Well. Bye 2016. This year was tumultuous in affairs of the heart, rather than the workplace--unlike last year, I'm still at the same job as I was when I started 2016. My 5-year relationship with a man ended and I quickly fell for someone new, a girl who seemed to open up a new part of me that I hadn't really been sure was there. Things ended in flames, I threw myself into roller derby, went to playoffs with my team, and am now happily in a new relationship with a woman whom I'm pretty sure hung the moon. I am extraordinarily, sublimely happy. I have still been reading diligently and thinking a lot, but I have a lot of work to do, and I finally feel like I am in a place where I can confidently step forward and do it. Here's some recap thoughts about my fourth year of eclectic reading, y'all.
The Poet by Michael Connelly
January - serial killer thriller
I started 2016 by going back to a book I had started the year before, which, granted, is not the freshest way to start a new year, but I am relatively stubborn when it comes to finishing books. The Poet was written 10 years prior and I got caught up in the different ways mystery fiction (and the world itself) have changed in a decade. This book intrigued me because it boasted threads of Edgar Allen Poe flair, but it made me incredibly uncomfortable as well, due to the serial killer and the pedophilia. It was the kind of twisty, genre-bending fiction I aspire to someday, and its humility reminded me that such aspirations are possible
The Island of Doctor Moreau by H.G. Wells
February - novel set on an island
Humans are messed upppp. The Island of Doctor Moreau is about a island where a man essentially plays God, cutting and prodding and putting together animals according to his whim. It is a slim classic that I have been telling myself to just devour in a weekend for years, but it has proved difficult to fit in, and this read was no exception. It took me a while, possibly because the outside world seemed more interesting than that of science fiction, but I made it through, and watching the end of this season of Orphan Black was all the richer for it. It is interesting to note, in retrospect, how many of my books were about creativity and possibility and how the human condition can send those things horribly horribly astray, and Doctor Moreau was the beginning of that trend. The doctor, after all, wanted to make something new and different and inspirational, but he was consumed by his madness and it became something dark.
Somewhere In Time by Richard Matheson
March - paranormal romance
This is a hella angsty book. Richard Collier is in love with an idea of a woman, and is so resolute in his love that he pretty much wills himself back in time to be with her. It is a story of desire, of longing, and above all, of timing. I'd had terrible luck with timing thus far in 2016, certain events not playing out entirely correctly because of impatience or a mismatch in timing. But as hard as those events were, and as angsty a slog as this book was to read, I would not change a single thing about it. It is done and over with, and I have learned, but I am glad that it happened, something I think (I hope) Richard Collier felt toward the conclusion of his lovelorn story.
Mad, Bad & Sad by Lisa Appignanesi
April - Psychology (non-fiction)
It is possibly (though unintentionally) apropos that I chose to follow the angst and sadness of March and Somewhere in Time with Mad, Bad & Sad. This book offered up a smattering of women in history and how they were diagnosed with various mental ailments, from hysteria to schizophrenia to depression, the ways that their eccentricity and differentness have been received by the world. I buried myself in the history this month, the stories of these women and their woes. I learned new things about women I love, Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, and I wondered a lot about their sadness and artistry and what it was that made them so alluring.
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
May - disaster fiction
One of my biggest takeaways from Station Eleven is the idea that art and language and creativity can survive in the face of utter oblivion. A contagion breaks out in the world of Station Eleven, and the book follows various important players and survivors as they prepare for and reminisce about the end of civilization as they know it. Kirsten was a child when disaster struck and she has largely grown up in the post-apocalyptic world, joining a traveling company that recites Shakespeare across the country, reminding everyone of the lasting power of art and words. Important to remember in these last weeks of the Obama administration.
The Secret of Lost Things by Sheridan Hay
June - books about books
I love books about books. I was very torn about this category. I started at least four options, until I nearly ran out of month to read and had to settle. I wish this had gone more into the mysterious book it sets up, instead of leaving it as a token, a foil to be traded amongst the characters. I still find myself gravitating toward stories about coming into one's own, finding one's own space and passion, and The Secret of Lost Things was certainly that.
The Mechanical by Ian Tregillis
July - steampunk sci-fi
Free will, fighting back, and the decisions you make are all paramount to The Mechanical, the first in a new steampunk sci-fi series. It felt good to lose myself in a new world, especially one so carefully and eloquently crafted. Jax's journey from duty-bound mechanical servant to free-willed automaton was an engrossing narrative that I am looking forward to following as the next books in the series come out.
My Lady Jane by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, and Jodi Meadows
August - Young Adult historical fiction
I really do enjoy when I get to incorporate young adult fiction into my year. Easy reads are just as important as high-flown and intellectual ones, and My Lady Jane was excellent. It was the mostly romanticized and fictionalized version of Lady Jane Grey's nine-day reign as Queen of England, another showcasing of coming into one's own, however supernaturally (Lady Jane realizes she is of a special sect of individuals who can transform into an animal at will). The revisionist history aspect of it made my heart happy, as well, because Lady Jane being executed after nine days of power has always broken my heart.
The Underground Girls of Kabul by Jenny Nordberg
September - Investigative journalism
I used to want to be something akin to an investigative journalist, but my primary shyness has made that a slightly difficult dream to achieve. The Underground Girls of Kabul tells of girls and women in Afghanistan who dress and live as boys for social benefits, and follows a number of cases, from those who give up their male guise at puberty to those who fight tooth and nail to remain androgynous into adulthood. I was struck by the visceral need to be who you are that the latter example of these people fit into, and it was striking to see into their world, even if I was unsure that I had the right to ask.
Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood
October - shortlist for the Man Booker Prize
Once again, we find humans playing God and we end with the undeniable tenet that humans are messed up. Oryx and Crake is slightly more apocalyptic than Island of Doctor Moreau, however, and it involves a premeditated end to the world as a result of the wielding of these powers. Margaret Atwood has a strange psyche, to say the least, but I am rarely disappointed when I take a trip with her. She has a way of laying out humanity that manages to transcend contemporariness to remain relevant for the reader whenever the text is consumed.
Americanah by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie
November - immigrant experience fiction
In November, this country broke. Our electoral system allowed a racist, misogynistic, xenophobic bigot to ascend to the highest office, and it is galvanizing. I picked up Americanah among other texts to both educate myself and remind myself that I am not alone. Do the work. Observe. Speak out. This is going to be a huge responsibility in the next four years.
Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler
December - debut author in 2016
I ended 2016 with a debut author's first work, another sort of coming-of-age tale set against a restaurant life backdrop. The poetry of description was as intoxicating as Tess's first year in the city. At the restaurant, they make a big deal about wine, especially its terroir, which is defined as the conglomeration of environmental and contextual situations that make up the character of a wine, and Danler extended this metaphor to suggest that people also have their own sort of terroir, based upon their experiences and history. Sweetbitter was arresting in that regard, asking me what sort of terroir do I have at this point in my life? Is it close to where I'd like it to be? How much more work do I have to get started on?
After all these books, all these pages, all these words, I am surely not the same person I was when I began 2016. My experiences this past year have been heavy and heady and eye-opening, and I feel full. Full of promise, of opportunity, of fight. I say again, goodbye 2016, and I hope that 2017 is not the end of the world as we know it.
{Link to my 2015 recap ~ Link to my 2014 recap ~ Link to my 2013 recap }
Monday, January 9, 2017
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
DEC - Sweetbitter
December review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2016: Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler, 2016. [Debut Author 2016 category]
Whenever I have a "best of the year" or "new this year" kind of category, I tend to leave it toward the latter half of the challenge, and this time was no exception. I waited until December for my debut author category, and as I was walking around my favorite Minneapolis bookstore when I was there for Thanksgiving, I found Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler.
Sweetbitter is the sort of coming-of-age story for the narrator (whose name we are told is Tess but we often forget...at least I did...) as she transplants herself to New York City and ends up talking her way into a job as a backwaiter at a swanky downtown restaurant. I had a brief brush with restaurant life last summer, and although it was only as a host, I still felt a sort of kinship with Tess and the headiness of that life. (Except for the cocaine. I never did cocaine like Tess did.) The stress and quickness foster a sort of familial connection between the staff members, one I can only imagine being pivotal at 22 years old and freshly new to the city, as Tess is. Sweetbitter chronicles her traversal through the seasons of her first year in New York, a frenetic bacchanal of sorts where she soaks up her new world and relearns all her senses.
A lot of Tess's education in the restaurant is about wine. I wish I knew more about wine, I wish I'd had the kind of tutelage she experiences under Simone's hawkish eye. I drank up every description, every phrase, and I was especially interested in the concept of "terroir." Terroir is defined as the complete natural environment in which a particular wine is produced, including factors like soil and climate. These contextual characteristics lend the wine a character of its own, past the definitions of its environment, and Sweetbitter explores the metaphorical idea of a person having their own "terroir." The contextual clues that make up a person, that shape them and define them and cage them. Sweetbitter felt like an attempt to define Tess's new terroir: she says on the second page, "Let's say I was born in late June of 2006 when I came over the George Washington Bridge at seven a.m.," focusing on a new life, a new person, a new environment. After my own year of change, thinking about my own terroir is enthralling, and Sweetbitter has helped me to do just that.
Danler is poetic and her turn of phrase enticing, but the slightly flawed and flat characters took away slightly from my enjoyment of the language. All in all, though, a lovely florid read to end my 2016.
Whenever I have a "best of the year" or "new this year" kind of category, I tend to leave it toward the latter half of the challenge, and this time was no exception. I waited until December for my debut author category, and as I was walking around my favorite Minneapolis bookstore when I was there for Thanksgiving, I found Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler.
Sweetbitter is the sort of coming-of-age story for the narrator (whose name we are told is Tess but we often forget...at least I did...) as she transplants herself to New York City and ends up talking her way into a job as a backwaiter at a swanky downtown restaurant. I had a brief brush with restaurant life last summer, and although it was only as a host, I still felt a sort of kinship with Tess and the headiness of that life. (Except for the cocaine. I never did cocaine like Tess did.) The stress and quickness foster a sort of familial connection between the staff members, one I can only imagine being pivotal at 22 years old and freshly new to the city, as Tess is. Sweetbitter chronicles her traversal through the seasons of her first year in New York, a frenetic bacchanal of sorts where she soaks up her new world and relearns all her senses.
A lot of Tess's education in the restaurant is about wine. I wish I knew more about wine, I wish I'd had the kind of tutelage she experiences under Simone's hawkish eye. I drank up every description, every phrase, and I was especially interested in the concept of "terroir." Terroir is defined as the complete natural environment in which a particular wine is produced, including factors like soil and climate. These contextual characteristics lend the wine a character of its own, past the definitions of its environment, and Sweetbitter explores the metaphorical idea of a person having their own "terroir." The contextual clues that make up a person, that shape them and define them and cage them. Sweetbitter felt like an attempt to define Tess's new terroir: she says on the second page, "Let's say I was born in late June of 2006 when I came over the George Washington Bridge at seven a.m.," focusing on a new life, a new person, a new environment. After my own year of change, thinking about my own terroir is enthralling, and Sweetbitter has helped me to do just that.
Danler is poetic and her turn of phrase enticing, but the slightly flawed and flat characters took away slightly from my enjoyment of the language. All in all, though, a lovely florid read to end my 2016.
Monday, January 2, 2017
NOV - Americanah
November review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2016: Americanah by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie, 2013. [Immigrant Experience fiction category]
Americanah by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie is one of those books in recent years that everyone tells you to read. It has been on my mental "to buy" list for ages. Picking it up this Thanksgiving, I was not disappointed. It's one of those books that every sentence I felt compelled to underline, asterisk, highlight. It is resonating, even though I am neither an immigrant nor am I black. It is certainly one of those "check your privilege" kind of books. I'm not sure how exactly to write about this powerful social commentary, but I am going to try my best.
First, the category for which I chose this novel: immigrant experience fiction. Adichie is adept at telling the tale of the immigrant, as she too has split her life between two countries. Ifemelu and Obinze are two Nigerian young people who fall in love but end up separated, immigrating to the U.S. and the U.K., respectively, and through these two, Adichie sheds light on two kinds of immigration, as well. The kind that goes well, plays by the rules, and ends in citizenship (Ifemelu); and then the kind that exists under the table, undocumented until it is caught, and ends in deportation (Obinze). This is primarily Ifemelu's story, however, and Obinze's chapters seem to add a slight corollary to her story, rather than make him an equal in perspective. Both characters examine what it means to leave home, but by the end of the book, they both try to understand what it means to return home, and who their experiences away have made them.
I recognize that I read this book with a certain distance, as there are parts of the narrative I cannot understand, no matter how eloquent Adichie is. Americanah takes on race and race politics from the perspective of an outsider to America, examines blackness in terms of the community in which it is found. Ifemelu begins a blog when is studying in America, titled "Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black," and in it, she chronicles her attempt to move through this new space while black, something about herself she had never considered before. Ifemelu is a good voicebox for Adichie's incredibly nuanced observations, and a book like this is very important in a year like this one, where people are still being murdered and silenced and shamed simply because of their melanin level. A review I read mentions Adichie's point that there needs to be more novels (like this one) about how people feel and observe race today, out in the world, rather than feel-good retrospectives about slavery and civil rights and "how far we've come" instead of how fucking far we still have to go. These are conversations that need to be had, and although I feel wildly underprepared (again, I recognize my privilege in this underpreparation), I know that I need to contribute and hone my voice and my position and do the work, especially in the coming political shitstorm that will most likely be the next four years.
Ultimately, Ifemelu has inspired me to write more again, to observe more, and also to speak out about what is happening, what I see. Her blog about her world reminded me how out of touch I am with my writing at the moment. For 2017, I would like to engage a bit more with my world, and I hope reading things like Americanah and attempting to parse out my thoughts will help me to survive and to help my community fight back. It's going to be very important in 2017 and beyond.
Americanah by Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie is one of those books in recent years that everyone tells you to read. It has been on my mental "to buy" list for ages. Picking it up this Thanksgiving, I was not disappointed. It's one of those books that every sentence I felt compelled to underline, asterisk, highlight. It is resonating, even though I am neither an immigrant nor am I black. It is certainly one of those "check your privilege" kind of books. I'm not sure how exactly to write about this powerful social commentary, but I am going to try my best.
First, the category for which I chose this novel: immigrant experience fiction. Adichie is adept at telling the tale of the immigrant, as she too has split her life between two countries. Ifemelu and Obinze are two Nigerian young people who fall in love but end up separated, immigrating to the U.S. and the U.K., respectively, and through these two, Adichie sheds light on two kinds of immigration, as well. The kind that goes well, plays by the rules, and ends in citizenship (Ifemelu); and then the kind that exists under the table, undocumented until it is caught, and ends in deportation (Obinze). This is primarily Ifemelu's story, however, and Obinze's chapters seem to add a slight corollary to her story, rather than make him an equal in perspective. Both characters examine what it means to leave home, but by the end of the book, they both try to understand what it means to return home, and who their experiences away have made them.
I recognize that I read this book with a certain distance, as there are parts of the narrative I cannot understand, no matter how eloquent Adichie is. Americanah takes on race and race politics from the perspective of an outsider to America, examines blackness in terms of the community in which it is found. Ifemelu begins a blog when is studying in America, titled "Raceteenth or Various Observations About American Blacks (Those Formerly Known as Negroes) by a Non-American Black," and in it, she chronicles her attempt to move through this new space while black, something about herself she had never considered before. Ifemelu is a good voicebox for Adichie's incredibly nuanced observations, and a book like this is very important in a year like this one, where people are still being murdered and silenced and shamed simply because of their melanin level. A review I read mentions Adichie's point that there needs to be more novels (like this one) about how people feel and observe race today, out in the world, rather than feel-good retrospectives about slavery and civil rights and "how far we've come" instead of how fucking far we still have to go. These are conversations that need to be had, and although I feel wildly underprepared (again, I recognize my privilege in this underpreparation), I know that I need to contribute and hone my voice and my position and do the work, especially in the coming political shitstorm that will most likely be the next four years.
Ultimately, Ifemelu has inspired me to write more again, to observe more, and also to speak out about what is happening, what I see. Her blog about her world reminded me how out of touch I am with my writing at the moment. For 2017, I would like to engage a bit more with my world, and I hope reading things like Americanah and attempting to parse out my thoughts will help me to survive and to help my community fight back. It's going to be very important in 2017 and beyond.
Friday, December 30, 2016
OCT - Oryx and Crake
October review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2016: Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood, 2003. [Man Booker Prize Shortlist category]
I'm not even sure how to start writing about Oryx and Crake. It is a strange book, not that I expected anything less from Margaret Atwood. The Handmaid's Tale has long held a spot atop my list of favorite feminist fiction, and I've been interested to see what else Atwood can do. Oryx and Crake has been described as post-apocalyptic, speculative fiction, adventure romance, and a number of other things, and it is the idea of "speculative fiction" that I think I got hung up on the most. Atwood has a way of resonating even today; I re-read Handmaid's Tale during the Obama-Romney election of 2012 and it was chilling in the context of the reproductive rights fight. Reading Oryx and Crake and then thinking about it in these post-election weeks (yes, super late review) was chilling in a different way. In this dystopia, science is paramount and genetic engineering rules (ruled) the world. The narrator, Snowman, is ostensibly the only human of his kind left as he relates his life and the catastrophe that brought him to this moment, living mostly in a tree and acting as a sort of half-assed prophet to the newly synthesized Children of Crake. He tells of his old friend whom he refers to as Crake, how he climbed the scientific ladder at a genetics corporation and created these new beings devoid of emotion and sexual drive. The possibility of this future is not necessarily what chills, instead it is the possibility of its decline under the next presidency. Science may not be on the top of the agenda in Trump's America and while we may avoid bringing about Oryx and Crake, we may be on the precipice of a dystopia of another kind.
At any rate, back to the narrative. The most controversial aspect of Snowman's tale is the genetic engineering, the idea of "playing God," and "how much is too much, how far is too far?" (p206). The truth is that most of today's technology could fall under the scope of "playing God" in some indirect manner or another, from modern medicine to weather apps, and but the "how far is too far" is quite apropos, placing the impetus on the individual. After all, "God is a cluster of neurons, he'd maintained," Snowman says of Crake's philosophy. "The whole world is now one vast uncontrolled experiment." (p228) What is the future without innovation and drive?
Snowman/Jimmy often talks about his love of language, how early on he had collected old words, "He developed a strangely tender feeling towards such words, as if they were children abandoned in the woods and it was his duty to rescue them." (p195) One of my favorite parts of the book, when I felt the most aligned with the narrator, who spent a portion of his post-graduate life as a glorified copywriter for a drug company, fomenting the change in lifestyle brought about with science as paramount. It is a slight nod to the future we find Snowman in, the last of his kind, trying to remember the names of everyday objects to keep himself sane, forcing himself to "Hang on to the words... When they're gone out of his head... they'll be gone, everywhere, for ever. As if they had never existed." I am hoping to collect such words, such books, to keep them for myself and for posterity.
I am unsure how to end this post, or what it was even about in the first place, but that is pretty much how I felt when I finished Oryx and Crake, so I guess it's in keeping with the narrative.
At any rate, back to the narrative. The most controversial aspect of Snowman's tale is the genetic engineering, the idea of "playing God," and "how much is too much, how far is too far?" (p206). The truth is that most of today's technology could fall under the scope of "playing God" in some indirect manner or another, from modern medicine to weather apps, and but the "how far is too far" is quite apropos, placing the impetus on the individual. After all, "God is a cluster of neurons, he'd maintained," Snowman says of Crake's philosophy. "The whole world is now one vast uncontrolled experiment." (p228) What is the future without innovation and drive?
Snowman/Jimmy often talks about his love of language, how early on he had collected old words, "He developed a strangely tender feeling towards such words, as if they were children abandoned in the woods and it was his duty to rescue them." (p195) One of my favorite parts of the book, when I felt the most aligned with the narrator, who spent a portion of his post-graduate life as a glorified copywriter for a drug company, fomenting the change in lifestyle brought about with science as paramount. It is a slight nod to the future we find Snowman in, the last of his kind, trying to remember the names of everyday objects to keep himself sane, forcing himself to "Hang on to the words... When they're gone out of his head... they'll be gone, everywhere, for ever. As if they had never existed." I am hoping to collect such words, such books, to keep them for myself and for posterity.
I am unsure how to end this post, or what it was even about in the first place, but that is pretty much how I felt when I finished Oryx and Crake, so I guess it's in keeping with the narrative.
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
SEPT - The Underground Girls of Kabul
September review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2016: The Underground Girls of Kabul by Jenny Nordberg, 2014. [Investigative Journalism category]
Once upon a time, investigative journalism was something that I was very interested in pursuing as a career path. The most salient definition of "investigative journalism" that I could find during my search for a book of this genre delineated it as, "a form of journalism in which reporters deeply investigate a single topic of interest to shed light on a specific issue, such as crime or social justice." For Jenny Nordberg, that specific issue is the bacha posh. Nordberg's book The Underground Girls of Kabul: In Search of a Hidden Resistance in Afghanistan examines the bacha posh, a phrase translated from Dari as "dressed up like a boy" that is used as sort of a blanket term for the phenomenon of girls being disguised as boys in Afghanistan. (I use the passive voice here because it is generally not a decision made by the girls themselves, although there are exceptions. Usually the decision is made by the parents who have not borne a male heir and desire the social stability and visibility granted by having a male child.) Nordberg paints a compelling portrait of a number of these bacha posh who have undergone--and maintained--the disguise for varied reasons, shining a light into a heretofore unexamined corner of Afghan culture.
I was immediately intrigued by this study, but I couldn't help a niggling discomfort that underscored my intrigue: what rights does Nordberg have to tell this story? This is, ostensibly, a tender subject and practice in a society that is notably difficult for girlhood, and I was uncomfortable with the author's insertion of herself into the issue. But early on, Nordberg establishes that her primary subject, a parliamentarian named Azita who chose the bacha posh life for her daughter, has given permission to tell her story (p25), saying "It could be interesting for people. This is the reality of Afghanistan." Nordberg, a Swedish journalist, broke the story to the New York Times in 2010 and spent years developing personal accounts and researching cultural and historical aspects of this practice. Her book lays out a number of different bacha posh experiences, probing the question of whether bacha posh exists as a kind of third gender or if it challenges the idea of a gender binary altogether--personally I wish more space had been given to this particular discussion, as it stands it is only brought up toward the end of the book through Zahra, a teenage bacha posh who is resistant to returning to her "girl state," but I suppose there is only so much one can ask from a broad investigative text.
One section that resonated me in particular was Nader's story, a bacha posh who has continued the lifestyle into adulthood, who now runs what amounts to a literal underground meeting of like-minded individuals, practicing tae kwon do and "her own brand of organized resistance" (p217). When asked about the importance of her athletic endeavor, Nader replies about subversion and controversy, but also notes the following:
I was immediately intrigued by this study, but I couldn't help a niggling discomfort that underscored my intrigue: what rights does Nordberg have to tell this story? This is, ostensibly, a tender subject and practice in a society that is notably difficult for girlhood, and I was uncomfortable with the author's insertion of herself into the issue. But early on, Nordberg establishes that her primary subject, a parliamentarian named Azita who chose the bacha posh life for her daughter, has given permission to tell her story (p25), saying "It could be interesting for people. This is the reality of Afghanistan." Nordberg, a Swedish journalist, broke the story to the New York Times in 2010 and spent years developing personal accounts and researching cultural and historical aspects of this practice. Her book lays out a number of different bacha posh experiences, probing the question of whether bacha posh exists as a kind of third gender or if it challenges the idea of a gender binary altogether--personally I wish more space had been given to this particular discussion, as it stands it is only brought up toward the end of the book through Zahra, a teenage bacha posh who is resistant to returning to her "girl state," but I suppose there is only so much one can ask from a broad investigative text.
One section that resonated me in particular was Nader's story, a bacha posh who has continued the lifestyle into adulthood, who now runs what amounts to a literal underground meeting of like-minded individuals, practicing tae kwon do and "her own brand of organized resistance" (p217). When asked about the importance of her athletic endeavor, Nader replies about subversion and controversy, but also notes the following:
"But it is also because when we use our bodies, we do not feel weak anymore. When a girl feels the strength of her body, she knows she can do other things, too." (p217)Realizing one's own strength is especially poignant for me as a woman who has come into her own through the discovery of roller derby and commitment to a lifting regime, a woman who has learned how to use her body, albeit in a safer space than the tumultuous social landscape that is womanhood in a Middle Eastern society. I recognize that any attempt I make to identify with this story is paltry in terms of privilege and social histories, but it is a small thing that I can build upon, some small measure of connection that feels important in the current climate.
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
AUG - My Lady Jane
August review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2016: My Lady Jane by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, and Jodi Meadows, 2016. [YA Historical Fiction category]
I have long been fascinated with the Tudor era in English history. I read all that I could about the wives of Henry VIII and as many other historical figures as I could find, but for whatever reason, Jane Grey never really surfaced. Maybe because her reign was so short--they call her the Nine-Day Queen--she hasn't been given much page time, but I was thrilled to find My Lady Jane, which is a historical retelling of her reign, with a little fantasy sprinkled in. The salient change in this universe is the existence of beings known as E∂ians (pronounced eth-y-un), or people who have the ability to shape-shift into an animal. Namely, King Henry VIII, who turned into a lion and ate a court jester once, provoking the phrase "don't eat the messenger," according to the storytellers. The premise of My Lady Jane is this: 16-year-old King Edward is dying and must find a successor, and he lands on his cousin, Lady Jane Grey, who he decides will be married to Gifford Dudley, son of Edward's most trusted advisor. Gifford, often referred to as "G," is an E∂ian who becomes a horse whenever the sun crests the horizon, a change that he cannot help or control in any way. Jane does not want to be married, let alone be queen, so once Edward is declared dead (spoiler alert: in this version he actually is not dead!) she has a slight crisis. The book is divided into two parts, Part One, "in which we revise a bit of history," and Part Two, "in which we throw history out the window." Part Two expands upon the conspiracy to (poison and) overthrow Edward and details the E∂ian rebellion that helps Edward take back the throne.
One of the most enjoyable things about this book, I think, was the self-aware storytelling. The prologue sees the three authors establish themselves as the weavers of this tale, referring to themselves often and inserting sly commentary throughout the relation of the tale. A few notable examples are the nods to popular culture at the time, such as having G (who is a closet writer) muck up the composition of some famous Shakespeare lines and then slyly nodding to the conspiracy theory that he would actually become the man behind Shakespeare (p489). The cavalier way the Lady Janes (as the authors appellate themselves) deal with history and consistently acknowledge this attitude keeps the tone of the book light, and it helps the reader to have as much fun with it as the writers clearly are having.
Obviously Lady Jane is my favorite character in the book. She is presented as somewhat of a mystery, nose always buried in a book (sound familiar?) rather than engaging with the court around her. My favorite little detail, however, is her synonym habit. When she learns of her fiancé-to-be, that he is purportedly a ladies' man, she thinks,
I have long been fascinated with the Tudor era in English history. I read all that I could about the wives of Henry VIII and as many other historical figures as I could find, but for whatever reason, Jane Grey never really surfaced. Maybe because her reign was so short--they call her the Nine-Day Queen--she hasn't been given much page time, but I was thrilled to find My Lady Jane, which is a historical retelling of her reign, with a little fantasy sprinkled in. The salient change in this universe is the existence of beings known as E∂ians (pronounced eth-y-un), or people who have the ability to shape-shift into an animal. Namely, King Henry VIII, who turned into a lion and ate a court jester once, provoking the phrase "don't eat the messenger," according to the storytellers. The premise of My Lady Jane is this: 16-year-old King Edward is dying and must find a successor, and he lands on his cousin, Lady Jane Grey, who he decides will be married to Gifford Dudley, son of Edward's most trusted advisor. Gifford, often referred to as "G," is an E∂ian who becomes a horse whenever the sun crests the horizon, a change that he cannot help or control in any way. Jane does not want to be married, let alone be queen, so once Edward is declared dead (spoiler alert: in this version he actually is not dead!) she has a slight crisis. The book is divided into two parts, Part One, "in which we revise a bit of history," and Part Two, "in which we throw history out the window." Part Two expands upon the conspiracy to (poison and) overthrow Edward and details the E∂ian rebellion that helps Edward take back the throne.
One of the most enjoyable things about this book, I think, was the self-aware storytelling. The prologue sees the three authors establish themselves as the weavers of this tale, referring to themselves often and inserting sly commentary throughout the relation of the tale. A few notable examples are the nods to popular culture at the time, such as having G (who is a closet writer) muck up the composition of some famous Shakespeare lines and then slyly nodding to the conspiracy theory that he would actually become the man behind Shakespeare (p489). The cavalier way the Lady Janes (as the authors appellate themselves) deal with history and consistently acknowledge this attitude keeps the tone of the book light, and it helps the reader to have as much fun with it as the writers clearly are having.
Obviously Lady Jane is my favorite character in the book. She is presented as somewhat of a mystery, nose always buried in a book (sound familiar?) rather than engaging with the court around her. My favorite little detail, however, is her synonym habit. When she learns of her fiancé-to-be, that he is purportedly a ladies' man, she thinks,
"So. Her husband-to-be was a philanderer. A smooth operator. A debaucher. A rake. A frisker. (Jane became something of a walking thesaurus when she was upset, a side effect of too much reading.)" (p35)Although I disagree on principle with the idea of "too much reading" (is there such a thing??), I really appreciated the commitment to Jane's synonyms throughout the book. Again, there were moments where she would acknowledge she was doing it and the narrators would essentially come in and say that it was ok, it was what made her Jane.
Friday, August 26, 2016
JUL - The Mechanical
July review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2016: The Mechanical by Ian Tregillis, 2015. [Steampunk Sci-Fi category]
July's choice for the ERC is The Mechanical by Ian Tregillis, the first in his new Alchemy Wars series. There were plenty of options for steampunk sci-fi, but something about The Mechanical struck me as different. The concept behind The Mechanical is one that is familiar, ever since the revelation of Asimov's I, Robot: that of robot sentience and self-awareness. Set in an alternative universe where Dutch scientist Christiaan Hyugens invented a magic-imbued clockwork automaton for use in the Dutch army, revolutionizing the technological advancement of the era, as well as the tenuous link between the Dutch and the French. 300 years after this discovery, the Dutch Empire has incorporated these mechanicals into every fiber of their society. Jax is a servitor mechanical, known colloquially as a Clakker in the jargon of the text, which is a mechanical man bound by something called a geas, an intrinsic set of rules and requirements the mechanicals are physically incapable of disobeying. The story opens with Jax on a mission from his owners, taking a painful break to watch some heretics being hanged, including a rogue Clakker. Jax watches as his compatriot declares his freedom from the geasa, and it is a beautiful juxtaposition of the nearly incapacitating strictures of the geasa under which Jax still labors and the apparent free will and self-actualization of the rogue Clakker who staunchly meets his unmaking. It is established from the back cover blurb that Jax would at some point become such a rogue, and it is part of our journey as readers to watch this unfold.
One of the most salient threads throughout The Mechanical is the discussion of the soul and what it means to have Free Will. Jax's errand to begin the our story is to visit Pastor Vissor, who is, unbeknownst to him, a secret French Catholic and therefore heretical member of the underground revolution. I will give fair warning that after this paragraph there will be slight SPOILERS, so read on if you dare. The thread becomes even more tangled when Jax and Visser meet again toward the end of the book, after Jax has been freed of the geasa and possesses his own Free Will. The snarl is that Visser was captured in his attempt to elude the authorities and was forced to undergo an experimental procedure that imbued him, a human being, with the painful and unbreakable geasa. So, the next time they meet, their roles in the narrative have essentially been reversed, and Jax spends a good amount of time pondering how their respective "souls" change throughout the text:
This dichotomy is dealt with in many different and subtle ways throughout the text, proving that Tregillis is truly emerging as one of the top new voices of his genre. His writing style is eloquent and practiced, and his vocabulary is to die for. Tregillis is so deft with his perspective shifts: it is as simple as changing the pronouns used in reference to Clakkers depending upon who is speaking. For example, at one point when Jax is freed from the geasa, he meets a high-ranking but disgraced member of the French resistance who has different views on Clakkers than most of Dutch society, but still sees them as not entirely citizenry. As Tregillis shifted perspectives between Jax and this revolutionary, the pronouns used to describe Jax shifted from he/him to it almost imperceptibly and I loved it.
One of the most salient threads throughout The Mechanical is the discussion of the soul and what it means to have Free Will. Jax's errand to begin the our story is to visit Pastor Vissor, who is, unbeknownst to him, a secret French Catholic and therefore heretical member of the underground revolution. I will give fair warning that after this paragraph there will be slight SPOILERS, so read on if you dare. The thread becomes even more tangled when Jax and Visser meet again toward the end of the book, after Jax has been freed of the geasa and possesses his own Free Will. The snarl is that Visser was captured in his attempt to elude the authorities and was forced to undergo an experimental procedure that imbued him, a human being, with the painful and unbreakable geasa. So, the next time they meet, their roles in the narrative have essentially been reversed, and Jax spends a good amount of time pondering how their respective "souls" change throughout the text:
"This shell before him wore the flesh of Pastor Luuk Visser. But its soul, if it had a soul, had changed. This man-shaped thing before him was something twisted." (p346)At earlier places in the text, references are made to Jax being human-shaped, so this is an especially striking comparison of Visser's change. The line between human and machine is blurred, as is the heretofore-apparent characteristics separating one from another.
This dichotomy is dealt with in many different and subtle ways throughout the text, proving that Tregillis is truly emerging as one of the top new voices of his genre. His writing style is eloquent and practiced, and his vocabulary is to die for. Tregillis is so deft with his perspective shifts: it is as simple as changing the pronouns used in reference to Clakkers depending upon who is speaking. For example, at one point when Jax is freed from the geasa, he meets a high-ranking but disgraced member of the French resistance who has different views on Clakkers than most of Dutch society, but still sees them as not entirely citizenry. As Tregillis shifted perspectives between Jax and this revolutionary, the pronouns used to describe Jax shifted from he/him to it almost imperceptibly and I loved it.
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