxNMHyRVtEtEbTqJl1XGZL76u99EkAeghCl/w143-h200/sheltercvr.jpg" width="143" /></a></div><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The Man Without Shelter</i> follows the exploits of Arnault, a Frenchman released from wrongful imprisonment after 23 years’ incarceration. Early on, the story focuses on Arnault and his troubles, but as the narrative progresses the point of view shifts over to Lucy, an idealistic attorney who gets involved in Arnault’s legal dealings. She’s a character who wants to do the right and ethical thing, but really learns her high idealism from Arnault’s example.<br /><br />At story’s outset, Arnault is released from the penitentiary and thrust out onto the Paris streets just before midnight. He’s paid in Euros for his labor while in prison (the only French currency he’s familiar with is Francs), but has nowhere to go, and no valid state ID. He needs both of these things before he can secure employment in a city full to overflowing with refugees who also need work. He could seek a homeless shelter for his permanent address, but with so many homeless people living in Paris, these shelters have waiting lists a mile long.<br /><br />In this way, author Indrajit Garai steeps his readers in the present-day pitfalls and hardships faced by the homeless refugees crowding Paris. They’re preyed upon by immigrant gangs who deal in drugs, violence, and human traffic; the state has attempted to fashion a bureaucracy to deal with the problems in a humane way, but its shortcomings become the niche that private foundations try to fill.<br /><br />Garai clearly wants us to witness these social ills in detail. His story is a simple framework to illuminate them. Lucy, the young idealistic lawyer, works at clearing Arnault’s name from prior suspicion; meanwhile Arnault is spectacularly rising above his difficulties in a daring and much-filmed rescue of a child hanging from a balcony four stories above a Paris street. Arnault and Lucy don’t communicate through the months during which he trains and becomes a firefighter and rescue worker while she works doggedly on his behalf in court. <br /><br />Large sections of <i>The Man Without Shelter</i> read like a social history and critique of conditions facing the homeless and refugees now huddled in Europe. One gets the feeling Garai has encountered the ill effects of these conditions by close, personal observation. Garai, an American citizen born in India, and now living in Paris, wrote the novella in English (there’s no translator’s credit), and his style contains some odd, gentle missteps one might expect from a Francophone writing in English. Many of the nouns are plural, for instance, even when it isn’t needed.<br /><br />That is a quibble, however. This book is a spare, straightforward narrative using some fairly plain plot devices to frame its larger theme. The distress of these people, beset on all sides by ill fortune, official indifference, and criminal manipulation, must be seen and addressed. This story is a framework for doing it. One admires Garai for his impulse, but this book lacks the soul or the gritty <i>mise en scène</i> of Garai’s touching prior novel, 2019’s <i>The Bridge of Little Jeremy.</i></span></span></span><br /> <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRL6TAhHBnbeQKQ7seqT-v6VqlFk0e0ZFcZij9bDCVwm_dk6632PHg3P5BMOBI9c8AQgSDO8y39WKIlkSOagvc7fDWhNecQJ-vHM4Obne8vz1CQyvrJg58Xwdl0WRTxenc0sd1zQ9VYr4pWiNBOjtFGYCPgVfxNIkFF-OfmbYPuWyqngtyu1Y03Rs8/s80/85Feather2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="60" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRL6TAhHBnbeQKQ7seqT-v6VqlFk0e0ZFcZij9bDCVwm_dk6632PHg3P5BMOBI9c8AQgSDO8y39WKIlkSOagvc7fDWhNecQJ-vHM4Obne8vz1CQyvrJg58Xwdl0WRTxenc0sd1zQ9VYr4pWiNBOjtFGYCPgVfxNIkFF-OfmbYPuWyqngtyu1Y03Rs8/s1600/85Feather2.png" width="60" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Luke Sherwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06601046219635767536noreply@blogger.com0