Envy is the most embarrassing of the deadly sins, the one sin of seven that few would admit to, let alone identify as ruling their lives. But envy is Envy is the most embarrassing of the deadly sins, the one sin of seven that few would admit to, let alone identify as ruling their lives. But envy is a widespread disease: an abiding force within social media, gossip, work; often framing how a person looks at and presents themselves to the world. Kudos to this book and its author for creating a protagonist who so fully embodies envy's toxicity, in how it can dominate a person's goals and their perception of who they should or could be.
Jhanvi is a trans woman who has returned to San Francisco after a few years in Sacramento. Her mission: marry someone in the tech industry, use their workplace's healthcare benefits to pay for feminization surgeries, and then hopefully flourish in her newly updated body. A friend and fellow Stanford graduate - and a sexting buddy as well - is her first mark. And so on his doorstep she arrives, ready to convince him of her plan. Unfortunately, she hasn't reckoned with his roommates, or his own ambivalence to this project, or the distance between a goal and reality.
The book provides windows into the mind of an independent lady desperate to upgrade her life and into the world of wealthy young tech workers, idealistic and performative and superficial beyond belief, with money to burn on the most insubstantial of ideas. These techies are at first incredibly easy to mock; sardonic Jhanvi is just as easy to root for. At first. Slowly, my allegiances began to realign... these pretty idiots may be laughable, but Jhanvi herself is revealed to be just as unappealing. Perhaps even more so. Her mission and her envy consume her. Her new, rather unwilling roommates are operating from an embarrassing combination of social justice-induced liberal guilt and starry-eyed sex-positivity, but Jhanvi is coming from a place of almost complete self-absorption and a near-total disdain for the inner lives within nearly everyone inside of her orbit. A shallow techie still deserves agency and still needs understanding, despite their shallowness; a broke and lonely trans woman can still be monstrous, a grifting manipulator, despite how genuinely sympathetic her cause may be. It can be a challenge to root for anyone who thinks the world revolves entirely around them and their needs.
I was impressed with how ugly Naomi Kanakia was willing to make Jhanvi; she's so understandable and yet so completely awful at times. My God, the vicious things she thinks about the people she is trying to grift. This is a brave, highly intelligent iconoclast who has redefined herself in an unfriendly world; this is also an often thoughtless liar who has carelessly abandoned her supportive Sacramento community in order to manipulate a social circle that isn't her own. And yet I continued to root for her; I love an arrogant underdog. I appreciated the dark night of the soul (and body) that the author gives her, during one extended and grueling sequence. From which Jhanvi returns unbroken and even more determined. She may be a villainous person in so many ways, but she remains the heroine of this book, never the villain. There are no villains in The Default World.
Kanakia also scores numerous points in other directions: the way race and outsider status can be weaponized, used to guilt-trip; the marshmallow-like traits of certain well-meaning, tediously passive men who find it impossible to say the word "no"; my least favorite privilege, Pretty Privilege; the unspoken disqualifying rules at sex parties; the mindless group-think of some progressives. I particularly enjoyed the novel's take on how identity is often formed in opposition to other identities; how an in-group is often defined by how it is different from the out-group. Jhanvi sees her new tech friends as the default world that she yearns to enter; those friends define themselves as outside the default world of conformist normies.
The story reminded me of the decade in my life that started in the mid 90s, living with a bunch of friends in a wholesome anarchist collective that gradually turned into a loathsome hipster party house. So many people, so much performative grandstanding; visions of how to build a better society; rejection of the mainstream, of normies. The drugs the sex the music the parties, the random interlopers, the fun. Of course, there were many differences between my scene and the scene within this book (just as San Francisco then is so different from San Francisco now): although about the same age, my friends were struggling punks and broke activists, not overpaid and overworked technocrats; my deadly sin as a grouchy outsider with a 9-to-5 job wasn't Envy, it was Wrath. That said, the many similarities between this world and my old world were haunting. Both worlds decidedly rejected the default world, yet lived in it still.
The Cult of Smart by Fredrik deBoer - how to look at life and how to live a life and how to support other people living their lives Be5-star Favorites:
The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell - drab, meaningless Unknown Sea by Clemence Housman - What the fuck kind of allegory is that supposed to be? The Dinner by Herman Koch - ultimately let off the hook Slash Them All by Antoine Maillard - there's just more nothingness The Book of Accidents by Chuck Wendig - snaps & claps from terminally online progressives Into Passion's Dawn by Michele Dubarry - not just extremely gross to read, it was... embarrassing? The Magic Order, Vol. 1 by Mark Millar - forgot to build an actual story
The Bad: incompetent (but fortunately interim) leadership at my agency caused lay-offs, which included one of my closest friends, a contrarian unpopular with my fellow execs. The stress of that period, combined with high blood pressure and bronchitis, led to a heart failure. During my week in the hospital, I learned that I had stage 3 kidney cancer. Also had the misfortunate of seeing my dear old dad in court, for the first time since he abandoned the family in 2020.
But there were a lot of positive things too.
The Good: well, I learned not to get so stressed out about work! My heart is back to functioning normally. After the removal of one of my kidneys, I'm currently cancer-free and on immunotherapy to prevent recurrence. I was so grateful at how my family and friends came together to support me, there was a spreadsheet and everything, plus two trips to fun places. And, despite dad's desertion, my mom as of this year is doing really well and is happy with life.
This is a lovely book and a wonderful way to close out my year in reading. I felt such an affinity with this author! An odd affinity, as I imagine we This is a lovely book and a wonderful way to close out my year in reading. I felt such an affinity with this author! An odd affinity, as I imagine we are nothing alike, despite both of us being great readers since childhood. Perhaps the connection comes from so fully being able to imagine myself in his life. And that is all due to the author's talent when it comes to recollecting so many of the books he has collected and bookshops he has visited, places he's seen and people he's met, and most intensely, describing his long abiding love for the authors Sylvia Townsend Warner and (especially) Arthur Machen. Russell writes with such precision and nuance; there is a guarded yet palpable warmth and affection in this book, as well as some withering criticisms, but above all there is a clarity in his detailing of past events. Surely the man must be a intrepid diarist, careful to include the most microscopic of details if need be. Much as with Christopher Fowler's The Book of Forgotten Authors, one needs to read this from its start on through, rather than skipping about. This is in many ways a personal narrative: less of a guidebook, and despite its title, less of a series of recommendations, and more - in the author's own words - a "volume of reminisces."
The book made me consider my own life in my 20s, and compare it to the author's life back then. When younger colleagues of that age talk about their lives, what they do for fun, their social circles, their interests, etc., I'll admit that I often experience a bit of condescending pity towards them (kept tightly to myself of course!). That decade for me, and perhaps the half-decade that followed, was such a dizzying and rich experience, full of momentous events, some terrible and many wonderful, and thick with too many people, places, activities, and interests to ever successfully recount. Alas, I have become one of those tiresome older people with an anecdote about everything. I certainly couldn't imagine trading my younger life for another person's - that is, until this book! There's just something about a life that is full of literariness, exploring bookshops and attending readers' conferences, being a part of literary societies and a social scene where discussing often long-dead authors is par for the course... I became surprisingly envious when reading this book. I wouldn't trade lives, but in another reality, I'd certainly like to experience his. Well at least I have his book!
Not all of these books are forgotten, although the title is still a perfect one. The very well-received and widely-read The Loney is included, perhaps only because Russell published its first edition. The last chapter is on Richard Wright's classic of black fiction, The Outsider - a pleasing double to the first entry, Colin Wilson's equally classic The Outsider - which appears to be here to atone for the author mainly reading white writers, and as his rather ham-handed response to the dire racial reckoning of 2020. (That said, his analysis of the book is accomplished and thought-provoking.) Some favorite parts included his insightful chapter on Robert Aickman, his chapter on his wife Rosalie Parker, a visit to a bookshop-in-a-mansion The Lilies, and the comments he weaves throughout the book on his frenemy, the bookseller and publisher and all-around rapscallion George Locke.
Overall, Russell made certain that I now have quite a few more titles to add to the neverending list - and it should be mentioned that the author notes far more than 50 books between its slim 255 pages. Despite my saying earlier that this is neither a true guidebook nor a list of recommendations but rather a book of memories, Russell still writes about books in such an enticing way that by the end of it, I had a handful of post-its filled with suggestions for further discoveries:
#1: A Garden of Sand by Earl Thompson. This was an incredible experience, thick and rich and vibrantly characterized, misanthropic but compassionate, DEEPLY perverted... a lost Great American Novel.
#2: Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter. one of my favorite writers. this comes in second both in this top ten and in her works overall. Carter certainly became a warmer, more humane writer in her late period.
#4: In the Making by G.F. Green. the most beautiful prose read in 2022. just enchanting, hypnotic. aching emotions, luscious imagery, fascinating psychology.
#5: Houses Under the Sea by Caitlín R. Kiernan. freakish ultra-dimensional hallucinations tempered by helpings of kitchen sink realism, sneaky humor, and an understanding of how tragedy actually feels.
#6: South Wind by Norman Douglas. "Full of zest and high spirits." — The Christian Science Monitor. My guess is that the extremely decadent exile Douglas would get rather a kick out of being recommended by anything having to do with Christianity, science, or monitoring.
#8: The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer. Almost goes without saying that I'd have a Heyer on here, it's an annual event. She's such a master at her craft.
#9: Showboat World by Jack Vance. Also goes without saying that I'd have a Vance on here, it's another annual event. I wonder what a book written by the offspring of Vance and Heyer would be like. The wit would kill.
#10: Witch House by Evangeline Walton. a strange and shining dark horse rode into my top ten.
♛
least favorite books read: the execrable Haunted Hillbilly by Derek McCormack and the almost indescribably insipid Strait is the Gate by André Gide. and yet the prose impressed in both books. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
most books read by a single author: 4 books within the melancholy pulp space opera of E.C. Tubb's Dumarest Saga
most uncollected stories read by an author: 6 stories by Alyssa Wong. what a find! please write a whole book now.
annual bodice ripper: Island Flame by Karen Robards. I need to read these more than once a year.
so the commission sent to dampen down the ambitions of a sneaky tyrant crash lands, ouch, due to the machinations of that tyrant. and off the survivorso the commission sent to dampen down the ambitions of a sneaky tyrant crash lands, ouch, due to the machinations of that tyrant. and off the survivors go! across this very big planet known as Big Planet, full of all sorts of crazy places and crazy customs and crazy people who fled from the boring Earth and her boring federated planets. oh man this book took me back. the commission basically ziplines across this world, seeing all the sights, which reminded me of ziplining in Costa Rica. they accidentally and then purposely smoke some hella hallucinogenic plants which reminded me of my time in the Netherlands. they visit some really cosmopolitan cities right next to some let's just say religiously excitable cities which reminded me of my time in Turkey. they see a lot of countryside vistas and also enjoy some nightlife and also get into some fights which reminded me of my various times in Mexico. they even get to scale a fucking gigantic mountain which reminded me of my time in Kenya. a couple of the commissioners take on some eager slaves to help out with rest and relaxation which reminded me of my time in Cambodia. oh and they get to betray and kill each other too which reminded me of my times in Italy and the various murder parties that lessened the number of my friend group but also helped release some pent-up tensions. gosh all the memories that came flooding back!...more
The author is one of the most renowned and respected of living Bible-study teachers and evangelists. I've witnessed her these past few years as she wrThe author is one of the most renowned and respected of living Bible-study teachers and evangelists. I've witnessed her these past few years as she wrestled with the sexism and Trump worship of the Southern Baptist Convention. (She eventually left that organization.) I think she's wonderful. Empathetic, generous, rigorous in her centering of Scripture, transparent about her own struggles. This book was written as if she were talking directly to her readers and so it is easy to hear her voice and to understand her goal: the down to earth and relatable Beth Moore is on a mission to support those believers who are struggling as she has struggled. In particular, she seeks to support women.
I bought this book for my devout mom as a Christmas gift in 2020. In the early, especially scary days of the coronavirus pandemic, she was abandoned by my dad, who basically ran away in the pre-dawn hours of a September morning, before she had woken up for the day. (And we still don't know where he is.) Understandably, she fell into a pit of depression & anger & loneliness & fear. Fortunately, her faith in God helped her immensely. My sister and I have tried to support her as best as we can. I fly down to visit her every other month or so. I've read a chapter of this book out loud each time I've visited, and then we discuss the message that Beth is delivering in that chapter. It's hard to express how much the author's often challenging, always healing words have supported my mom, and given me food for thought. Tonight we finished the last chapter. This was a wonderful experience and inspired many deep, emotional, and uplifting conversations between the two of us.
Some friends and colleagues have been taken aback after I've mentioned being a believer. (I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior way back in junior high.) I think it has sometimes been challenging for folks to reconcile the person that they know - progressive, bisexual, anti-authoritarian, sardonic, someone who certainly enjoys ungodly pleasures - with a person who loves God. Perhaps surprising to GR friends as well, given my appreciation of sex, violence, and horror in my reading. Shrug, people are complicated.
But back to the book... well, actually not much more to say. Definitely feeling a lot of gratitude. Thank you, Beth Moore! You've really helped my mom out a lot....more
Since 2021 is apparently the Year of the Horseshoe Theory, I guess I will get into the extremist spirit of things anOverall rating for 2021: 3.3 stars
Since 2021 is apparently the Year of the Horseshoe Theory, I guess I will get into the extremist spirit of things and only highlight the books I've read that are either 5 stars, 1 star, or about identity politics.
☼ Looking at that list, it seems like this was a good year due to all the 5 star books and the dearth of 1 star books! :) ☁ Except of course this year was full of eyerolling, disappointment in the human species, and profound irritation at so many things both large & small. :( ☂ Well, who knows, there are still over 2 weeks left - let's see what 2021 still has in store? :| ☄ Plus hopefully I will be in Costa Rica before the year is over, that's gotta be ending the year on a high note, right? Right?? :o
☀
BONUS REVIEWS
Very appreciative of all of my old Goodreads friends still posting reviews and comments after all of these years. Thank you! Much love to you!
Louis and Britton, I still owe you emails - very sorry! Wendy Darling it was awesome meeting you and Spacewanderer in person! Brian it has been way too long since we've seen each other in person! Carol She's So Novel and Marina, I really appreciate the librarian support! Bill, I love your low-key moderating style! Miriam, you are my favorite FB friend! Ok enough, it's exhausting thanking people.
But wait, there's more! I'm also super appreciative of the reviews and/or conversations with new friends like the unfashionably reasonable Stetson and the extremely extreme Jen and my secret twin Neeraja and the practically perfect in every way Wendy, Lady Evelyn Quince....more
it seems so long ago that i read this, my first and so far only book finished this month. it was a pleasant, hopeful, rather lovely way to start out 2it seems so long ago that i read this, my first and so far only book finished this month. it was a pleasant, hopeful, rather lovely way to start out 2021.
what is this "lurulu" of the book title?
"If you recall, we were speaking of lurulu. At the risk of banality, I will point out that 'fate', 'destiny', and 'lurulu' are not synonymous. 'Fate' is dark and ponderous; 'destiny' is more like a beautiful sunset. In speaking of 'lurulu', however, language of this kind is not useful. Lurulu is personal; it is like hope, or a wistful longing, more real than a dream."
"lurulu" was a pleasing way to envision a new year, after 2020. of course, after finishing this book, real world events soon occurred that were quite less than pleasing. and so my interest in reading fiction suddenly evaporated while an unhealthy obsession with watching the so-called news all day & all night came into being. happily, that wretched fever has passed and i am feeling a slow settling back into my preferred ways. i may now even be able to summon up the energy to reply to emails that have been for many weeks unanswered. and in time, may even start making plans!
this is my favorite author jack vance's last book. it has little in the way of a driving narrative. its central characters are low-key, well-differentiated but not ostentatiously over the top nor erratic; they have a quiet affection for each other that has a sturdy foundation of loyalty and is generously topped off with a teasing humor. ideal traveling companions for each other and for the reader. they have various adventures, they eventually find a restful home, they realize they are not done living a life of curiosity, they set out again. the novel is sequel to the equally charming, ocassionally dark Ports of Call and coda to the author's career. it ends as it is about to start again. in many ways it is an ideal last story: relaxed, gracious, ironic, humorous, hopeful, wistful, dreamy yet real; a summing up but also an open door.
synopsis: a young man and his friends travel here and there, learning about life....more
Review: a perfect children's adventure. This is apparently a sourcebook for Tolkien's Hobbit. I can see that. I also was reminded of certain books by Review: a perfect children's adventure. This is apparently a sourcebook for Tolkien's Hobbit. I can see that. I also was reminded of certain books by L. Frank Baum, and many other children's fantasies that resonate, that never take a misstep. Although it features two pretty incorrigible kid protagonists (my favorite kind), the real hero of the tale is a friendly Snerg who slowly changes from moronic to heroic over the course of the story. The book is sometimes quite dark, often quite sweet, and completely adorable.
The rest of this is pretty much me going on and on about 5 star books, so unless you're in the mood for some elaborate navel-gazing and some highly caffeinated ramblings from someone you barely know, my recommendation is that you just go ahead and skip what follows.
✪ ★ ✯ ✰ ☻
I angst way too much over my precious 5th star. Get a life, me. But I'm a dedicated list creator and compartmentalizer and so this is my Total Virgo lifestyle. Lucky are the friends and family who have to deal with such an extreme tier-maker! And so it is with Goodreads and the 5 star rating, which I only award to "favorites". Perfectly worthy books that are beautifully written, challenging, and original will get 4 stars if they don't strike that chord that feels like Favorite. What does that chord sound like though? As always with me, it can be within several categories, several chords.
I'm behind on my reviews because I've been so damn busy busy busy. this book is also busy busy busy with its multiple perspectives looking at conflictI'm behind on my reviews because I've been so damn busy busy busy. this book is also busy busy busy with its multiple perspectives looking at conflict and duty and political maneuvering and secret enemies from different sides, different angles, different stories. I thought this stay-at-home self-quarantining would mean I'd get to relax and focus on the things I love like books and movies but ha ha ha. the Earth finds itself suddenly un-quarantined now that the Colonial Union has been exposed and yet all it does is continue to be a pawn and fight with itself instead of joining galactic society, that's so Earth of it, typical humans and their divisions, ha ha ha. the best part of staying at home for me though is actually what's taking up most of my hours: interviewing and training people who want to help out during the health crisis, who want to deliver meals and do chores for seniors who truly can't leave their homes because quarantine. the best part of this book is that it illustrates the potential for humans to be good, to be their best selves, in times of stress and fear; Scalzi knows the potential for humanity is always there despite how they always get in their own way. there's a human division right now, in this country and everywhere, it's always existed, the people who want to look forward and naively think they can do right by everyone versus the people who want to protect what's important to them, they seem to think they're trying to do right by everyone but it feels like they are just trying to do right for the people who look like them and think like them. The Human Division has such a division and of course I'm rooting for the one side, but in this case the good guys are embedded with that other side who created the whole division in the first place and who are trying to get in the way of all things getting along. it's funny but not funny how a crisis like a coronavirus will make bedfellows of us all, no matter where on the divide a person lands, the virus is a threat that doesn't discriminate. there's a terrible threat in this book too, it doesn't care who it kills, it wants what it wants and so both sides get got; who knows, maybe this threat will bridge the divide and the humans will come together eventually. I mean, a boy can dream, right?...more
I forgot to review this book like I forgot to go to that party the other night, I mean I left the first party early so I could be at least sorta on tiI forgot to review this book like I forgot to go to that party the other night, I mean I left the first party early so I could be at least sorta on time for the second party, but going home between parties was a mistake, phone calls to make and interesting conversations to have and then maybe flip through these catalogs that just came in the mail even though I definitely have enough clothes, style to burn man, but what's the harm in looking and then let's get on the interwebs and buy just maybe one or two things and then let's just check out what's on the news, oh that's not fun at all, need some whiskey for that shit, and then let's watch some Watchmen, no too serious, and then let's watch some Black Lightning instead, we'll go to that party in a minute, and then and then I'm waking up and then it's time to send some apology text replies to the host and everyone else who was wondering where the fuck I was last night, don't forget the emojis, and then
and then I realized I forgot to write this review and so here I am, which is sorta comic to me because a big part of this book is about some guy who forgot to go to a party and so everyone at that sad, small little party goes on and on wondering where that guy is, not to say that the party I missed was small or sad or that everyone wondered where I was, well, I'm sure a lot of people did, false modesty is not my thing, but I'm sure the party itself was neither small nor sad, and apparently the guy who missed this sad small party, the central character of the piece, is considered a stylish guy and that's a coincidence because I consider myself a stylish guy, I dunno if other people feel the same but I assume so, although in what dimension those blue pinstripe pants with suspenders he wears throughout the book are considered stylish, I surely do not know. those are some eyesore pants for real. and the suspenders??
IGNORE ALL OF THE ABOVE
much like my pointless, aimless musings above, this wonderful book has an aimless, free-flowing style that reminded me a lot of how people remember recent events. it is detailed but kinda smudgy. all of the small moments are there but they flow into each other just like conversations and actions flow into each other when socializing, when out and about in the great stream of life. the book felt real. which is also funny to me because the art is like a vividly colored dream, not real but real, smudges of color and bits of sharpness, emotions underneath, it's all a slow-fast-slow whirl, done in watercolors. the art is something special. so easy on the eyes, so right.
the book itself is special. it has a semi-lovable free spirit at its center, brilliantly surreal scenes at a club, unnervingly realistic scenes at a dull party, and one of the most impressive sex scenes I've ever seen rendered in what I suppose should be called a comic but I think is better served by the phrase "sequential art". not that I am remotely a comic snob, but this is fucking art.
the book is about how we connect and how we don't connect and all of the smudginess in between. it made me want to reach out to those friends of mine who aren't touchy people and who are kinda insular, kinda pessimistic, and give them a hug, somehow include them in something, just do something nice for them. I don't see in black and white but I think some people do; I don't think the human touch is toxic but it sure seems like a lot of people do. life is full of color and human touch and this book is all about that and it's also about how it's tough on people who don't feel that way.
I mean that poor friend, he's insecure and lonely, he should have just sat on his buddy's lap when that blue pinstriped lap was offered, he should have just jumped from the balcony into that crowd's arms, he should maybe stop living in his head so much, and that's good advice for anyone. he should have been been like that girl who followed his buddy around until she finally actually did hook up with him, get it girl, and the hook-up was awesome. life's all about trying, right, trying to connect? people should keep doing that....more
a moody and thoughtful novel about the pressures and problems two young men face after World War II. the deliberate pace, rigorous honesty, and atmospa moody and thoughtful novel about the pressures and problems two young men face after World War II. the deliberate pace, rigorous honesty, and atmospheric prose are all laudable, but it is unlikely that most modern readers - outside of Paul Scott completists like myself - will find much of interest in this book.
but you're not like "most modern readers", are you?? you're better than that. embrace your inner special snowflake and read this poor unsung book! or don't. *shrug*
I walked towards Sloane Street and thought of a child; something substantial, something definite to look forward to: a male child, a projection of yourself in flesh into a future you would not otherwise know.
perhaps not the most admirable of reasons to have a child, eh?
I read for entertainment, for pleasure, rarely for edification. different books bring different pleasures to me. specifically, three sorts of pleasures. a book with a strong, tight, sharp narrative, a narrative like a trap, will hold me captive and I'll think of nothing else but the story of the book. a looser book, say one with a wide sweep and/or a lot of fascinating speculation and/or a world that is being carefully built, will often give me the space to inspire my own book-making: I will think of what it would be like to live in that world, who else would live there, how it would feel; I will think of similar worlds and populate that world with my own ideas, inspired by the book I'm reading. the third sort of pleasure - and I'm not sure if "pleasure" is even the correct word - arises with books whose strongest traits are their interiority, in particular around characterization, and their resonance, mainly due to the book's themes and my connection to those themes. these books force engagement with my own life, and the people who are or who have been in it.
A Male Child provides "pleasure" of the third variety. when contemplating sickly, too-thoughtful Ian Canning, his hesitancy and his questioning of life and his lack of affect, I often thought of myself and my own experiences: of the barriers I've created between me and others, of the frequent futility of "trying to do the right thing" and of truly understanding other people, as well as the quiet, sometimes lonely satisfaction that trying to live the life you want to live can bring. when reading about his friend Alan, an equally kind man who is everything Ian is not (and vice versa) - physically robust, a guy's guy, just about the opposite of an intellectual - I thought of my fraternity years and the surprise I'd feel when realizing a guy I had pegged as nothing more than a simple-minded, horny jock, was not just those things but also a genuinely good person; and the resulting realization that one doesn't have to be thoughtful or clever to be decent or kind. a no-brainer now, many years older, but not so much when I was young and thought I understood everything about everyone.
when reading about Alan's mother, the fascinating monster Mrs. Hurst, and Alan's attempt to be a supportive son to her despite all of her malevolence, I thought of my neighbors: the eccentric older lady and her teen son, the image of them 15 years ago when I first met them, and then what they've become today: an alcoholic old woman disabled physically and mentally yet capable of whining, screaming fits of rage, self-pity, and petty meanness; a no longer young man who has let himself remain captive for those 15 years, looking after her carefully, bathing her, measuring her drinks, the most common word I hear from him: "Patience." it's a heartbreaker; at times I close my window to avoid hearing their voices. and lastly, when letting the theme of A Male Child resonate with me, when considering that theme carefully, I saw myself in Ian again: a character who sees the stories surrounding him, curious as to how those stories began and how they will finish, sometimes fascinated by the narratives, other times bored, or appalled; a person who sees the world and the people in it at a certain remove: characters in the book of life, a world viewed as a novel is read. one can live in that novel alongside those characters, feeling their emotions, and then shut the book, close the window, separate and ensconced. they are just characters after all. distance can be maintained; the world can be safely enclosed; the reader can remain protected - and apart....more
(1) This is a story about a man, his two daughters, his drive on an interstate freeway, and a random drive-by shooting that leaves his youngest daught(1) This is a story about a man, his two daughters, his drive on an interstate freeway, and a random drive-by shooting that leaves his youngest daughter dead. Maybe.
(2) This story is told in eight versions. In most of the versions, the youngest daughter is slain. In one version, it is the older daughter. In another, both live.
(3) Stephen Dixon channels the modernist tradition in this work. Each chapter is a plunge into the deep streams of consciousness of the narrator, the father. The prose can be extremely challenging. This is not a book that relaxes; the reader must be fully engaged and must be able to absorb a lot of information and must be very patient. Or at least be able to adjust to the flow, to swim in its fast currents. This intense writing can be very exciting. It can also be incredibly tedious.
(4) The first story is phenomenal. Incredibly moving and incredibly sorrowful. The prose entranced me, so much that I dismissed any issues I may have had as minor and trifling. I was in awe at what Dixon accomplished. The realism of the emotional palette on display. The terror then alienation then rage of the father. The horror at such a meaningless death. The sadness of a life - the father's - that itself becomes meaningless due to the rash decisions he makes and the lack of caring eventually shown to him by his adult daughter; the sad reality illustrated of how people cut other people out of their lives. I cried at the end over the awful loneliness of the man, at his neediness that goes ignored.
(5) The so-called reality of this review is that I am writing it in-between working on work emails, emails where I have to use a more formal style depending on who I'm writing to, or emails with at times excruciatingly finite details that feel meaningless but are important to the person I'm emailing, ugh, and I just finished an email to a person who is now at a very high level of government and I have to sort of kiss his ass because I want him to speak to a council that I represent and I can't help but remember that the last time we met, when he was in another position, years ago, he literally lied to my face, but I will try to forget about that, but what I can't forget is that one of my favorite staff led sort of an insurrection of community providers against this guy's decision, Karl was the name of my staff, I really enjoyed that guy, I personally hired him, and then I changed positions and then the bitch who replaced me demoted him, actually put someone that Karl hired in a position to be Karl's supervisor, and then Karl of course left my agency because no one should be treated like that, he left and we tried to stay in touch, we tried we really tried, I would think of books and tv shows and actors he liked and I'd remember Oh Karl! I'm going to call him now! but I rarely did, and then he went and died, all alone in his apartment, the police had to break in his door after this agency reported that he hadn't appeared for a couple days, and there he was dead, alone, and why was he alone and why did it take two days and why didn't I stay in better contact with him, he was my friend and I loved him, why did the end have to happen that way and why did he have to be alone that way and why does anyone have to die alone and why and why and why and I'm crying and I don't know why.
(6) Unfortunately those issues that I had dismissed in the first story came to dominate my experience of all the subsequent stories. Namely: the stream of consciousness began to feel too stylized. Perhaps even stilted. I began to think to myself: but people don't actually think this way, do they? Of course that is a very subjective, perhaps myopic perspective. But I began to be annoyed. That annoyance became distancing. I began to dread reading the book. Inevitably, not only did the thought process of the narrator begin to sound irritatingly artificial, but the way the children talked as well. Kids don't talk like that was a constant thought. And then: police don't talk like that, doctors don't talk like that... people don't talk like that. Etc. I don't yearn for realism in my fiction, but the artificiality began to get in the way of my empathizing with the narrator and was a block in my connecting to the book's themes. Interstate began to lose resonance for me; by the end of the novel, I was relieved that the experience was finally over.
(7) That said, there was still parts that I found fascinating to contemplate in stories 2 through 8. Particularly within the last two stories. A treatise on the evolution of violence, on a personal level, from the shove or smack of a father to a daughter, to road rage, to the simple randomness of violence occurring anywhere, everywhere. A portrait of the depth of love a father can have for his children. The basic stream of consciousness inherent in living your life, filled with small moments and memories, love and sex and chores and food and fantasies and idle thoughts and thinking of what happened then while ignoring what is happening now.
(8) Story 1: a qualified 5 stars Stories 2-6: 1-2 stars Stories 7 & 8: 3 stars...more
111 books read, a good year. Average rating was 3.2, but since 3 stars = I Liked It, that's fine by me. 11 5-star books, 3 of them by Georgette Heyer 111 books read, a good year. Average rating was 3.2, but since 3 stars = I Liked It, that's fine by me. 11 5-star books, 3 of them by Georgette Heyer (❤). Favorites/5-star books have an ➩ by them below or in comment #5.
Personally, a fairly good year too. Went on some great trips, had some memorable experiences. I did have a difficult time mid-year over a terrible situation that was close to home, ugh. But let's not think about that, or politics. Work was good, personal life good, and best of all, reconciled with one of my closest friends (so stupid that we didn't talk for like 3 years over nothing) and reconnected with my best friend from childhood who I had not seen since 7th grade. I have little to complain about and a lot to look forward to.
Happy New Year to all!
shadow cabinet | please allow me to introduce myself
I was staying at the aptly-named Gaylord Hotel for a week-long conference in freezing mid-December. What a nightmare! This hotel is likYULETIDE ORDEAL
I was staying at the aptly-named Gaylord Hotel for a week-long conference in freezing mid-December. What a nightmare! This hotel is like a small city; indeed, in the center of it is a mock village. 'Twas the season, and so this lil' village within a hotel was also done up in holiday fanfare. In front of the village was a stage set for the regularly recurring Cirque du Christmas spectacular. Above the village was a similarly recurring light and sound show illustrating a timeless Xmas tale of a little boy and his grandfather and all the wishes of the world, in a display of terrifying color and thundering voices. Across and above the village was my indoor balcony, where I witnessed these atrocious Xmas events, agog and aghast. I was feeling quite put out, as I had had a restless night of sleep, was rudely woken at 7 am by cleaning staff who had ignored my Do Not Disturb and had to be shouted away, and then woken again at 8 by an emergency alert to leave the building, which I ignored grouchily. No doubt some simpleton had attempted to smoke in their room and so triggered a fire alarm. Amateurs.
I realized I had two hours until my dinner plans; time for a much needed nap.
Barely into my rest, I heard the tell-tale sounds of my door being opened and some sort of cart being wheeled in. Then a voice:
"Pardon me sir, but I would really like to clean your room. It is very important! I missed this morning, and yesterday."
Groggy and feeling helpless, I mumbled that that was fine but it was imperative that I continue sleeping. And so the cleaning commenced, around me.
After a fitful hour or so of unrelaxed rest, I finally woke. The woman who had entered was still present, dusting. Fortunately I had collapsed fully dressed; from my bed I rose, attempting a voice full of regret.
"My apologies for being here all the while, but I was exhausted. Thank you for tidying up. No need to worry about the bedding."
She smiled back. "You are so polite, sir; I am grateful! You seem like an understanding sort. And very open-minded. I would like to share a secret with you. A valuable secret!"
I smiled weakly. "But of course, share away."
"It is a trifle... shall we say... risqué..."
"All the better!"
With a sphinx-like expression, she beckoned me towards the bathroom. I followed, rather nervously. What in the world could this secret be? A secret lotion drawer, perhaps? Special towels? The latter would certainly be welcome as I looked upon the current towels with much disfavor, due to their cheap roughness - quite inappropriate for a hotel of this caliber, not to mention supposed gayness. And so I was intrigued yet strangely fearful.
At the toilet, she reached to the wall and flipped a small switch that I had not noticed previously. I heard a rush of liquid. She beckoned me again. I approached slowly. Smiling, she nodded towards the toilet bowl. Pouring within that bowl from its sides were thick streams of brown sludge. Sewage was filling the bowl! I stood stunned and amazed.
Still smiling, she reached in and began washing her hands in the foulness.
She announced merrily: "It is very good for the skin!"
I stood gaping. She lifted one leg and with a casual movement, tossed off a slipper she had been wearing and flirtatiously waggled a foot at me.
"And it is very good for the callouses of the feet as well!"
My mind broke and my body rebelled: gasping and making inarticulate noises in horror and terror, I lurched out of the bathroom and ran blindly to my bed, flinging myself upon it. Surely I must still be sleeping! Such nightmares couldn't be real! First the 7 am intrusion, and now this atrocity! I mumbled mindlessly to myself, head deep in pillow. This must be a dream.
Suddenly a sweetly sinister and babyish little boy's voice echoed around me, "How many wishes are there, Grandpapa?"
An elderly but frightfully hearty voice boomed in response: "AS MANY WISHES AS THERE ARE STARS IN THE SKY!"
I shuddered into my pillow. Could this be some sort of dreadful Christmas miracle? Whose wish was it that I be so horribly tortured? I moaned, a weak and exhausted victim to malevolent holiday magic.
If you enjoyed the above dream that occurred during the early evening of Tuesday, December 11th 2018 at the Marriott Gaylord in Maryland, I suggest you read this book! It is full of dreams.
Happily, the dreams that Lars describes are not so...
adorable little frog has a boner and is excited to share it with his friends, which include a lisping bunny rabbit, a butterfly, and yoDЯUNK REVIEW #?
adorable little frog has a boner and is excited to share it with his friends, which include a lisping bunny rabbit, a butterfly, and you the reader. kinda mean how he refers to his adorable bunny friend who definitely knows his name as "some bunny". it stings when you like a friend more than that friend likes you, huh bunny? or at least so I've been told. anyway, there are a couple of really important lessons here for any kid that happens to read this bright and cheerful children's book that's actually not for children at all because it is super pervy - SO KIDS DON'T READ THIS - there, I've done my due diligence. anyway, those lessons are: (1) never drink an entire jar of pickle juice and (2) knowing that Jesus Loves You won't take away the sadness of losing your boner. those are some important lessons!
I'm reminded of J____, a roommate I had when I lived in a flat with a dozen other people in my 20s. J was also excited about his boners, in general, but especially his morning wood. many were the weekends when he'd jump immediately out of his bed and walk around the place in his boxers, abashedly displaying something he probably shouldn't have displayed because memories are long buddy, just like your morning wood. and was he even abashed? I dunno, he seemed like it, but there he was walking around the place like Fancy Froglin so I guess he wasn't that abashed. "abashed." I think I got full mileage outta that word, time to stop.
I wonder what J's doing now? last I heard he had a lucrative business doing food tours down in Mexico City. probably spending a lot of money on coke and hookers if I know J. ah, J. hope your boner's doing okay!
oh wait, what is wrong with me? I just saw J a couple months ago when I was in Mexico City myself! wow, mark, wow. I blame that damn Southern Comfort that my neighbors gave me because they hate Southern Comfort and I clearly loved drinking it at their get-together a couple nights ago, and so stupid me, I thought one glass tonight would be fine, but I forgot to have dinner and I'm a lightweight so here we are. anyway, J is definitely running a food tour business but he's probably not doing coke anymore (or at least that's what he said; I have my doubts) and I really hope that hookers aren't a pastime these days because he has a really cute girlfriend who seems really smart, although I guess who knows because I don't actually speak spanish at all, but sometimes you can just tell someone is probably way smarter than you so you just keep smiling and nodding and thinking, wow, good job J, don't lose this one.
so yeah, enjoyable book. not for kids. reminded me of J____. all the best to you J! I really hope you dont' read this because I hear you'll be crashing at my place in month or so and that might mean some awkward conversation and neither of us are good at those. but maybe you'll just laugh it off? I would....more
(1) recently I went on vacation with a guy who is one of my very best friends (was a best man at his wedding!) and his charming wife. one intense even(1) recently I went on vacation with a guy who is one of my very best friends (was a best man at his wedding!) and his charming wife. one intense evening he let me know that he thinks I'm a real asshole - condescending, mean-spirited, always trying to be clever at the expense of my friends' feelings - and that most of our mutual friends felt the same way: I was someone "people had to deal with". (2) last week saw one of my staff moving on to another program; she had a tear-filled meeting with me where she talked about how much she valued my emotional support during some hard times in her life and how much she was going to miss my kindness; later that night, I had a long conversation with my mom and she ended the call by saying how I was the only person she felt comfortable talking with about spirituality, God, and acceptance. (3) last weekend I had an awesome date: I introduced her to this secret bar in Japantown and I got rambunctious and talked too loud; later on in the street I got into a physical altercation with some drunk jerk, defending her honor as a trans woman (jerk got shoved, then tripped & fell into a gutter, haha); we ended the evening having a wild time back at my place. later she texted me and said that I was probably too crazy for her, but we could keep it casual and see each other in a couple weeks, maybe.
it's funny to think on the different sides we all have and the different sides other people see - and yet all those sides are one person. we hold many selves.
SOME SPOILERS AHEAD... maybe?
this wonderful novel knows the idea of "many selves" is true, even as we may try to ignore that truth. it divides its so-called Trickster into three selves: mind, heart, body. the Mind is clever, entertaining, manipulative, cruel. the Heart is the best self yet sometimes the weakest; he shows his face the least, bullied into a corner by his brothers. and the Body has a kind of charisma, sure, but is also basically an animal, or a human who gets off on animalistic things. one of the many smart things that Margaret Mahy does is have the boy who is the Heart look identical to the boy who is the Body. I think we all know that sometimes we mix those two things up. the Mind looks nothing like them and is clearly top dog. or at least he thinks he is!
this is one of those coming of age tales that has a prickly-endearing protagonist who is both isolated and creative, an outsider looking in, sardonic perspective and all. it adds unsettling moments of dark fantasy and horror to its everyday wonders and realities, its sweet and its bitter. for a person like me - and probably a person like you, because you're a reader too - middle daughter Harry was frustrating and also instantly recognizable, relatable, lovable. she lives in her books and her writing and her fantasy version of a world, one that is all her own. she is surrounded by family and yet feels alone, not recognized, put in a box. not an outcast, just different. and so she summons this Trickster, this ghost split into three parts; she summons him - them - unwillingly and unwittingly, in a way that defies logic but with a result that also makes perfect sense. of course she summons an angry-sad, lonely, misunderstood boy. and of course that boy is misunderstood because he is composed of different parts, different selves. people see the wrong sides of him, and of her too. she's misunderstood; he's misunderstood; we're all misunderstood. The Tricksters makes it clear that all of us are many things and all of us will never be fully understood. it makes that lack of understanding sad, even tragic. and it makes it okay. it's what happens to you and me and everyone. and it also makes it clear that, in the end, our best self, our Heart, is the self that counts. it's the one that should win - and in this case, it does. the heart of the novel The Tricksters is a hopeful one, and full of love.
Mission accomplished! Almost. Still, I will take it as a win. This year my Virgo nature took complete hold of my reading patterns and formulated a sprMission accomplished! Almost. Still, I will take it as a win. This year my Virgo nature took complete hold of my reading patterns and formulated a spreadsheet organized in monthly rows and in columns titled with various genres and intangibles like "Favorite Authors". The goal: more organized reading across more genres. I'm so smugly pleased with the results that the over the top nerdiness of the project isn't even making me ashamed. I didn't get to 15 of the books, but hey I also went off-spreadsheet for about twice that number. Total books read in 2018: 137. Not that I am striving for quantity over quality of course, that would be inane. But I think this is the highest number of books I've ever read in a year. And looking at my Goodreads stats, this year also saw my highest number of 5 star reads.
In 2017, I discovered the wonderful books of criminally unknown author Rohan O'Grady. What a find! Such a fabulous author. I saved one of her best books for this year, so she was still a presence in 2018.
This year I discovered more buried treasure: melancholy William Sansom, mordant Richard Lortz (thanks, Jack Tripper!), eclectic Jere Cunningham (thanks again, Jack!), the darkly compelling Maynard's House by Herman Raucher, another book by unknown genre craftsman Hugh Zachary, a bizarre book for kids (maybe) with an equally bizarre title: The Anthropos-Spectre-Beast (thanks, Nate D!), the art of Kilian Eng (thanks, Eisnein!) and the sinister comic They Live In Me by Jesse Jacobs, literary pulp thriller Wisteria Cottage by Robert M. Coates, the sly Deathchain by Ken Greenhall, and perhaps best of all, the fascinating myths and legends of Patricia Eakins.
I checked in with some favorite authors. Most with strong or at least interesting results: Jack Vance, Tanith Lee, Paul Scott, Angela Carter, L. Frank Baum, Agatha Christie, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Aickman, Robert Silverberg, T.M. Wright, E.C. Tubb, Georgette Heyer, Kurt Busiek, P. Craig Russell, Grant Morrison, Lois McMaster Bujold, Patricia A. McKilip, Philip Pullman, Susan Cooper, Lois Lowry, and Colin MacInnes.
And some with less interesting results: Joyce Carol Oates, Colin Wilson, Arthur Machen, Don DeLillo, Agatha Christie again. I also realized that although I admire Daphne du Maurier, she sorta leaves me cold. I had mixed feelings about my time with M.M. Kaye. Same goes for checking out a small handful of locked-room mysteries by Japanese authors.
After at least a couple years reading it, I finally finished Sixteen Short Novels. An achievement! What a marvelous collection.
As a queer/bi guy/pansexual weirdo, I'm ashamed to say that I read very little in that vein. But I really enjoyed Call Me By Your Name, at least. In 2019, I must remedy this lack.
As a POC, well, I'm sorta appalled. Three Japanese authors, Edna Lewis, N.K. Jemison, and that's all. I should be beaten severely with the shame-stick.
I embraced a dangerous new addiction (dangerous to my bank account, that is): the gloriously weird and challenging works put out by various small press. Zagava, Ex Occidente, Sarob, Egaeus, Swan River, Snuggly, PS, Night Shade, Subterranean, Ash-Tree, Sidereal, Chomu, Sun and Moon, EibonVale, Scarlet Imprint, Hell Fire Club, and of course Tartarus, Semiotext(e), Arkham House, and my beloved Centipede Press (whose founder is a real sweetheart). The book search tool Book Finder was an incredible resource (thanks a 3rd time, Jack!). And the folks behind Zeising have a fascinating and eclectic catalog that includes many items from these small press. I feel like I've only begun this particular adventure. I'm excited to read more by Colin Insole, Stephen J. Clark, Ron Weighell, Charles Wilkinson, Karim Ghahwagi, Frances Oliver, Albert Power, and especially Louis Marvick and Damian Murphy.
Outside of books (and ignoring politics, and national news, and world news, and all the rest of the ills of this often beautiful but just as often very sick world)... 2018 was mainly a splendid year for me. Work remained absorbing and fulfilling. I went on some wonderful trips to Italy, Mexico, Ojai, and New Orleans. Spent some quality time with my eccentric family (so relieved the fire in Calabasas didn't touch them). A bit less quality time with friends (but I've created a new list to remedy that!). A friend and I explored a fair amount of regional Chinese cuisine available in the Bay Area and there's so much more out there. In less good news, I gained weight (LOL like I care!), had a difficult time with a complicated friendship, and there were a couple sad losses... but all that's a part of life, right? I made new friends including some on this here website, went on a few interesting dates, wrote a ton of reviews, and visited the GR homebase where I met some very sweet and energetic people. My charming cat remains faithfully by my side and my home is still my favorite place to be. I'd say overall that quality of life in 2018 was an above average 4.5 stars.
2017 was a great year in books for me. I somehow made it to my goal of 100 books, mainly due to a bunch of novellas and shorts read in January 1, 2018
2017 was a great year in books for me. I somehow made it to my goal of 100 books, mainly due to a bunch of novellas and shorts read in the last few days of the year. still, that hail mary worked and I will take the win. yahoo, me!
I will probably remember my 2017 in books mainly for discovering Rohan O'Grady's woefully underappreciated novels. All were excellent and Let's Kill Uncle was my favorite first read of the year, followed by another one of her novels, The May Spoon. And both Bleak November and The Curse of the Montrolfes were dark, shivery little treasures.
To a lesser extent, it was also nice discovering EmmaTennant and HenryGreen, particularly the latter's poison pen novel to England's fading aristocracy, Party Going. And after finally reading a second book by Richard Calder, Lord Soho, I realized I have a new favorite author and am excited to read everything else by him.
I didn't read a lot of recent releases, but then what's new, I never do. But of those that I did read: I completely loved The Essex Serpent and The Golden Hill. I completely loathed The North Water. All three are historical novels; clearly I have scarce interest in contemporary life (except as a source of snide humor).
While busily avoiding recent releases, I spent time rereading books I knew would satisfy: Tanith Lee's lustrous set of fairy tale reinterpretations, Red As Blood... Justin Cronin's The Twelve, in preparation for the even better concluding book of his trilogy, The City of Mirrors... and Miss Mapp, my annual installment of E.F. Benson's camp classic, the extremely arch Mapp & Lucia series. I also had a splendid time rereading threemorebooks in Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising series. I'm excited and a bit sad that 2018 will see me ending that series, again.
My annual October horror marathon was a lot of fun. Hopefully that will be the only sort of marathon that I will ever take part in. Had good luck with many of my choices, in particular three obscure wonders: T.M. Wright's claustrophobic funhouse Eyes of the Carp, Marc Laidlow's novella White Spawn and Hugh Zachary's oh-so-'70s Gwen in Green. I loved Edith Wharton's Collection of Ghost Stories It was also pretty great starting my year off with Ray Bradbury's Dark Carnival, an imperfect collection that was still perfect to me.
As far as the rest of my life in 2017 goes, it was a melancholy, often depressing, always contemplative year, especially following the intensity of 2016. The year began and ended with two surprising deaths, with several more happening in between. I guess it is the nature of my work, and life. But I don't want to get too philosophical, or sad, so will just leave it at that.
Fortunately, my default is almost always happy (despite all signs to the contrary). That's probably due to a wonderful family and fulfilling job, old friends who I learned to appreciate even more, a couple newer friends who I'm looking forward to spending more time with (including Brian Dice, who I met right here on this site), all the great books I've read, my lazy cat, and of course my basic emotional immaturity and self-absorption... so the year wasn't as hard as it could have been. Still, I'm glad 2017 is over. Here's to near-arbitrary demarcations of time that allow us to retain a certain feeling of hopefulness!
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