Prodigy - Marie Lu (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 2013)
Not just one triangle, but two. Or maybe more. It gets kind of complicated. But sort of more fun. Because when it's a bunch of teenagers running a rebellion against one (or more?) totalitarian regimes, you need something to remind you that they are kids and have hormones and stuff.
Day & June are recruited by the rebel Patriots, but June isn't sure that the Republic isn't trying to change from within. And then there are the Colonies, which is some sort of capitalism-gone-wild state. And the two protagonists aren't sure who they can trust, particularly whether they can trust one another.
Which is all to say: blow it all up. Let's the children take over. Easy. Done.
So what happens in the next installment?
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The fabrication of causal connections
The Pleasure of My Company - Steve Martin (Hyperion, 2003)
A novella, set in early 2000s Santa Monica, about a young man with fairly debilitating OCD. And the ways in which his compulsions block him from the world, and how he tries to find a way back in.
There are parts of this novel that are truly lovely. Daniel is a sweet kid, albeit a strange one, and as narrator connects pretty well with the reader. I sympathized each time the OCD led to behavior that disconnected him from other people. Oh, and thank goodness for a portrayal of the disorder that isn't about compulsive neatness and handwashing. Daniel can only cross the street at perfectly aligned driveways (no curbs) and must always have lights on with a combined wattage (?) totaling 1125. He can tell you the day of the week for any given date (this is a trait I've always associated with autism, and in generally I wonder about the comorbidity of the two) and is generally amazing with numbers and letters.
I'd here like to go off on a tangent about the role of rituals to ward off anxiety. If the lights always add up to 1125 then... what? Or what is comforting about the compulsive need to check and check and check again that the door is locked? And how much do we play these games on a broader social scale? Where is the dividing line where what is socially acceptable (or even desirable) becomes disordered?
But enough of that, because my thoughts are inchoate. Back to the book. Daniel slowly negotiates new relationships with his most debilitating compulsions mostly by putting himself in a situation where he has no choice. And most especially by taking care of a small child. Then everything wraps up in an ending that is way too pat, but still sweet, for all that.
A novella, set in early 2000s Santa Monica, about a young man with fairly debilitating OCD. And the ways in which his compulsions block him from the world, and how he tries to find a way back in.
There are parts of this novel that are truly lovely. Daniel is a sweet kid, albeit a strange one, and as narrator connects pretty well with the reader. I sympathized each time the OCD led to behavior that disconnected him from other people. Oh, and thank goodness for a portrayal of the disorder that isn't about compulsive neatness and handwashing. Daniel can only cross the street at perfectly aligned driveways (no curbs) and must always have lights on with a combined wattage (?) totaling 1125. He can tell you the day of the week for any given date (this is a trait I've always associated with autism, and in generally I wonder about the comorbidity of the two) and is generally amazing with numbers and letters.
I'd here like to go off on a tangent about the role of rituals to ward off anxiety. If the lights always add up to 1125 then... what? Or what is comforting about the compulsive need to check and check and check again that the door is locked? And how much do we play these games on a broader social scale? Where is the dividing line where what is socially acceptable (or even desirable) becomes disordered?
But enough of that, because my thoughts are inchoate. Back to the book. Daniel slowly negotiates new relationships with his most debilitating compulsions mostly by putting himself in a situation where he has no choice. And most especially by taking care of a small child. Then everything wraps up in an ending that is way too pat, but still sweet, for all that.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
One woman's 20th century
Personal History - Katharine Graham (Vintage Books, 1998)
If some scholar from the far off future wanted a single source for understanding 20th century America, he or she could do far worse than Graham's memoir. Born in 1917 and writing on the cusp of her 80th birthday, Graham was a player - or next to the players - in many of the most dramatic moments of the century. Daughter of two luminaries, wife to a man who took to advising Kennedy & Johnson as a side gig, publisher of The Washington Post during Watergate.... the list goes on and on.
This thing is a brick, and chock full of detail. She begins with her parents' histories, and how they met. She both does and doesn't hold back - there is plenty Graham leaves off the page, but she is also pretty direct about the failings of those around her. For instance, I found myself wondering if the reader will end up believing that her relationship with her mother was actually more fraught than it really was. And I saw complaints on Goodreads about all the name dropping. And yes, the names are really EVERYWHERE. You do occasionally wonder if there were ever moments in her life without other famous people around. And this sometimes seems to hide how much she doesn't tell. There is lots of "and we spent many dinners/vacations/whatevers quite pleasantly together," and plenty of pointing out rumors of her romances with various beaux. I have to believe that some of the rumors here and there may have been founded, although she doesn't say much. But the line "and I can attest to his virility," tossed off about some luminary, left me almost desperate to find out more.
There's plenty about life in the Washington elite, and about being a young wife during World War II. And about her mother's, father's, and husband's various political activities. In all honesty, up almost to the point of her husband's death, the "Kay Graham" character in the memoir has little agency. I can't tell whether this was truly the case, or whether it's how she perceived her own life, but it does mean that the book picks up quite a bit of speed after the mid-1960s.
For one thing, there's Watergate. Information about the newspaper - how it was acquired, what the business was like, how it grew, etc. - is all throughout the book, but once she takes over, you get all of the excitement of politicians' hostility to Post coverage and how that culminated in Watergate. And then the chapter on Watergate ends and you immediately move into a huge labor crisis. I didn't find Graham a wholly reliable narrator on this matter, but her treatment of it was fascinating.
Historians of feminism could find much to consider in this memoir too. Graham broke glass ceilings, but consciously reflects back upon what it meant to be a woman throughout the decades, and ways in which it changed over time. She speaks for a specific race and class, but it's enlightening all the same.
Reading this was an undertaking, and I'm sincerely glad to have it behind me. But it was a fascinating read, and I'm looking forward to trying to find the book the right new home.
If some scholar from the far off future wanted a single source for understanding 20th century America, he or she could do far worse than Graham's memoir. Born in 1917 and writing on the cusp of her 80th birthday, Graham was a player - or next to the players - in many of the most dramatic moments of the century. Daughter of two luminaries, wife to a man who took to advising Kennedy & Johnson as a side gig, publisher of The Washington Post during Watergate.... the list goes on and on.
This thing is a brick, and chock full of detail. She begins with her parents' histories, and how they met. She both does and doesn't hold back - there is plenty Graham leaves off the page, but she is also pretty direct about the failings of those around her. For instance, I found myself wondering if the reader will end up believing that her relationship with her mother was actually more fraught than it really was. And I saw complaints on Goodreads about all the name dropping. And yes, the names are really EVERYWHERE. You do occasionally wonder if there were ever moments in her life without other famous people around. And this sometimes seems to hide how much she doesn't tell. There is lots of "and we spent many dinners/vacations/whatevers quite pleasantly together," and plenty of pointing out rumors of her romances with various beaux. I have to believe that some of the rumors here and there may have been founded, although she doesn't say much. But the line "and I can attest to his virility," tossed off about some luminary, left me almost desperate to find out more.
There's plenty about life in the Washington elite, and about being a young wife during World War II. And about her mother's, father's, and husband's various political activities. In all honesty, up almost to the point of her husband's death, the "Kay Graham" character in the memoir has little agency. I can't tell whether this was truly the case, or whether it's how she perceived her own life, but it does mean that the book picks up quite a bit of speed after the mid-1960s.
For one thing, there's Watergate. Information about the newspaper - how it was acquired, what the business was like, how it grew, etc. - is all throughout the book, but once she takes over, you get all of the excitement of politicians' hostility to Post coverage and how that culminated in Watergate. And then the chapter on Watergate ends and you immediately move into a huge labor crisis. I didn't find Graham a wholly reliable narrator on this matter, but her treatment of it was fascinating.
Historians of feminism could find much to consider in this memoir too. Graham broke glass ceilings, but consciously reflects back upon what it meant to be a woman throughout the decades, and ways in which it changed over time. She speaks for a specific race and class, but it's enlightening all the same.
Reading this was an undertaking, and I'm sincerely glad to have it behind me. But it was a fascinating read, and I'm looking forward to trying to find the book the right new home.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
"Old timey" hockey is BS
Icebreaker - Deirdre Martin (Berkley Sensation, 2011)
At first, I couldn't figure out what made me so cranky about this book. It follows a formula that has worked well enough for me in the past: urban career woman ends up working for/with a hockey team [other sports acceptable] and is drawn to the no-nonsense, driven captain.
In this case, Sinead O'Brien is defending Adam Perry against trumped up assault charges stemming for a fairly brutal (albeit not uncommon) hit on another team's player. Obviously, the assault charge thing is absurd, fine. But it raises an entire plotline that posits Adam as the heroic defending of traditional hockey, against suits that are trying to sissify the game. While I'm as eager as the next girl to see Gary Bettman hilariously skewered as a greasy, greedy, union-busting lawyer, this plot rankles. Big time.
I'm sorry, but even in 2011 (especially in 2011) the issue of headshots in professional hockey was too big to dismiss so blithely. It also happened to be the year my very favorite player - the reason I became a hockey fan in the first place - finally retired, because doctors told him continuing to play was far too risky given his history of concussions. What Martin does - probably without intending to, or maybe she just disagrees with me - is glorify a style of play that became increasingly dangerous, that takes headshots, concussions, and brain damage as an acceptable price to pay. I'm sorry, but I can't get on board with that, and as a result, I could only celebrate the idea that Adam Perry retired, allowing the "evil suits" on the Board of Governors to really push the kinds of rule changes that would make hockey more about skills and less about trying to injure your opponent in the name of sport.
At first, I couldn't figure out what made me so cranky about this book. It follows a formula that has worked well enough for me in the past: urban career woman ends up working for/with a hockey team [other sports acceptable] and is drawn to the no-nonsense, driven captain.
In this case, Sinead O'Brien is defending Adam Perry against trumped up assault charges stemming for a fairly brutal (albeit not uncommon) hit on another team's player. Obviously, the assault charge thing is absurd, fine. But it raises an entire plotline that posits Adam as the heroic defending of traditional hockey, against suits that are trying to sissify the game. While I'm as eager as the next girl to see Gary Bettman hilariously skewered as a greasy, greedy, union-busting lawyer, this plot rankles. Big time.
I'm sorry, but even in 2011 (especially in 2011) the issue of headshots in professional hockey was too big to dismiss so blithely. It also happened to be the year my very favorite player - the reason I became a hockey fan in the first place - finally retired, because doctors told him continuing to play was far too risky given his history of concussions. What Martin does - probably without intending to, or maybe she just disagrees with me - is glorify a style of play that became increasingly dangerous, that takes headshots, concussions, and brain damage as an acceptable price to pay. I'm sorry, but I can't get on board with that, and as a result, I could only celebrate the idea that Adam Perry retired, allowing the "evil suits" on the Board of Governors to really push the kinds of rule changes that would make hockey more about skills and less about trying to injure your opponent in the name of sport.
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