Buena High School Library Staff Recommendations
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for September 2024:
An Abundance of Katherines by John Green
⭐️⭐️⭐️
It seems sacrilegious to give a John Green novel anything less than four stars, but An Abundance of Katherines might be the author's most underwhelming book. While Looking for Alaska and The Fault in Our Stars are undisputed classics of modern YA fiction, An Abundance of Katherines feels less like a fully realized narrative than an incomplete novella or a short story that drags on a bit too long. That's not to say that there aren't quirky, fun moments of wistful sentiment; however, those fulfilling attributes are outweighed by a plodding plotline and two-dimensional characters.
Our protagonist in An Abundance of Katherines is yet another hyperintelligent outcast - the status quo with John Green's novels - who faces heartbreak and the promise of new romance in the midst of adolescent turmoil. Along the way, this outsider stumbles upon grand realizations about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Oh, and love, too. Sound familiar?
This go-round, we have Colin Singleton (get it? Singleton...?), a former child prodigy with unfulfilled potential, who is simultaneously grappling with his most recent romantic breakup and his failure to live up to the "genius" status that has been expected of him his whole life. That's not to say that Colin is an underachiever; he's still the valedictorian of his graduating class, and he has an encyclopedic array of knowledge locked away in his mental vault. Despite his brains, however, it's our protagonist's romantic turmoil that leaves him a broken mess of a human being: as it turns out, Colin has a predilection for girls named Katherine. Nineteen of them, in fact - though it's technically only eighteen and a half. And they always break his heart. Poor Colin.
Over the course of nineteen chapters (get it? one for each Katherine!) and an epilogue that signals a turning point in Colin's Katherine-obsessed life, Green introduces a quirky cast of characters that includes Colin's best friend, Hassan (an overweight underachiever of Middle Eastern descent), and an attractive southern girl, Lindsey (a reformed punk/goth-kid-turned-popular teenager). There are also anagrams and mathematical formulas and graphs and quirky vocabulary galore (most notably "fug" and "dingleberry"). While the novel is amusing and entertaining, it fails to reach the heights of Green's best work.
In short: An Abundance of Katherines is only for John Green "completists" who have lowered expectations. Readers interested in an introduction to Green's work should start anywhere else but here.
An Abundance of Katherines by John Green
⭐️⭐️⭐️
It seems sacrilegious to give a John Green novel anything less than four stars, but An Abundance of Katherines might be the author's most underwhelming book. While Looking for Alaska and The Fault in Our Stars are undisputed classics of modern YA fiction, An Abundance of Katherines feels less like a fully realized narrative than an incomplete novella or a short story that drags on a bit too long. That's not to say that there aren't quirky, fun moments of wistful sentiment; however, those fulfilling attributes are outweighed by a plodding plotline and two-dimensional characters.
Our protagonist in An Abundance of Katherines is yet another hyperintelligent outcast - the status quo with John Green's novels - who faces heartbreak and the promise of new romance in the midst of adolescent turmoil. Along the way, this outsider stumbles upon grand realizations about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Oh, and love, too. Sound familiar?
This go-round, we have Colin Singleton (get it? Singleton...?), a former child prodigy with unfulfilled potential, who is simultaneously grappling with his most recent romantic breakup and his failure to live up to the "genius" status that has been expected of him his whole life. That's not to say that Colin is an underachiever; he's still the valedictorian of his graduating class, and he has an encyclopedic array of knowledge locked away in his mental vault. Despite his brains, however, it's our protagonist's romantic turmoil that leaves him a broken mess of a human being: as it turns out, Colin has a predilection for girls named Katherine. Nineteen of them, in fact - though it's technically only eighteen and a half. And they always break his heart. Poor Colin.
Over the course of nineteen chapters (get it? one for each Katherine!) and an epilogue that signals a turning point in Colin's Katherine-obsessed life, Green introduces a quirky cast of characters that includes Colin's best friend, Hassan (an overweight underachiever of Middle Eastern descent), and an attractive southern girl, Lindsey (a reformed punk/goth-kid-turned-popular teenager). There are also anagrams and mathematical formulas and graphs and quirky vocabulary galore (most notably "fug" and "dingleberry"). While the novel is amusing and entertaining, it fails to reach the heights of Green's best work.
In short: An Abundance of Katherines is only for John Green "completists" who have lowered expectations. Readers interested in an introduction to Green's work should start anywhere else but here.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for August 2024:
Symphony of Secrets by Brendan Slocumb
⭐️⭐️⭐️
Brendan Slocumb's Symphony of Secrets is three novels mashed together into one book: a poignant narrative about brilliant musicians navigating a prejudiced world, a Grisham-esque thriller involving corporate espionage and institutional racism, and a historical mystery that invokes Dan Brown. The final product is a flawed novel that vacillates between inspired and mundane, much like the performance of a middling musician who has not yet hit his stride.
Symphony of Secrets is framed by the story of a music professor, Dr. Bern Hendricks, who is tasked with piecing together a recently recovered opera from a world-renowned composer: Frederic Delaney. Along with his computer-guru friend, Eboni Washington, Bern uncovers a mystery that threatens to upend Delaney’s legacy and his well-respected organization, the Delaney Foundation. Jumping back and forth in time between present day and the early twentieth century (1918-1926), Slocumb presents parallel tales that address racism, sexism, and the prejudices that stifle the unsung geniuses around us.
While Slocumb absolutely thrives in his depiction of Josephine Reed, a neurodivergent musician-songwriter in 1920s America, he falters in his attempts to emulate Grisham and Brown. One can only hope that he takes cues from James McBride and Nick Hornby, and focuses on the beauty of “regular” lives unencumbered by cliched tropes and trite plot lines. Who needs a handgun and horrible acts of violence, when you have a moving story with heartfelt characters and earnest emotion? Hopefully, Slocumb will soar to greater heights with his future endeavors. He has the talent at his fingertips: now he just needs to compose his masterpiece.
Symphony of Secrets by Brendan Slocumb
⭐️⭐️⭐️
Brendan Slocumb's Symphony of Secrets is three novels mashed together into one book: a poignant narrative about brilliant musicians navigating a prejudiced world, a Grisham-esque thriller involving corporate espionage and institutional racism, and a historical mystery that invokes Dan Brown. The final product is a flawed novel that vacillates between inspired and mundane, much like the performance of a middling musician who has not yet hit his stride.
Symphony of Secrets is framed by the story of a music professor, Dr. Bern Hendricks, who is tasked with piecing together a recently recovered opera from a world-renowned composer: Frederic Delaney. Along with his computer-guru friend, Eboni Washington, Bern uncovers a mystery that threatens to upend Delaney’s legacy and his well-respected organization, the Delaney Foundation. Jumping back and forth in time between present day and the early twentieth century (1918-1926), Slocumb presents parallel tales that address racism, sexism, and the prejudices that stifle the unsung geniuses around us.
While Slocumb absolutely thrives in his depiction of Josephine Reed, a neurodivergent musician-songwriter in 1920s America, he falters in his attempts to emulate Grisham and Brown. One can only hope that he takes cues from James McBride and Nick Hornby, and focuses on the beauty of “regular” lives unencumbered by cliched tropes and trite plot lines. Who needs a handgun and horrible acts of violence, when you have a moving story with heartfelt characters and earnest emotion? Hopefully, Slocumb will soar to greater heights with his future endeavors. He has the talent at his fingertips: now he just needs to compose his masterpiece.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for July 2024:
Life by Keith Richards
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
In preparation for the Rolling Stones' "Hackney Diamonds" shows in Los Angeles, I spent most of June (and half of July) listening to the audiobook of Life by Keith Richards. Though I've had Keith's autobiography on my bookshelves for nearly a decade (thanks, Mom!), I didn't have a sense of urgency to plunge into the book... until this summer, when I had tickets to see the Stones in Los Angeles, for what might very well be their farewell tour.
While I've been a big Stones fan since high school, I had vast gaps in my knowledge of the band's history. As such, reading Life was an edifying experience (to say the least). Like Paul McCartney or Jerry Garcia, Keith Richards has led a staggering artistic existence that has revolutionized the music industry. This singular experience - the ultimate rock star of rock stars - places him in an echelon that's unfathomable to most readers. Keith's contribution to popular music (and rock music, in particular) cannot be stated enough: we would not have Nirvana or Metallica or blink-182 or the Ramones (or countless other bands) if the Stones had not set the stage for these musical descendants. In short, we would not have rock and roll if not for Keith Richards.
Over the course of 864 pages (or roughly 23 hours of audiobook narration), Richards details his life as the primary guitarist, co-songwriter, and occasional lead singer of the Rolling Stones. I toggled back and forth between the audiobook and the print book, reading Keith's conversational prose and listening to his stories. Bizarrely, the autobiography employs three (count 'em: THREE) audiobook narrators: Johnny Depp, Joe Hurley, and (least effectively) Richards himself. Over the course of nearly two dozen hours, the three narrators cover the highs and lows of Keef's life, from his early days as an art school student and the formation of the band to the group's interstellar success to dark days of drug addiction and in-fighting with bandmates. You want to know all the juicy gossip about the band and its dirty secrets? It's all in here.
Of course, there are plenty of surprises for the casual (and not-so-casual) fan. Amusingly, Richards was once -get this - a choir boy. Literally. In his early years, young Keith showed a proclivity for music, picking up classical guitar with his grandfather's encouragement and joining his school's award-winning boys' choir. Ultimately, though, Richards felt used and abused by the school, which didn't give him academic credit for the years he spent touring with their choir. Richards identifies this as the start of his antiauthoritarian views, which only amplified in the following decades as he butted up against the classism and prejudices of society. During the early portions of the book, I was also surprised by the depiction of Richards as a young art student who, even in his late teens and early twenties, saw the writing on the wall for corporate use and abuse of visual artists. And then there are the drugs. As some of Keith's friends and collaborators, like Gram Parsons and Bobby Keys, ultimately succumb to their addictions, Richards is forced to confront his medicinal demons and grapple with his own chemical dependencies. While Keith himself admits that he has consumed more drugs than almost any other human being on the planet, he simultaneously recognizes the toll that it's taken on his inner circle. Later in the book, Richards discusses losing a child to SIDS, a heartbreaking moment that serves as a sharp contrast to many of Keith's carefree, freewheeling escapades as a rock star. While it's easy to dismiss Richards as a cartoon or a caricature (including the classic SNL skit in which the duo of Mike Myers and Mick Jagger parody the Glimmer Twins), Keith is, ultimately, just another human being facing his own grief and pain. Not even world-famous rock stars are immune to the kind of suffering that defines the human condition.
Although the book's title, Life, should have given me a clue, I was disappointed by Keith's limited discussions of songwriting, recording, and producing. Richards tends to rush through pivotal pieces of rock history, like the oft-told tale of composing the riff to "Satisfaction" in his sleep or his groundbreaking use of alternate guitar tunings. How many other guitarists out there only play with five strings, like a revved-up banjo? Rather than explore these remarkable moments of creativity, Richards instead dedicates countless pages to his love life, including his destructive long-term relationship with Anita Pallenberg, his illicit love affair with Ronnie Spector, and his happily-ever-after with Patti Hansen. While it's all titillating gossip for a rock tell-all, the focus on Keith's romantic endeavors over his musical accomplishments feels a bit too tawdry and hollow.
In the end, Life is a fascinating (if not bloated and rambling) examination of one of rock's most important, groundbreaking figures. Like a Fender Telecaster or Gibson Les Paul, Richards seems ubiquitous and timeless - as if he's always been a part of the musical landscape. While time is decidedly not on Keith's side as he continues into his 80s, readers of Life will ultimately have much more sympathy for this devil. After all, "it's only rock and roll" - but we like it. Yes, we do.
Life by Keith Richards
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
In preparation for the Rolling Stones' "Hackney Diamonds" shows in Los Angeles, I spent most of June (and half of July) listening to the audiobook of Life by Keith Richards. Though I've had Keith's autobiography on my bookshelves for nearly a decade (thanks, Mom!), I didn't have a sense of urgency to plunge into the book... until this summer, when I had tickets to see the Stones in Los Angeles, for what might very well be their farewell tour.
While I've been a big Stones fan since high school, I had vast gaps in my knowledge of the band's history. As such, reading Life was an edifying experience (to say the least). Like Paul McCartney or Jerry Garcia, Keith Richards has led a staggering artistic existence that has revolutionized the music industry. This singular experience - the ultimate rock star of rock stars - places him in an echelon that's unfathomable to most readers. Keith's contribution to popular music (and rock music, in particular) cannot be stated enough: we would not have Nirvana or Metallica or blink-182 or the Ramones (or countless other bands) if the Stones had not set the stage for these musical descendants. In short, we would not have rock and roll if not for Keith Richards.
Over the course of 864 pages (or roughly 23 hours of audiobook narration), Richards details his life as the primary guitarist, co-songwriter, and occasional lead singer of the Rolling Stones. I toggled back and forth between the audiobook and the print book, reading Keith's conversational prose and listening to his stories. Bizarrely, the autobiography employs three (count 'em: THREE) audiobook narrators: Johnny Depp, Joe Hurley, and (least effectively) Richards himself. Over the course of nearly two dozen hours, the three narrators cover the highs and lows of Keef's life, from his early days as an art school student and the formation of the band to the group's interstellar success to dark days of drug addiction and in-fighting with bandmates. You want to know all the juicy gossip about the band and its dirty secrets? It's all in here.
Of course, there are plenty of surprises for the casual (and not-so-casual) fan. Amusingly, Richards was once -get this - a choir boy. Literally. In his early years, young Keith showed a proclivity for music, picking up classical guitar with his grandfather's encouragement and joining his school's award-winning boys' choir. Ultimately, though, Richards felt used and abused by the school, which didn't give him academic credit for the years he spent touring with their choir. Richards identifies this as the start of his antiauthoritarian views, which only amplified in the following decades as he butted up against the classism and prejudices of society. During the early portions of the book, I was also surprised by the depiction of Richards as a young art student who, even in his late teens and early twenties, saw the writing on the wall for corporate use and abuse of visual artists. And then there are the drugs. As some of Keith's friends and collaborators, like Gram Parsons and Bobby Keys, ultimately succumb to their addictions, Richards is forced to confront his medicinal demons and grapple with his own chemical dependencies. While Keith himself admits that he has consumed more drugs than almost any other human being on the planet, he simultaneously recognizes the toll that it's taken on his inner circle. Later in the book, Richards discusses losing a child to SIDS, a heartbreaking moment that serves as a sharp contrast to many of Keith's carefree, freewheeling escapades as a rock star. While it's easy to dismiss Richards as a cartoon or a caricature (including the classic SNL skit in which the duo of Mike Myers and Mick Jagger parody the Glimmer Twins), Keith is, ultimately, just another human being facing his own grief and pain. Not even world-famous rock stars are immune to the kind of suffering that defines the human condition.
Although the book's title, Life, should have given me a clue, I was disappointed by Keith's limited discussions of songwriting, recording, and producing. Richards tends to rush through pivotal pieces of rock history, like the oft-told tale of composing the riff to "Satisfaction" in his sleep or his groundbreaking use of alternate guitar tunings. How many other guitarists out there only play with five strings, like a revved-up banjo? Rather than explore these remarkable moments of creativity, Richards instead dedicates countless pages to his love life, including his destructive long-term relationship with Anita Pallenberg, his illicit love affair with Ronnie Spector, and his happily-ever-after with Patti Hansen. While it's all titillating gossip for a rock tell-all, the focus on Keith's romantic endeavors over his musical accomplishments feels a bit too tawdry and hollow.
In the end, Life is a fascinating (if not bloated and rambling) examination of one of rock's most important, groundbreaking figures. Like a Fender Telecaster or Gibson Les Paul, Richards seems ubiquitous and timeless - as if he's always been a part of the musical landscape. While time is decidedly not on Keith's side as he continues into his 80s, readers of Life will ultimately have much more sympathy for this devil. After all, "it's only rock and roll" - but we like it. Yes, we do.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for June 2024:
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
What is there to say about Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone that hasn't already been said? J.K. Rowling invented a new world (and, essentially, a new genre) when she released this book almost three decades ago; since then, the franchise has embedded itself into the cultural zeitgeist speedier than a Golden Snitch and with more fiery force than a Norwegian Ridgeback Dragon. Because I was already college-aged when the series hit the United States, I missed the first wave of Potter-mania; it wasn't until my older daughter was in elementary school that I finally took my first train to Hogwarts. But, from that initial encounter, I was hooked.
I recently finished rereading Sorcerer's Stone with a fresh set of eyes, and I have to say that the book holds up from a more objective, clinical, and discerning literary perspective. Rowling is a master of world-building, crafting whole (fictional) histories, cultures, and creatures as effortlessly as a "Wingardium Leviosa" spell. She is almost as adept at character development, providing story arcs that subvert expectations and mimic the complexities of the "real" (Muggle) world. From the red herring Snape/Quirrell switcheroo to the surprise first appearance of Voldemort, Rowling truly worked some (*ahem*) magic with her debut novel.
My only major complaint is with the pacing of the first section of Sorcerer's Stone. When I read aloud the opening chapter of the book for a "First-Chapter Friday" story time with my younger daughter's fourth-grade class, it took a full thirty minutes to make it all the way through. Needless to say, I was out of breath by the end - like a star Seeker after a tough Quidditch match. Likewise, the length of the initial exposition feels slower than molasses: it isn't until chapter five that we break out of the tedious Dursley domain and enter, wide-eyed, into Diagon Alley, hop through Platform 9 3/4, and (finally) arrive at Hogwarts. I only wish I had an "Accio Chapter Six" spell to breeze through the beginning and get to the good stuff.
Though Rowling has been in the news of late because of her "TERF" politics, she is more Snape than Voldemort: well-intentioned, but damaging, just the same. Can we separate the artist from the art? I don't have an answer to that rhetorical question. All I know is that Rowling created a once-in-a-generation mythology. However, it's a (wizarding) world that no longer belongs to her, but to her fans. And, in light (Lumos?) of Rowling's complicated politics, will those fans still hold a fondness in their hearts for the sweet nostalgia of Harry and his cohort? The answer is, like Snape later says at a key moment in the franchise, "Always."
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
What is there to say about Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone that hasn't already been said? J.K. Rowling invented a new world (and, essentially, a new genre) when she released this book almost three decades ago; since then, the franchise has embedded itself into the cultural zeitgeist speedier than a Golden Snitch and with more fiery force than a Norwegian Ridgeback Dragon. Because I was already college-aged when the series hit the United States, I missed the first wave of Potter-mania; it wasn't until my older daughter was in elementary school that I finally took my first train to Hogwarts. But, from that initial encounter, I was hooked.
I recently finished rereading Sorcerer's Stone with a fresh set of eyes, and I have to say that the book holds up from a more objective, clinical, and discerning literary perspective. Rowling is a master of world-building, crafting whole (fictional) histories, cultures, and creatures as effortlessly as a "Wingardium Leviosa" spell. She is almost as adept at character development, providing story arcs that subvert expectations and mimic the complexities of the "real" (Muggle) world. From the red herring Snape/Quirrell switcheroo to the surprise first appearance of Voldemort, Rowling truly worked some (*ahem*) magic with her debut novel.
My only major complaint is with the pacing of the first section of Sorcerer's Stone. When I read aloud the opening chapter of the book for a "First-Chapter Friday" story time with my younger daughter's fourth-grade class, it took a full thirty minutes to make it all the way through. Needless to say, I was out of breath by the end - like a star Seeker after a tough Quidditch match. Likewise, the length of the initial exposition feels slower than molasses: it isn't until chapter five that we break out of the tedious Dursley domain and enter, wide-eyed, into Diagon Alley, hop through Platform 9 3/4, and (finally) arrive at Hogwarts. I only wish I had an "Accio Chapter Six" spell to breeze through the beginning and get to the good stuff.
Though Rowling has been in the news of late because of her "TERF" politics, she is more Snape than Voldemort: well-intentioned, but damaging, just the same. Can we separate the artist from the art? I don't have an answer to that rhetorical question. All I know is that Rowling created a once-in-a-generation mythology. However, it's a (wizarding) world that no longer belongs to her, but to her fans. And, in light (Lumos?) of Rowling's complicated politics, will those fans still hold a fondness in their hearts for the sweet nostalgia of Harry and his cohort? The answer is, like Snape later says at a key moment in the franchise, "Always."
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for May 2024:
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith
⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2
7/10-score years ago, when Seth Grahame-Smith published Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, I was in my first year of parenthood, transitioning to my new career as a Teacher Librarian, and less engaged in the world of horror fiction. As a result, I completely dismissed the novel as a frivolous cash-grab meant for a less-literary audience. Fourteen years later, I am happy to admit that I was (mostly) wrong in my prejudiced estimation of the book.
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is a truly immersive reading experience, replete with footnotes, citations, and "vintage" illustrations embedded in its 336 pages. Writing in an academic style that mimics Ron Chernow, Jon Krakauer, or even Malcolm Gladwell, Grahame-Smith fabricates an alternate history of the United States in which the sixteenth president of the United States fought nobly against the army of the Confederacy and a legion of the undead.
And it's just as wonderfully bizarre as it sounds.
Meticulously researched (or so it appears), Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter offers plenty of United States history to contextualize the fictional "reality" of 1800s-era bloodsuckers. Grahame-Smith traces the lineage of these American undead back to the original colonial settlements in Jamestown, Virginia (including a clever twist on the missing Roanoke Colony); from there, the author crafts a horror tale that's as thoroughly entrenched in American history as it is with vampire lore. Imagine a cross between Grady Hendrix and Bill Bryson, and you're somewhere in the general vicinity of this novel. Don't quote me on this (because I'm an English teacher who doesn't have an in-depth base of historical knowledge regarding Lincoln's life), but it appears as if Grahame-Smith has really done his homework. Even if he's playing fast and loose with the facts, his writing is convincing enough to make the reader believe that he's earned his US history merit badge
Unfortunately, after the clever novelty of a fictional textbook biography wears off, the novel gets bogged down in historical minutiae. At the expense of a fluid, engaging narrative, the author overcompensates with Easter eggs to appease the hardcore Lincoln aficionados out there. While it might sound strange to describe a book about hunting vampires as "tedious," Grahame-Smith somehow manages to pull off that designation. However, even at its most tiresome, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter still deserves credit for what it does well: clever world-building with a meticulous mythology.
Despite his imperfections, Grahame-Smith has piqued my interest enough that I'm going to sink my fangs into this novel's sequel, The Last American Vampire. I appreciated the twist at the end of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (a plot point that many readers will predict, and many others will dislike), and I'm invested enough to read more about Lincoln's vampire friend/mentor/Jedi master, Henry Sturges. Seth Grahame-Smith has achieved an impressive feat with Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, creating an American breed of nosferatu that departs enough from Anne Rice and Stephenie Meyer to whet readers' appetite with fresh blood.
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith
⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2
7/10-score years ago, when Seth Grahame-Smith published Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, I was in my first year of parenthood, transitioning to my new career as a Teacher Librarian, and less engaged in the world of horror fiction. As a result, I completely dismissed the novel as a frivolous cash-grab meant for a less-literary audience. Fourteen years later, I am happy to admit that I was (mostly) wrong in my prejudiced estimation of the book.
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter is a truly immersive reading experience, replete with footnotes, citations, and "vintage" illustrations embedded in its 336 pages. Writing in an academic style that mimics Ron Chernow, Jon Krakauer, or even Malcolm Gladwell, Grahame-Smith fabricates an alternate history of the United States in which the sixteenth president of the United States fought nobly against the army of the Confederacy and a legion of the undead.
And it's just as wonderfully bizarre as it sounds.
Meticulously researched (or so it appears), Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter offers plenty of United States history to contextualize the fictional "reality" of 1800s-era bloodsuckers. Grahame-Smith traces the lineage of these American undead back to the original colonial settlements in Jamestown, Virginia (including a clever twist on the missing Roanoke Colony); from there, the author crafts a horror tale that's as thoroughly entrenched in American history as it is with vampire lore. Imagine a cross between Grady Hendrix and Bill Bryson, and you're somewhere in the general vicinity of this novel. Don't quote me on this (because I'm an English teacher who doesn't have an in-depth base of historical knowledge regarding Lincoln's life), but it appears as if Grahame-Smith has really done his homework. Even if he's playing fast and loose with the facts, his writing is convincing enough to make the reader believe that he's earned his US history merit badge
Unfortunately, after the clever novelty of a fictional textbook biography wears off, the novel gets bogged down in historical minutiae. At the expense of a fluid, engaging narrative, the author overcompensates with Easter eggs to appease the hardcore Lincoln aficionados out there. While it might sound strange to describe a book about hunting vampires as "tedious," Grahame-Smith somehow manages to pull off that designation. However, even at its most tiresome, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter still deserves credit for what it does well: clever world-building with a meticulous mythology.
Despite his imperfections, Grahame-Smith has piqued my interest enough that I'm going to sink my fangs into this novel's sequel, The Last American Vampire. I appreciated the twist at the end of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (a plot point that many readers will predict, and many others will dislike), and I'm invested enough to read more about Lincoln's vampire friend/mentor/Jedi master, Henry Sturges. Seth Grahame-Smith has achieved an impressive feat with Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, creating an American breed of nosferatu that departs enough from Anne Rice and Stephenie Meyer to whet readers' appetite with fresh blood.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for April 2024:
Paper Towns by John Green
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Part treasure hunt, part coming-of-age narrative, and part criticism of patriarchal society, Paper Towns is an absolute treat. Devouring this book in just a few days, I was reminded of how much I enjoy John Green's writing. It's been over a decade since I read Looking for Alaska, The Fault in Our Stars, and Let it Snow. The last time I tackled Green, he had just released Turtles All the Way Down - which, despite being well-crafted, is probably my least favorite of his books. Nevertheless, with his heartfelt storylines, John Green is always reliably clever, comedic, and earnest (sometimes to a fault... in our stars). And, with Paper Towns, he absolutely shines.
In Paper Towns, Green provides us with an atypical mystery tale wrapped in a riddle, encased in an enigma - and embodied by a teenage girl. Our narrator, Quentin Jacobsen, has a problem: Margo Roth Spiegelman, the enchanting girl-next-door, has vanished, leaving our nerdy protagonist heartbroken and curious (Curiously heartbroken? Heartbrokenly curious?). After an all-night episode of pranks and revenge schemes, Quentin (or "Q," as Margo dubs him) has fallen deeper in love with Margo than ever before. However, when she vanishes the next day, Quentin and his classmates must reevaluate everything they knew (or thought they knew) about the infamous Margo.
Before I continue, I should address the elephant in the room: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) trope, that unrealistic depiction of female characters who take control of a story's narrative. Think Zooey Deschanel's character in 500 Days of Summer or Natalie Portman's character in Garden State, and you get the gist. According to Nathan Rabin, the writer who coined the phrase, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl "exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures." However, it isn't just film directors/screenwriters who employ this trope; rather, it's any fiction writer who decides to craft the perfect embodiment of his/her/their fantasies.
Green, much to his credit, earnestly tries to dispel this spellbinding myth. When we first encounter Margo, she appears to be the definitive MPDG - a quirky, brilliant, and beautiful young woman whose primary purpose is to serve as the catalyst for our protagonist's self-actualization. However, as Green takes us through the voyage of Paper Towns, he disassembles and deconstructs this trope, bit by mysterious bit. As he perfectly summarizes at one point, “What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person.” Paper Towns is dedicated to this mystery: uncovering the "real" person underneath the paper-thin clothing of society's unrealistic expectations.
As John Green shows in Paper Towns, even the most seemingly "perfect" individuals are deeply flawed mirages - and to assume elsewise is an unintentionally cruel act. Margo, who shares DNA with the titular Alaska in Green's first novel, is a vibrant, vivacious, preternaturally intelligent superhero of hotness in the eyes of our male narrator. Yet, as Quentin continues his quest for Margo, like Ahab in pursuit of Moby-Dick (Green references Moby-Dick or, The Whale over and over in this book), he slowly realizes that Margo Roth Spiegelman (whose initials spell MRS) has more in common with the White Whale than Ahab or Ishmael.
It's been a few years since I've read anything from Green's catalog, but I'm glad that I've returned to his roadmap for YA success. Even if Paper Towns is flawed, it is flawed in an almost endearing way. I was half-inspired to finally read this novel because of its tentative link to Peng Shepherd's mediocre The Cartographers and the quirky history of the town of Agloe. Green's incorporation of the Agloe story is far more effective than Shepherd's, and it's hard to avoid comparisons to the two tales.
Weirdly enough, I finished reading Paper Towns the day before I watched Yorgos Lanthimos's Poor Things - another piece of art that attempts to dispel cultural myths about femininity and addresses identity ownership, bodily autonomy, and the male gaze. The two works, coupled as a duet, provide a fascinating (if not painfully clinical) examination of womanhood and the mysteries of the female world - mysteries that are much more important and meaningful than any Sherlock Holmes whodunnit tale.
Paper Towns by John Green
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Part treasure hunt, part coming-of-age narrative, and part criticism of patriarchal society, Paper Towns is an absolute treat. Devouring this book in just a few days, I was reminded of how much I enjoy John Green's writing. It's been over a decade since I read Looking for Alaska, The Fault in Our Stars, and Let it Snow. The last time I tackled Green, he had just released Turtles All the Way Down - which, despite being well-crafted, is probably my least favorite of his books. Nevertheless, with his heartfelt storylines, John Green is always reliably clever, comedic, and earnest (sometimes to a fault... in our stars). And, with Paper Towns, he absolutely shines.
In Paper Towns, Green provides us with an atypical mystery tale wrapped in a riddle, encased in an enigma - and embodied by a teenage girl. Our narrator, Quentin Jacobsen, has a problem: Margo Roth Spiegelman, the enchanting girl-next-door, has vanished, leaving our nerdy protagonist heartbroken and curious (Curiously heartbroken? Heartbrokenly curious?). After an all-night episode of pranks and revenge schemes, Quentin (or "Q," as Margo dubs him) has fallen deeper in love with Margo than ever before. However, when she vanishes the next day, Quentin and his classmates must reevaluate everything they knew (or thought they knew) about the infamous Margo.
Before I continue, I should address the elephant in the room: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) trope, that unrealistic depiction of female characters who take control of a story's narrative. Think Zooey Deschanel's character in 500 Days of Summer or Natalie Portman's character in Garden State, and you get the gist. According to Nathan Rabin, the writer who coined the phrase, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl "exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures." However, it isn't just film directors/screenwriters who employ this trope; rather, it's any fiction writer who decides to craft the perfect embodiment of his/her/their fantasies.
Green, much to his credit, earnestly tries to dispel this spellbinding myth. When we first encounter Margo, she appears to be the definitive MPDG - a quirky, brilliant, and beautiful young woman whose primary purpose is to serve as the catalyst for our protagonist's self-actualization. However, as Green takes us through the voyage of Paper Towns, he disassembles and deconstructs this trope, bit by mysterious bit. As he perfectly summarizes at one point, “What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person.” Paper Towns is dedicated to this mystery: uncovering the "real" person underneath the paper-thin clothing of society's unrealistic expectations.
As John Green shows in Paper Towns, even the most seemingly "perfect" individuals are deeply flawed mirages - and to assume elsewise is an unintentionally cruel act. Margo, who shares DNA with the titular Alaska in Green's first novel, is a vibrant, vivacious, preternaturally intelligent superhero of hotness in the eyes of our male narrator. Yet, as Quentin continues his quest for Margo, like Ahab in pursuit of Moby-Dick (Green references Moby-Dick or, The Whale over and over in this book), he slowly realizes that Margo Roth Spiegelman (whose initials spell MRS) has more in common with the White Whale than Ahab or Ishmael.
It's been a few years since I've read anything from Green's catalog, but I'm glad that I've returned to his roadmap for YA success. Even if Paper Towns is flawed, it is flawed in an almost endearing way. I was half-inspired to finally read this novel because of its tentative link to Peng Shepherd's mediocre The Cartographers and the quirky history of the town of Agloe. Green's incorporation of the Agloe story is far more effective than Shepherd's, and it's hard to avoid comparisons to the two tales.
Weirdly enough, I finished reading Paper Towns the day before I watched Yorgos Lanthimos's Poor Things - another piece of art that attempts to dispel cultural myths about femininity and addresses identity ownership, bodily autonomy, and the male gaze. The two works, coupled as a duet, provide a fascinating (if not painfully clinical) examination of womanhood and the mysteries of the female world - mysteries that are much more important and meaningful than any Sherlock Holmes whodunnit tale.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for March 2024:
The Crossover by Kwame Alexander
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I don't know why it took me so long to read Kwame Alexander's The Crossover. As someone who loves poetry, respects hip-hop, enjoys YA literature, and geeks out over the clever artistry of non-traditional novels, I'm exactly the kind of reader who should have read The Crossover a decade ago. Perhaps it's just my skepticism of basketball (and all sports, really) that got in the way, but I'm disappointed in myself for not reading this earlier. Nevertheless, I'm grateful that I finally took the plunge and tackled Alexander's award-winning book: it clearly deserves all the accolades that it's received over the last ten years.
The novel-in-verse focuses on the relationship between twin brothers, Josh and Jordan Bell, as they dribble down the complex court of middle school relationships and family dynamics. When the new girl in school captures Jordan's attention, Josh must face the inevitable conflicts that arise with shifting family dynamics; to further complicate matters, the boys' father, Chuck "Da Man" Bell, faces health issues that drastically shift the perspectives of every member in the Bell family.
This isn't just a "basketball book," but a novel that touches upon many timeless themes under the broader scoreboard of growing up. Told entirely from the perspective of Josh (a.k.a. "Filthy McNasty"), the narrative's rapid-fire verse captures the emotional rollercoaster of adolescent life - on and off the courts. The first few chapters illustrate Alexander's mastery of language, rhythm, and rhyme - with sizzling lyrics worthy of Jay-Z and metrical flow as graceful as Michael Jordan. When I did a "first-chapter Friday" with a class of fourth-graders, I felt like a frenzied tourist in Hamilton territory. In fact, if Lin-Manuel Miranda ever writes a novel, he'll want to emulate the accessible - but simultaneously sophisticated - style of Alexander (Kwame, that is... not Hamilton).
Fortunately, though, Kwame Alexander's skillset is not exclusively limited to surface beauty: underneath the stellar language is fertile soil of thoughtful character development and unique story arcs. Because the book is brief, it's a great novel for struggling readers and students with short attention spans. More importantly, though, it's a modern masterpiece that will connect with many readers - regardless of age - who know what it's like to love and lose beneath the intimidating shadows of the backboard, classroom, and dining room table. As our protagonist, Josh Bell, discovers in the pages of Kwame Alexander's beautiful book, the real world isn't just a series of free-throws: it's a journey of layups, fouls, benching, three-point shots, and (occasionally) a slam dunk in the game of life.
The Crossover by Kwame Alexander
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I don't know why it took me so long to read Kwame Alexander's The Crossover. As someone who loves poetry, respects hip-hop, enjoys YA literature, and geeks out over the clever artistry of non-traditional novels, I'm exactly the kind of reader who should have read The Crossover a decade ago. Perhaps it's just my skepticism of basketball (and all sports, really) that got in the way, but I'm disappointed in myself for not reading this earlier. Nevertheless, I'm grateful that I finally took the plunge and tackled Alexander's award-winning book: it clearly deserves all the accolades that it's received over the last ten years.
The novel-in-verse focuses on the relationship between twin brothers, Josh and Jordan Bell, as they dribble down the complex court of middle school relationships and family dynamics. When the new girl in school captures Jordan's attention, Josh must face the inevitable conflicts that arise with shifting family dynamics; to further complicate matters, the boys' father, Chuck "Da Man" Bell, faces health issues that drastically shift the perspectives of every member in the Bell family.
This isn't just a "basketball book," but a novel that touches upon many timeless themes under the broader scoreboard of growing up. Told entirely from the perspective of Josh (a.k.a. "Filthy McNasty"), the narrative's rapid-fire verse captures the emotional rollercoaster of adolescent life - on and off the courts. The first few chapters illustrate Alexander's mastery of language, rhythm, and rhyme - with sizzling lyrics worthy of Jay-Z and metrical flow as graceful as Michael Jordan. When I did a "first-chapter Friday" with a class of fourth-graders, I felt like a frenzied tourist in Hamilton territory. In fact, if Lin-Manuel Miranda ever writes a novel, he'll want to emulate the accessible - but simultaneously sophisticated - style of Alexander (Kwame, that is... not Hamilton).
Fortunately, though, Kwame Alexander's skillset is not exclusively limited to surface beauty: underneath the stellar language is fertile soil of thoughtful character development and unique story arcs. Because the book is brief, it's a great novel for struggling readers and students with short attention spans. More importantly, though, it's a modern masterpiece that will connect with many readers - regardless of age - who know what it's like to love and lose beneath the intimidating shadows of the backboard, classroom, and dining room table. As our protagonist, Josh Bell, discovers in the pages of Kwame Alexander's beautiful book, the real world isn't just a series of free-throws: it's a journey of layups, fouls, benching, three-point shots, and (occasionally) a slam dunk in the game of life.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for February 2024:
On Writing by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Before he was a bestselling author, writing twisted tales of creepy clowns, apocalyptic epidemics, bloody prom-night massacres, and varied vicious villains, Stephen King was something much scarier: a high school English teacher.
Though King is known as the master of the macabre, the ghastly guru of modern horror, he is also - at his core - a former educator. As such, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft provides fascinating insight into the writing process for one of our era's most prolific authors. Like so many of King's novels, On Writing incorporates a mishmash of styles and genres: the non-fiction book is part autobiography, part ruminations on life, and part "how-to" guide. With guts and gusto, On Writing covers everything from King's childhood to his literary pet peeves to his near-death experience in 1999. Though this memoir might not be everyone's cup of tea, I could drink a gallon of this book and thirst for more.
The first section of On Writing outlines some basic details of King's earliest days, including amusing anecdotes of the writer's childhood and mildly dysfunctional family. With self-effacing humor, the author outlines the development of his emerging talents (including his first limited-edition novella: a plagiarized retelling of The Pit and the Pendulum that he sold to his elementary-school peers in the schoolyard), recalls his adolescent fascination with the science-fiction and horror genres, and details the many (MANY) rejection notices he received when he began submitting stories to magazines. One image from this section lingers in my mind: King, hunched in the laundry room of his trailer after a long day of teaching high school students, relentlessly typing the manuscript of what would become his first published novel, Carrie. Even the world's biggest authors have to start somewhere, and Stephen King has never forgotten his humble origins.
As he moves into the "how-to" section of On Writing, King really hits his stride. Fortunately, the author is aware of the pitfalls inherent in writing about writing. While he excludes Strunk & White's The Elements of Style from his dismissive statements, I would argue that King's own book belongs in such illustrious company; in fact, if I was still teaching AP English, I would absolutely utilize portions of On Writing in my classroom.
As a fellow veteran educator who loves horror and the craft of writing, I’m fairly certain that I am the exact target demographic for On Writing. This book is (like so much of King's work) an earnest, unflinching, no-holds-barred commentary from an insightful - though flawed - author and observer. King frequently acknowledges his own shortcomings: he harbors no grand illusions that he is an equal of Faulkner, Steinbeck, or Hemingway (all of whom receive passing mention in this tome).
Of course, as much as the literati loves to dismiss King's work, the sheer number of books he has sold provides incontrovertible evidence that King's work resonates with many, many readers. Crafting a novel - even an amateurish one - takes a lot of work. SO. MUCH. WORK. Though a reader can consume a book in a matter of days (or hours, if inspired), authors spend weeks, months, or years pouring their hearts into each page. Believe it or not, writers are people, too.
So, if you're hankering for a humorous "how-to" guide with horror Easter eggs, On Writing might be a worthwhile endeavor. If you're a fan of Stephen King, though, this book is a must-read: it will sink its teeth into you with the feverish intensity of Pennywise the Clown and provide you with an escape sweeter than Andy Dufresne's.
On Writing by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Before he was a bestselling author, writing twisted tales of creepy clowns, apocalyptic epidemics, bloody prom-night massacres, and varied vicious villains, Stephen King was something much scarier: a high school English teacher.
Though King is known as the master of the macabre, the ghastly guru of modern horror, he is also - at his core - a former educator. As such, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft provides fascinating insight into the writing process for one of our era's most prolific authors. Like so many of King's novels, On Writing incorporates a mishmash of styles and genres: the non-fiction book is part autobiography, part ruminations on life, and part "how-to" guide. With guts and gusto, On Writing covers everything from King's childhood to his literary pet peeves to his near-death experience in 1999. Though this memoir might not be everyone's cup of tea, I could drink a gallon of this book and thirst for more.
The first section of On Writing outlines some basic details of King's earliest days, including amusing anecdotes of the writer's childhood and mildly dysfunctional family. With self-effacing humor, the author outlines the development of his emerging talents (including his first limited-edition novella: a plagiarized retelling of The Pit and the Pendulum that he sold to his elementary-school peers in the schoolyard), recalls his adolescent fascination with the science-fiction and horror genres, and details the many (MANY) rejection notices he received when he began submitting stories to magazines. One image from this section lingers in my mind: King, hunched in the laundry room of his trailer after a long day of teaching high school students, relentlessly typing the manuscript of what would become his first published novel, Carrie. Even the world's biggest authors have to start somewhere, and Stephen King has never forgotten his humble origins.
As he moves into the "how-to" section of On Writing, King really hits his stride. Fortunately, the author is aware of the pitfalls inherent in writing about writing. While he excludes Strunk & White's The Elements of Style from his dismissive statements, I would argue that King's own book belongs in such illustrious company; in fact, if I was still teaching AP English, I would absolutely utilize portions of On Writing in my classroom.
As a fellow veteran educator who loves horror and the craft of writing, I’m fairly certain that I am the exact target demographic for On Writing. This book is (like so much of King's work) an earnest, unflinching, no-holds-barred commentary from an insightful - though flawed - author and observer. King frequently acknowledges his own shortcomings: he harbors no grand illusions that he is an equal of Faulkner, Steinbeck, or Hemingway (all of whom receive passing mention in this tome).
Of course, as much as the literati loves to dismiss King's work, the sheer number of books he has sold provides incontrovertible evidence that King's work resonates with many, many readers. Crafting a novel - even an amateurish one - takes a lot of work. SO. MUCH. WORK. Though a reader can consume a book in a matter of days (or hours, if inspired), authors spend weeks, months, or years pouring their hearts into each page. Believe it or not, writers are people, too.
So, if you're hankering for a humorous "how-to" guide with horror Easter eggs, On Writing might be a worthwhile endeavor. If you're a fan of Stephen King, though, this book is a must-read: it will sink its teeth into you with the feverish intensity of Pennywise the Clown and provide you with an escape sweeter than Andy Dufresne's.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for January 2024:
The Dark Tower by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
"Endings are heartless... Ending is just another word for goodbye." - Stephen King
In the "Coda" section of Stephen King's The Dark Tower, the author warns us that "There is no such thing as a happy ending" - that endings are, by their very nature, never really the end of a story. By acknowledging this conundrum, King sets the stage for what he anticipates will be a divisive conclusion to his fantasy/horror/sci-fi/metafiction epic, the Dark Tower. And what a doozy he's left for his readers!
It took me a little more than a year, but I finally finished the Dark Tower series last night. The adventures of Roland Deschain and his Ka-Tet occupied my attention for thirteen months, as I worked my way through the series; of course, I also read many, many more books on the side (many of them significantly better than the seven books in this series... but I digress). Like any other epic, the Dark Tower has plenty of peaks and valleys in quality, with some truly moving moments closely followed by plodding plot development. I will argue that, while this is not King's magnum opus, it's still an entertaining read with plenty of Easter eggs for long-term King Fans - his "constant readers," as it were.
The Dark Tower picks up immediately where Song of Susannah left off: Susannah Dean is held captive at the Dixie Pig, while the rest of the Ka-Tet is frantically in pursuit. The not-so-long-gestating "little chap" has been ushered into the world, and is ready to live up to his namesake, the villainous Mordred from the King Arthur mythos. While the Ka-Tet is initially focused on saving their "Lady of Shadows," they must also complete two other tasks of monumental importance: save the Dark Tower and its beams from the destruction of The Crimson King's "Breakers," and save the writer Stephen King from his untimely demise. Without giving away too much else, I will say that King embraces his inner George R.R. Martin in this final tomb, often to devastating effect. Will Roland and/or his Ka-Tet make it to the Dark Tower? What lies in store for Walter O'Dim (a.k.a. Randall Flag from The Stand)? What will become of the Crimson King? Who will live, and who will perish? You're in luck, Constant Reader: King answers all of these questions (and more) in the final half of The Dark Tower.
Though some readers might be unhappy about the "metafiction" injected into the last few books of the series, I find King's insertion in the self-referential narrative to be a thrilling twist. Yes, you need some suspension of disbelief to appreciate this plot point - but can't the same be said of all King's stories? If we can take It's Pennywise the Clown or the vampires of ’Salem’s Lot at face value, then we shouldn't have any issue with the writer appearing as a character in his own story. Just saying.
While King has a longstanding reputation for botching the endings of his stories, even he knows that he needed to "stick the landing" for a project of this size and magnitude. "I wasn't exactly crazy about the ending, either, if you want to know the truth," he states in the Author's Note, "but it's the right ending. The only ending, in fact." In this circumstance, I have to agree with King: the final pages of his seemingly never-ending epic can only end one way... and King gives his characters exactly what they deserve. Of course, in order to understand and appreciate the ending, you have to remember the beginning of The Gunslinger: "The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."
It's an uncanny coincidence that my first review of 2023 was for Stephen King's The Gunslinger, and my first review of 2024 is the The Dark Tower - the eponymous conclusion of King's fantasy epic. These two novels - the first and last in King's Dark Tower series - bookended all of 2023 and the start of 2024. While I'm not so enthralled by the series that I'll hunt for every subtle (or not-so-subtle) reference in King's other novels, I do feel like I've been transformed in some capacity by joining Roland in his voyage to the Dark Tower. Just as various characters must say goodbye to each other, I, too, will bid adieu to the Ka-Tet after completing this series.
Happy trails, friends.
Or, as Roland Deschain might say, "Long days and pleasant nights."
The Dark Tower by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
"Endings are heartless... Ending is just another word for goodbye." - Stephen King
In the "Coda" section of Stephen King's The Dark Tower, the author warns us that "There is no such thing as a happy ending" - that endings are, by their very nature, never really the end of a story. By acknowledging this conundrum, King sets the stage for what he anticipates will be a divisive conclusion to his fantasy/horror/sci-fi/metafiction epic, the Dark Tower. And what a doozy he's left for his readers!
It took me a little more than a year, but I finally finished the Dark Tower series last night. The adventures of Roland Deschain and his Ka-Tet occupied my attention for thirteen months, as I worked my way through the series; of course, I also read many, many more books on the side (many of them significantly better than the seven books in this series... but I digress). Like any other epic, the Dark Tower has plenty of peaks and valleys in quality, with some truly moving moments closely followed by plodding plot development. I will argue that, while this is not King's magnum opus, it's still an entertaining read with plenty of Easter eggs for long-term King Fans - his "constant readers," as it were.
The Dark Tower picks up immediately where Song of Susannah left off: Susannah Dean is held captive at the Dixie Pig, while the rest of the Ka-Tet is frantically in pursuit. The not-so-long-gestating "little chap" has been ushered into the world, and is ready to live up to his namesake, the villainous Mordred from the King Arthur mythos. While the Ka-Tet is initially focused on saving their "Lady of Shadows," they must also complete two other tasks of monumental importance: save the Dark Tower and its beams from the destruction of The Crimson King's "Breakers," and save the writer Stephen King from his untimely demise. Without giving away too much else, I will say that King embraces his inner George R.R. Martin in this final tomb, often to devastating effect. Will Roland and/or his Ka-Tet make it to the Dark Tower? What lies in store for Walter O'Dim (a.k.a. Randall Flag from The Stand)? What will become of the Crimson King? Who will live, and who will perish? You're in luck, Constant Reader: King answers all of these questions (and more) in the final half of The Dark Tower.
Though some readers might be unhappy about the "metafiction" injected into the last few books of the series, I find King's insertion in the self-referential narrative to be a thrilling twist. Yes, you need some suspension of disbelief to appreciate this plot point - but can't the same be said of all King's stories? If we can take It's Pennywise the Clown or the vampires of ’Salem’s Lot at face value, then we shouldn't have any issue with the writer appearing as a character in his own story. Just saying.
While King has a longstanding reputation for botching the endings of his stories, even he knows that he needed to "stick the landing" for a project of this size and magnitude. "I wasn't exactly crazy about the ending, either, if you want to know the truth," he states in the Author's Note, "but it's the right ending. The only ending, in fact." In this circumstance, I have to agree with King: the final pages of his seemingly never-ending epic can only end one way... and King gives his characters exactly what they deserve. Of course, in order to understand and appreciate the ending, you have to remember the beginning of The Gunslinger: "The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."
It's an uncanny coincidence that my first review of 2023 was for Stephen King's The Gunslinger, and my first review of 2024 is the The Dark Tower - the eponymous conclusion of King's fantasy epic. These two novels - the first and last in King's Dark Tower series - bookended all of 2023 and the start of 2024. While I'm not so enthralled by the series that I'll hunt for every subtle (or not-so-subtle) reference in King's other novels, I do feel like I've been transformed in some capacity by joining Roland in his voyage to the Dark Tower. Just as various characters must say goodbye to each other, I, too, will bid adieu to the Ka-Tet after completing this series.
Happy trails, friends.
Or, as Roland Deschain might say, "Long days and pleasant nights."
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for December 2023:
The Man Who Invented Christmas by Les Standiford
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Let me preface this by saying that I am not a Charles Dickens super-fan. Maybe the writer affectionately known as "Boz" has a fanatical legion of "Swifties" somewhere out there ("Bozzies," perhaps?), but I've never met a "stan" of this literary legend. All that aside, I will declare - without any trace of irony - that A Christmas Carol is an undisputed masterpiece. Say what you will about the plethora of adaptations that have followed in the 180 years since Dickens crafted the supernatural tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, but the original story is so iconic and archetypal that it almost feels biblical - as if it has always existed alongside the stories of Moses, Noah, and Job. The fact that A Christmas Carol has captured the cultural zeitgeist over and over since its publication in 1843 is a testament to the book's timelessness.
But how did Dickens create this seminal piece of seasonally celebrated literature? That is a question that Les Standiford attempts to address with his entertaining entreaty about the novel's creation, The Man Who Invented Christmas: How Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol Rescued His Career and Revived Our Holiday Spirits. Standiford begins with a brief (but somewhat tedious) overview of Dickens's early life and formative years; once he finally finishes this expanded exposition, however, he gets to the good stuff. Standiford's background information on the cultural evolution of Christmas provides insightful context for twenty-first century readers, and helps dispel some of the widely accepted myths about the holiday's development from second-tier celebration to quintessential festival. Although I've done my fair share of research over the years, some of Standiford's revelations about Boz's role in the transformation of Christmas are eye-opening for this American librarian. Predictably, Standiford does use the death of Dickens as a wrapping-up point, but his examination of A Christmas Carol's legacy is threaded throughout the second half of the book.
In some ways, this tomb is a companion piece for Jeff Belanger's The Fright Before Christmas: Surviving Krampus and Other Yuletide Monsters, Witches, and Ghosts . Like Belanger's beastly book, The Man Who Invented Christmas digs into the pagan origins of the beloved winter holiday - albeit in a much briefer fashion than Belanger. Belanger returns the favor, too, with a section entitled "Marley's Ghost" - an entire chapter about the cultural impact of Charles Dickens and his ghost story.
Although I prefer Nick Hornby's Dickens and Prince: A Particular Kind of Genius , which covers the life and times of Boz with Hornby's signature wit and a more conversational tone, Standiford does an impressive job of condensing Dickens's biography into a digestible "Reader's Digest" version. Where The Man Who Invented Christmas surpasses Hornby's book is in the deeper dive into Charles Dickens and his tenuous relationship with the Christmas holiday season. If nothing else, Standiford's illuminating book will inspire others to read (and reread) A Christmas Carol. And nothing is better at dispelling the misanthropic "Bah, humbug" spirit of the holidays than a cup - or book - of good cheer.
The Man Who Invented Christmas by Les Standiford
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Let me preface this by saying that I am not a Charles Dickens super-fan. Maybe the writer affectionately known as "Boz" has a fanatical legion of "Swifties" somewhere out there ("Bozzies," perhaps?), but I've never met a "stan" of this literary legend. All that aside, I will declare - without any trace of irony - that A Christmas Carol is an undisputed masterpiece. Say what you will about the plethora of adaptations that have followed in the 180 years since Dickens crafted the supernatural tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, but the original story is so iconic and archetypal that it almost feels biblical - as if it has always existed alongside the stories of Moses, Noah, and Job. The fact that A Christmas Carol has captured the cultural zeitgeist over and over since its publication in 1843 is a testament to the book's timelessness.
But how did Dickens create this seminal piece of seasonally celebrated literature? That is a question that Les Standiford attempts to address with his entertaining entreaty about the novel's creation, The Man Who Invented Christmas: How Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol Rescued His Career and Revived Our Holiday Spirits. Standiford begins with a brief (but somewhat tedious) overview of Dickens's early life and formative years; once he finally finishes this expanded exposition, however, he gets to the good stuff. Standiford's background information on the cultural evolution of Christmas provides insightful context for twenty-first century readers, and helps dispel some of the widely accepted myths about the holiday's development from second-tier celebration to quintessential festival. Although I've done my fair share of research over the years, some of Standiford's revelations about Boz's role in the transformation of Christmas are eye-opening for this American librarian. Predictably, Standiford does use the death of Dickens as a wrapping-up point, but his examination of A Christmas Carol's legacy is threaded throughout the second half of the book.
In some ways, this tomb is a companion piece for Jeff Belanger's The Fright Before Christmas: Surviving Krampus and Other Yuletide Monsters, Witches, and Ghosts . Like Belanger's beastly book, The Man Who Invented Christmas digs into the pagan origins of the beloved winter holiday - albeit in a much briefer fashion than Belanger. Belanger returns the favor, too, with a section entitled "Marley's Ghost" - an entire chapter about the cultural impact of Charles Dickens and his ghost story.
Although I prefer Nick Hornby's Dickens and Prince: A Particular Kind of Genius , which covers the life and times of Boz with Hornby's signature wit and a more conversational tone, Standiford does an impressive job of condensing Dickens's biography into a digestible "Reader's Digest" version. Where The Man Who Invented Christmas surpasses Hornby's book is in the deeper dive into Charles Dickens and his tenuous relationship with the Christmas holiday season. If nothing else, Standiford's illuminating book will inspire others to read (and reread) A Christmas Carol. And nothing is better at dispelling the misanthropic "Bah, humbug" spirit of the holidays than a cup - or book - of good cheer.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for November 2023:
Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman
⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2
It's an unusual occurrence when a movie is better than the book that inspired it, but the film adaptation of Alice Hoffman's Practical Magic might be the rare exception. Although I didn't see the film version of Practical Magic until 25 years after its release, I was pleasantly surprised by the movie's (semi-)feminist approach to adulthood and the heartfelt portrayal of the Owens sisters. Of course, my experience watching the film may or may not have been tempered by my nostalgic 1990s-era crush on Nicole Kidman... but I digress.
So, after *finally* watching the film adaptation, I picked up a copy of Practical Magic in September - just on the cusp of "spooky season." While I knew going in that Hoffman's novel wouldn't be horror, per se, I still hoped that it would inspire what my older daughter calls "the pumpkin spice spirit." Did this book do the trick(-or-treat)? Sort of.
Practical Magic is a sweet, sentimental look at growing up, navigating complex relationships, and thwarting the threats of middle age. In the novel, Hoffman (witch)crafts a tale involving two sisters, women as opposite as yin and yang: brooding Sally and carefree/careless Gillian. Following the untimely deaths of their parents, the sisters are raised by their aunts, Jet and Franny; though the sisters turn out (relatively) normal, they process their childhood trauma in disparate ways. Gillian is the quintessential party girl: pretty, popular, charismatic, and plagued by rash behavior. Sally, on the other hand, is a widowed single mother doing her best to raise her own daughters. After years apart, the estranged Gillian returns home and sets in motion a series of events that culminate in a haunting that brings all the surviving Owens women together. Ultimately, though, the power of kinship overcomes calamity.
Though I enjoyed reading Hoffman's original source material, the book is plagued by an overabundance of characters and a meandering plot. The film adaptation does succeed in streamlining these distractions, but the novel feels bogged down by its own cast of characters. There are simply too many ingredients in the cauldron for the recipe to succeed. Yet, for all its flaws, there are some clever, insightful "golden lines" sprinkled throughout the novel: "The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep" and "Love is worth the sum of itself, and nothing more" are two of my favorites. Even when the elixir tastes bitter or saccharine, there is beautiful writing sprinkled on top for added flavor.
What I most enjoyed about Practical Magic (both the film and its source material) is the attempt at a "literary" entry in the supernatural fiction genre. Yes, this is a book about witches and magic and curses and hauntings - but, more importantly, it's a book about family and sisterhood and aging and grieving. In my eyes, Practical Magic comes across as a blend of Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Disney's Hocus Pocus - with a dash of The Exorcist thrown into the cauldron for good measure. There is something compelling about this tale - the mashup of magical and mundane illuminates the subtle complexities of the human experience. And that is a potent potion for readers of the novel.
Hoffman is a true writer, dabbling into the supernatural like the newest recruit in a literary coven. So, despite the extraneous ingredients that she stews into the mix, the final product is - appropriately enough - an enchanting experience. And that, dear readers, might be enough to conjure the "pumpkin spice spirit" for readers everywhere.
Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman
⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2
It's an unusual occurrence when a movie is better than the book that inspired it, but the film adaptation of Alice Hoffman's Practical Magic might be the rare exception. Although I didn't see the film version of Practical Magic until 25 years after its release, I was pleasantly surprised by the movie's (semi-)feminist approach to adulthood and the heartfelt portrayal of the Owens sisters. Of course, my experience watching the film may or may not have been tempered by my nostalgic 1990s-era crush on Nicole Kidman... but I digress.
So, after *finally* watching the film adaptation, I picked up a copy of Practical Magic in September - just on the cusp of "spooky season." While I knew going in that Hoffman's novel wouldn't be horror, per se, I still hoped that it would inspire what my older daughter calls "the pumpkin spice spirit." Did this book do the trick(-or-treat)? Sort of.
Practical Magic is a sweet, sentimental look at growing up, navigating complex relationships, and thwarting the threats of middle age. In the novel, Hoffman (witch)crafts a tale involving two sisters, women as opposite as yin and yang: brooding Sally and carefree/careless Gillian. Following the untimely deaths of their parents, the sisters are raised by their aunts, Jet and Franny; though the sisters turn out (relatively) normal, they process their childhood trauma in disparate ways. Gillian is the quintessential party girl: pretty, popular, charismatic, and plagued by rash behavior. Sally, on the other hand, is a widowed single mother doing her best to raise her own daughters. After years apart, the estranged Gillian returns home and sets in motion a series of events that culminate in a haunting that brings all the surviving Owens women together. Ultimately, though, the power of kinship overcomes calamity.
Though I enjoyed reading Hoffman's original source material, the book is plagued by an overabundance of characters and a meandering plot. The film adaptation does succeed in streamlining these distractions, but the novel feels bogged down by its own cast of characters. There are simply too many ingredients in the cauldron for the recipe to succeed. Yet, for all its flaws, there are some clever, insightful "golden lines" sprinkled throughout the novel: "The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep" and "Love is worth the sum of itself, and nothing more" are two of my favorites. Even when the elixir tastes bitter or saccharine, there is beautiful writing sprinkled on top for added flavor.
What I most enjoyed about Practical Magic (both the film and its source material) is the attempt at a "literary" entry in the supernatural fiction genre. Yes, this is a book about witches and magic and curses and hauntings - but, more importantly, it's a book about family and sisterhood and aging and grieving. In my eyes, Practical Magic comes across as a blend of Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Disney's Hocus Pocus - with a dash of The Exorcist thrown into the cauldron for good measure. There is something compelling about this tale - the mashup of magical and mundane illuminates the subtle complexities of the human experience. And that is a potent potion for readers of the novel.
Hoffman is a true writer, dabbling into the supernatural like the newest recruit in a literary coven. So, despite the extraneous ingredients that she stews into the mix, the final product is - appropriately enough - an enchanting experience. And that, dear readers, might be enough to conjure the "pumpkin spice spirit" for readers everywhere.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for October 2023:
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Shirley Jackson's definitive haunted house novel, The Haunting of Hill House, is the literary equivalent of a James Whale monster movie: though rudimentary by today's standards, there are striking archetypal qualities that solidify the piece's legacy. Of course, I also can't help but recall Mark Twain's famous quote that a "classic" is "something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read." For better or worse, Jackson's novel is a classic in the horror genre - and while I'm glad that I've read Haunting of Hill House, I won't begrudge anyone who wants to skip the book and jump straight into the film adaptation(s) of this story. To be clear, this is not Halloween Horror Nights, with jump scares and visceral thrills; rather, it's a subtle, atmospheric sense of dread, like walking through a graveyard at midnight. Jackson is the queen of the "slow burn" novel, though her literary fires feel more like flickering shadows than flames. Sometimes, though, that "slow burn" is waaaaaayyyy too slow - even for a nerdy librarian/English teacher like yours truly.
In Jackson's original version of the story, a professor with a passion for the supernatural, Dr. John Montague, recruits three layman to spend the summer in the (supposedly) haunted Hill House. Those three recruits - Eleanor Vance, Luke Sanderson, and Theodora (whose last name is never revealed) - encounter phenomenon both strange and mundane, with Eleanor most affected by the house's cruel tricks. Spookiness ensues, with most of the horror embedded in the psyche of Eleanor rather than in the eerie artifice of the building. I won't reveal much more, because many of the novel's key plot points are too spoiler-y for general consumption. Let's just say that houses aren't the only things haunted by ghosts in this novel.
I recently re-watched Mike Flanagan's Netflix Hill House adaptation with my teenage daughter, and I was thrilled by all of the Easter eggs Flanagan worked into each episode. Whether it's the "cup of stars" monologue, Theo's sexual orientation, the marble statues on the ground floor, the "cold spot" that Theo encounters, or the psychiatrist named after Dr. Montague (portrayed by the same actor who played Dr. Jacoby on Twin Peaks, to boot!), the show tips its hat to Jackson's novel in various subtle and not-so-subtle ways. To engage with both the original novel and the Netflix adaptation is an absolute treat: Flanagan rewards readers of the novel with his carefully crafted allusions.
As much as I hold fast to the general rule that "the book was better," there are some circumstances in which the film adaptation surpasses the quality of its source material. In this circumstance, The Haunting of Hill House fits snugly in that category. Mike Flanagan's Netflix adaptation of Jackson's novel is a stone-cold classic, and it is compulsively engaging in a way that the novel is not. That's not to say that the original novel is meritless; it's just aged in a way that diminishes its impact on the horror genre. It's more quaint than horrifying, in that regard.
Still, though, Shirley Jackson's Haunting of Hill House is just that: haunting. It's not scary or exhilarating or or terrifying. It simply haunts its readers after they turn the final page. Even if there isn't a "Bent-Neck Lady" in sight, there are still bristling themes that are more chilling than a shadowy October night. And that might be enough to entice future generations of readers to enter the doors of Hill House for a spell... and maybe stay forever.
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Shirley Jackson's definitive haunted house novel, The Haunting of Hill House, is the literary equivalent of a James Whale monster movie: though rudimentary by today's standards, there are striking archetypal qualities that solidify the piece's legacy. Of course, I also can't help but recall Mark Twain's famous quote that a "classic" is "something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read." For better or worse, Jackson's novel is a classic in the horror genre - and while I'm glad that I've read Haunting of Hill House, I won't begrudge anyone who wants to skip the book and jump straight into the film adaptation(s) of this story. To be clear, this is not Halloween Horror Nights, with jump scares and visceral thrills; rather, it's a subtle, atmospheric sense of dread, like walking through a graveyard at midnight. Jackson is the queen of the "slow burn" novel, though her literary fires feel more like flickering shadows than flames. Sometimes, though, that "slow burn" is waaaaaayyyy too slow - even for a nerdy librarian/English teacher like yours truly.
In Jackson's original version of the story, a professor with a passion for the supernatural, Dr. John Montague, recruits three layman to spend the summer in the (supposedly) haunted Hill House. Those three recruits - Eleanor Vance, Luke Sanderson, and Theodora (whose last name is never revealed) - encounter phenomenon both strange and mundane, with Eleanor most affected by the house's cruel tricks. Spookiness ensues, with most of the horror embedded in the psyche of Eleanor rather than in the eerie artifice of the building. I won't reveal much more, because many of the novel's key plot points are too spoiler-y for general consumption. Let's just say that houses aren't the only things haunted by ghosts in this novel.
I recently re-watched Mike Flanagan's Netflix Hill House adaptation with my teenage daughter, and I was thrilled by all of the Easter eggs Flanagan worked into each episode. Whether it's the "cup of stars" monologue, Theo's sexual orientation, the marble statues on the ground floor, the "cold spot" that Theo encounters, or the psychiatrist named after Dr. Montague (portrayed by the same actor who played Dr. Jacoby on Twin Peaks, to boot!), the show tips its hat to Jackson's novel in various subtle and not-so-subtle ways. To engage with both the original novel and the Netflix adaptation is an absolute treat: Flanagan rewards readers of the novel with his carefully crafted allusions.
As much as I hold fast to the general rule that "the book was better," there are some circumstances in which the film adaptation surpasses the quality of its source material. In this circumstance, The Haunting of Hill House fits snugly in that category. Mike Flanagan's Netflix adaptation of Jackson's novel is a stone-cold classic, and it is compulsively engaging in a way that the novel is not. That's not to say that the original novel is meritless; it's just aged in a way that diminishes its impact on the horror genre. It's more quaint than horrifying, in that regard.
Still, though, Shirley Jackson's Haunting of Hill House is just that: haunting. It's not scary or exhilarating or or terrifying. It simply haunts its readers after they turn the final page. Even if there isn't a "Bent-Neck Lady" in sight, there are still bristling themes that are more chilling than a shadowy October night. And that might be enough to entice future generations of readers to enter the doors of Hill House for a spell... and maybe stay forever.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for September 2023:
Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Imagine a YA version of Breaking Bad with a young, whip-smart Ojibwe protagonist, and you have a pretty solid grasp of Angeline Boulley's Firekeeper's Daughter. Boulley, who served as Director for the U.S. Department of Education's Office of Indian Education, has a profound understanding of tribal life and culture - and she vividly brings to life the experiences of her characters within the turn-of-the-century (twenty-first century, that is!) America. While I would have enjoyed a little more poetry in Boulley's prose, she has written an engaging page-turner with a well-crafted protagonist and deep examination of tribal life. Fans of crime, thrillers, and action-adventure, take note: Firekeeper's Daughter will burn bright in your heart.
In Boulley's novel, multiracial Daunis Fontaine straddles two identities, wrestling with the tribal heritage of her biological father and the wealthy world of her white mother. After witnessing a heartbreaking tragedy involving several of her friends, Daunis becomes a confidential informant for the FBI, going undercover for intel on a ring of meth dealers in her community. Of course, there's the requisite YA love story, which sometimes detracts from the independence of the protagonist and the tightly scripted components of this crime thriller; Boulley also incorporates several coming-of-age themes (including quest for identity, multiracial experiences, family tragedy, and communal trauma) into this eye-opening narrative, as well. It's a lot to tackle in one novel, and the exposition does require some patience before the action-packed narrative kicks into high gear. However, Firekeeper's Daughter rewards readers who pay close attention to the clues that Boulley leaves behind.
As someone with very limited knowledge of Ojibwe history and culture, I faced a steep learning curve as I devoured the pages of Boulley's novel. The book contains a multitude of "new" vocabulary words and slang terminology for a zhaaganaash (white) audience, but Boulley does an excellent job of providing background for laymen (like yours truly). I have a feeling that the publication of Firekeeper's Daughter must feel incredibly empowering for young (and old) Ojibwe readers who take the plunge into Boulley's world. For zhaaganaash readers, the book still rings true with tender authenticity and meticulous world-building.
For a first-time author, Angeline Boulley has created an intriguing, captivating novel. While Firekeeper's Daughter will undoubtedly find success with generations of readers, I secretly hope that the author turns her sights towards more "mature" fare in the years ahead. Those of us who are a little "longer in the tooth" would love to see how she addresses aging and midlife experiences - both inside and outside the world of tribal politics. I have a feeling that Boulley has some illuminating insights ahead of her, as she trails away from the fire of this debut novel.
Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Imagine a YA version of Breaking Bad with a young, whip-smart Ojibwe protagonist, and you have a pretty solid grasp of Angeline Boulley's Firekeeper's Daughter. Boulley, who served as Director for the U.S. Department of Education's Office of Indian Education, has a profound understanding of tribal life and culture - and she vividly brings to life the experiences of her characters within the turn-of-the-century (twenty-first century, that is!) America. While I would have enjoyed a little more poetry in Boulley's prose, she has written an engaging page-turner with a well-crafted protagonist and deep examination of tribal life. Fans of crime, thrillers, and action-adventure, take note: Firekeeper's Daughter will burn bright in your heart.
In Boulley's novel, multiracial Daunis Fontaine straddles two identities, wrestling with the tribal heritage of her biological father and the wealthy world of her white mother. After witnessing a heartbreaking tragedy involving several of her friends, Daunis becomes a confidential informant for the FBI, going undercover for intel on a ring of meth dealers in her community. Of course, there's the requisite YA love story, which sometimes detracts from the independence of the protagonist and the tightly scripted components of this crime thriller; Boulley also incorporates several coming-of-age themes (including quest for identity, multiracial experiences, family tragedy, and communal trauma) into this eye-opening narrative, as well. It's a lot to tackle in one novel, and the exposition does require some patience before the action-packed narrative kicks into high gear. However, Firekeeper's Daughter rewards readers who pay close attention to the clues that Boulley leaves behind.
As someone with very limited knowledge of Ojibwe history and culture, I faced a steep learning curve as I devoured the pages of Boulley's novel. The book contains a multitude of "new" vocabulary words and slang terminology for a zhaaganaash (white) audience, but Boulley does an excellent job of providing background for laymen (like yours truly). I have a feeling that the publication of Firekeeper's Daughter must feel incredibly empowering for young (and old) Ojibwe readers who take the plunge into Boulley's world. For zhaaganaash readers, the book still rings true with tender authenticity and meticulous world-building.
For a first-time author, Angeline Boulley has created an intriguing, captivating novel. While Firekeeper's Daughter will undoubtedly find success with generations of readers, I secretly hope that the author turns her sights towards more "mature" fare in the years ahead. Those of us who are a little "longer in the tooth" would love to see how she addresses aging and midlife experiences - both inside and outside the world of tribal politics. I have a feeling that Boulley has some illuminating insights ahead of her, as she trails away from the fire of this debut novel.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for August 2023:
The Search for Sasquatch by Laura Krantz
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Over the summer, while my daughter and I were browsing through the children's section of Powell's City of Books, I stumbled across The Search for Sasquatch. My curiosity piqued, I leafed through the pages, recognized it would be age-appropriate for my eight-year-old, and bought the book on a whim. I'm not a cryptozoologist by any means, but I figured that The Search for Sasquatch would be a fun, thematically appropriate book to read while we were visiting family in Oregon. Needless to say, I lucked out.
At the time, I didn't know anything about Laura Krantz or the Wild Thing podcast that she's been producing for a few years now. However, while reading The Search for Sasquatch, I was delighted by the author's conversational tone and the wide variety of scientific topics that she addresses. A kid's book that tackles DNA, evolution, the scientific method, and the taxonomic system in easy-to-understand terms? I was sold.
Krantz starts her book with a brief anecdote about how and why she started her sasquatch journey: it turns out that a long-dead distant relative (second cousin, twice removed?), Grover Krantz, was once the world's foremost scientific expert on Bigfoot. As Laura plunges down the rabbit hole of sasquatch-obsession, she encounters a colorful cast of characters: park rangers sharing eyewitness accounts, skeptical scientists intent on debunking Bigfoot as a hoax, accommodating experts who explain complex scientific issues, and even one of the men who filmed the infamous "Patterson-Gimlin" video in 1967. Along the way, she also learns about "squatching," "blob-squatches," and the "Woo" (if you read the book, it will all make sense). It's a deep dive into a unique, quirky American subculture - and the journey is exquisitely enjoyable.
As an "optimistic skeptic," I was delighted to find that Laura Krantz is (like me) someone who requires scientific proof before wholeheartedly supporting the existence of mythical creatures. However, Krantz never lets her doubts supersede her curiosity; rather, she excitedly hurdles every roadblock and muddy footprint that she finds in her path. Throughout the book, Krantz's earnest enthusiasm is absolutely contagious, and her fanatical fascination emanates from each and every page.
After finishing The Search for Sasquatch, I downloaded all three seasons of Krantz's podcast, Wild Thing, and listened attentively to every single episode. If you haven't tried the podcast yet, you won't regret it: the show is absolutely addicting. Even if my doubts about sasquatch remain, I firmly believe that Laura Krantz is a true treasure.
Does Bigfoot really exist? Probably not.
But Laura Krantz really hopes so. And so do I.
The Search for Sasquatch by Laura Krantz
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Over the summer, while my daughter and I were browsing through the children's section of Powell's City of Books, I stumbled across The Search for Sasquatch. My curiosity piqued, I leafed through the pages, recognized it would be age-appropriate for my eight-year-old, and bought the book on a whim. I'm not a cryptozoologist by any means, but I figured that The Search for Sasquatch would be a fun, thematically appropriate book to read while we were visiting family in Oregon. Needless to say, I lucked out.
At the time, I didn't know anything about Laura Krantz or the Wild Thing podcast that she's been producing for a few years now. However, while reading The Search for Sasquatch, I was delighted by the author's conversational tone and the wide variety of scientific topics that she addresses. A kid's book that tackles DNA, evolution, the scientific method, and the taxonomic system in easy-to-understand terms? I was sold.
Krantz starts her book with a brief anecdote about how and why she started her sasquatch journey: it turns out that a long-dead distant relative (second cousin, twice removed?), Grover Krantz, was once the world's foremost scientific expert on Bigfoot. As Laura plunges down the rabbit hole of sasquatch-obsession, she encounters a colorful cast of characters: park rangers sharing eyewitness accounts, skeptical scientists intent on debunking Bigfoot as a hoax, accommodating experts who explain complex scientific issues, and even one of the men who filmed the infamous "Patterson-Gimlin" video in 1967. Along the way, she also learns about "squatching," "blob-squatches," and the "Woo" (if you read the book, it will all make sense). It's a deep dive into a unique, quirky American subculture - and the journey is exquisitely enjoyable.
As an "optimistic skeptic," I was delighted to find that Laura Krantz is (like me) someone who requires scientific proof before wholeheartedly supporting the existence of mythical creatures. However, Krantz never lets her doubts supersede her curiosity; rather, she excitedly hurdles every roadblock and muddy footprint that she finds in her path. Throughout the book, Krantz's earnest enthusiasm is absolutely contagious, and her fanatical fascination emanates from each and every page.
After finishing The Search for Sasquatch, I downloaded all three seasons of Krantz's podcast, Wild Thing, and listened attentively to every single episode. If you haven't tried the podcast yet, you won't regret it: the show is absolutely addicting. Even if my doubts about sasquatch remain, I firmly believe that Laura Krantz is a true treasure.
Does Bigfoot really exist? Probably not.
But Laura Krantz really hopes so. And so do I.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for July 2023:
Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I was definitely cynical when I first heard about Shelby Van Pelt's novel, Remarkably Bright Creatures. A talking octopus and the little old lady who befriends this hyper-intelligent sea creature?
"What is this?" I wondered aloud. "the literary version of Finding Dory?"
Fortunately for me, Remarkably Bright Creatures is a refreshing, heartfelt entry into the modern "literary fiction" canon. Despite my initial skepticism about reading Shelby Van Pelt's debut novel, the book grew on me as I worked my way through its 368 pages. I couldn't help but think about Anxious People during my reading of Remarkably Bright Creatures. In many ways, Remarkably Bright Creatures feels like a lost Fredrik Backman book: Backman's hallmark blend of humor, tragedy, and bizarre circumstances are equally encapsulated in Van Pelt's novel. As with Backman's style, the use of intertwining narratives and alternating perspectives helps foster some wonderful dramatic irony and facilitates clever plot points. However, whereas Backman tends to use an omniscient third-person narrator with a misanthropic perspective, Van Pelt reserves a similarly cynical bent for one very unique character: Marcellus the Octopus. Yes, ladies and gents and non-binary folks, the inner monologue of a hyper-intelligent cephalopod is threaded throughout this novel. Needless to say, this is not your mother's dramedy.
Despite its slow start, Remarkably Bright Creatures picks up steam about 1/3 of the way in. Van Pelt alternates chapters with a few intertwining stories: Tova Sullivan, a widowed woman whose son vanished the summer after his high school graduation (and who serves as the cleaning crew at the Sowell Bay Aquarium in Washington); Cameron Cassmore, a thirty-year-old underachiever with a photographic memory and underutilized intelligence; Ethan Mack, a transplanted Scotsman with a fondness for classic rock (and a deeper fondness for Tova Sullivan); Avery, a single mother who runs her own business; and, of course, the aforementioned octopus, Marcellus.
Who is the most memorable, insightful, and endearing character in this terrific tomb? Undoubtedly, that award goes to Marcellus the Octopus.
As the various stories intertwine and weave their way towards a somewhat-predictable moment of serendipitous reunion, the reader is privy to a flurry of witticisms from Marcellus and a bountiful bevy of grief from the human characters. Every mammal in Van Pelt's novel is deeply flawed and scarred from traumatic life experiences; however, the depth of that pain is redeemed (or at least alleviated) in the end by the bonds of the novel's characters. Like suction cups on a tentacle, these various plotlines are all interconnected in (occasionally) surprising ways, making for a cohesive novel with a relatively tidy conclusion.
The audiobook version of the novel (which I utilized back-and-forth while reading the print version) utilizes two voice actors: Marin Ireland and Michael Urie. While Ireland is in fine form (as always), it's Urie's tongue-in-cheek portrayal of Marcellus that really steals the show. Marin capably utilizes a variety of voices, tones, and accents during her portions of the novel, but Urie's spin on our favorite cephalopod elevates the audiobook to grander aspirations. Once again, Marcellus the Octopus wins the hearts of Van Pelt's readers - in print and audio incarnations.
Whether or not you're a fan of aquatic lifeforms, you'll find something powerful and enjoyable in the pages of Remarkably Bright Creatures. And, if you're a misanthropic grump who spies on the world with a critical lens, Marcellus the Octopus might be your new favorite character.
P.S. - Shelby Van Pelt scores some major coolness points (in my eyes, at least) for including some choice references to Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead. Deadheads of the literary world, rejoice!
Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I was definitely cynical when I first heard about Shelby Van Pelt's novel, Remarkably Bright Creatures. A talking octopus and the little old lady who befriends this hyper-intelligent sea creature?
"What is this?" I wondered aloud. "the literary version of Finding Dory?"
Fortunately for me, Remarkably Bright Creatures is a refreshing, heartfelt entry into the modern "literary fiction" canon. Despite my initial skepticism about reading Shelby Van Pelt's debut novel, the book grew on me as I worked my way through its 368 pages. I couldn't help but think about Anxious People during my reading of Remarkably Bright Creatures. In many ways, Remarkably Bright Creatures feels like a lost Fredrik Backman book: Backman's hallmark blend of humor, tragedy, and bizarre circumstances are equally encapsulated in Van Pelt's novel. As with Backman's style, the use of intertwining narratives and alternating perspectives helps foster some wonderful dramatic irony and facilitates clever plot points. However, whereas Backman tends to use an omniscient third-person narrator with a misanthropic perspective, Van Pelt reserves a similarly cynical bent for one very unique character: Marcellus the Octopus. Yes, ladies and gents and non-binary folks, the inner monologue of a hyper-intelligent cephalopod is threaded throughout this novel. Needless to say, this is not your mother's dramedy.
Despite its slow start, Remarkably Bright Creatures picks up steam about 1/3 of the way in. Van Pelt alternates chapters with a few intertwining stories: Tova Sullivan, a widowed woman whose son vanished the summer after his high school graduation (and who serves as the cleaning crew at the Sowell Bay Aquarium in Washington); Cameron Cassmore, a thirty-year-old underachiever with a photographic memory and underutilized intelligence; Ethan Mack, a transplanted Scotsman with a fondness for classic rock (and a deeper fondness for Tova Sullivan); Avery, a single mother who runs her own business; and, of course, the aforementioned octopus, Marcellus.
Who is the most memorable, insightful, and endearing character in this terrific tomb? Undoubtedly, that award goes to Marcellus the Octopus.
As the various stories intertwine and weave their way towards a somewhat-predictable moment of serendipitous reunion, the reader is privy to a flurry of witticisms from Marcellus and a bountiful bevy of grief from the human characters. Every mammal in Van Pelt's novel is deeply flawed and scarred from traumatic life experiences; however, the depth of that pain is redeemed (or at least alleviated) in the end by the bonds of the novel's characters. Like suction cups on a tentacle, these various plotlines are all interconnected in (occasionally) surprising ways, making for a cohesive novel with a relatively tidy conclusion.
The audiobook version of the novel (which I utilized back-and-forth while reading the print version) utilizes two voice actors: Marin Ireland and Michael Urie. While Ireland is in fine form (as always), it's Urie's tongue-in-cheek portrayal of Marcellus that really steals the show. Marin capably utilizes a variety of voices, tones, and accents during her portions of the novel, but Urie's spin on our favorite cephalopod elevates the audiobook to grander aspirations. Once again, Marcellus the Octopus wins the hearts of Van Pelt's readers - in print and audio incarnations.
Whether or not you're a fan of aquatic lifeforms, you'll find something powerful and enjoyable in the pages of Remarkably Bright Creatures. And, if you're a misanthropic grump who spies on the world with a critical lens, Marcellus the Octopus might be your new favorite character.
P.S. - Shelby Van Pelt scores some major coolness points (in my eyes, at least) for including some choice references to Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead. Deadheads of the literary world, rejoice!
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for June 2023:
Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero
⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2
Scooby-Doo vs. Cthulhu? Ruh-roh! Better grab that stash of Scooby Snacks and start reading!
Edgar Cantero's Meddling Kids presents an intriguing concept: what if grown-up versions of the Scooby-Doo super-sleuths had to reunite and battle H.P. Lovecraft's menagerie of monsters?
Cue the theme song: "Cthulhu-voodoo-doo, where are you?"
With Cantero's sometimes-clever twist on Scooby-Doo, the "Mystery Incorporated" gang of amateur sleuths grow up and grow apart, but must reconvene years after disbanding to solve a truly supernatural case. And it's just as crazy as you might expect. Although the novel doesn't always live up to the promise of its premise, Meddling Kids showcases Cantero's deep reverence for pop culture and his self-aware perspective as an irreverent storyteller. How can an author be reverent and irreverent at the same time? It's quite a balancing act, but Cantero gives it his best shot. Easter eggs abound in this fun, frivolous celebration of nostalgia, with Cantero employing a wide variety of literary tricks and tactics to entertain his readers. Although Meddling Kids has the potential to go down in flames like the foiled plans of a rubber-mask-wearing villain, Cantero's witty twist on the tried-and-true tropes of Scooby-Doo works... most of the time.
In Cantero's novel, we have a cast of characters that (mostly) match their Hanna-Barbera counterparts. We have Peter (an arrogant incarnation of Fred Jones), Kerri (a nerdier version of Daphne Blake), Andy (a butch Velma Dinkley), Nate (a literally haunted Shaggy Rogers), and Tim the Weimaraner (the avatar for everyone's favorite crime-solving Great Dane). The Mystery Machine gets a makeover, replaced with a Chevrolet Vega - a vehicle that bears no small resemblance to the Winchester Brothers' 1967 Chevy Impala. Even "Red Herring" (that bullyish antagonist from A Pup Named Scooby-Doo) gets the avatar treatment with the "Joey" character. My favorite allusion? The fictional Blyton Hills is adjacent to the Zoinx River. Zoinks! Clearly, Cantero embraces the tongue-in-cheek qualities of his story - and throws in everything but the kitchen sink.
As a whole, though, Meddling Kids is an uneven exercise in what-if storytelling. The novel begins with a slam-bang start and concludes with a potent powder keg of plot twists; along the way, however, the reader encounters hit-or-miss slumps in the narrative. At times, it does feel like well-crafted fan fiction:
*A lesbian Velma pining after Daphne? Check.
*A Scooby-Doo adventure with real supernatural creatures, instead of just old men in rubber masks? Check.
*Shaggy living in a lunatic asylum? Check.
Despite its best moments, however, Meddling Kids is more a middling novel - hence this reviewer only awarding the novel three (and a half) stars. That's not to say that Cantero's novel is a waste of time. Part of the allure (for me at least) in reading Meddling Kids is the exploration of "has-been" characters - something I also wrote about in Incomplete and A Different Slant of Light. Sure, it's exciting to revel in the exploits of famous characters... but what about after the spotlight fades? That plot point is one of the most compelling aspects for me. Unfortunately, Cantero sometimes sacrifices these earnest moments for pithy one-liners and trying-too-hard-to-be-clever descriptions.
Though Meddling Kids doesn't always deliver on its "Scooby-Doo meets H.P. Lovecraft" promise, it's still a fun, engaging read for sentimental fans of Saturday-morning cartoons. In Cantero's tribute, Scooby-Doo is elevated to the canonical realm of Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. It's just a shame that the goofy genre writer who tackles this novel can't completely deliver the goods. Still, though, Cantero enjoyably explores some quirky territory with the adventurous spirit of teenage detectives. While there are always red herrings lurking around every corner in Scooby-Doo, the biggest surprise here is that Meddling Kids is as enjoyable as it is. Jinkies!
Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero
⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2
Scooby-Doo vs. Cthulhu? Ruh-roh! Better grab that stash of Scooby Snacks and start reading!
Edgar Cantero's Meddling Kids presents an intriguing concept: what if grown-up versions of the Scooby-Doo super-sleuths had to reunite and battle H.P. Lovecraft's menagerie of monsters?
Cue the theme song: "Cthulhu-voodoo-doo, where are you?"
With Cantero's sometimes-clever twist on Scooby-Doo, the "Mystery Incorporated" gang of amateur sleuths grow up and grow apart, but must reconvene years after disbanding to solve a truly supernatural case. And it's just as crazy as you might expect. Although the novel doesn't always live up to the promise of its premise, Meddling Kids showcases Cantero's deep reverence for pop culture and his self-aware perspective as an irreverent storyteller. How can an author be reverent and irreverent at the same time? It's quite a balancing act, but Cantero gives it his best shot. Easter eggs abound in this fun, frivolous celebration of nostalgia, with Cantero employing a wide variety of literary tricks and tactics to entertain his readers. Although Meddling Kids has the potential to go down in flames like the foiled plans of a rubber-mask-wearing villain, Cantero's witty twist on the tried-and-true tropes of Scooby-Doo works... most of the time.
In Cantero's novel, we have a cast of characters that (mostly) match their Hanna-Barbera counterparts. We have Peter (an arrogant incarnation of Fred Jones), Kerri (a nerdier version of Daphne Blake), Andy (a butch Velma Dinkley), Nate (a literally haunted Shaggy Rogers), and Tim the Weimaraner (the avatar for everyone's favorite crime-solving Great Dane). The Mystery Machine gets a makeover, replaced with a Chevrolet Vega - a vehicle that bears no small resemblance to the Winchester Brothers' 1967 Chevy Impala. Even "Red Herring" (that bullyish antagonist from A Pup Named Scooby-Doo) gets the avatar treatment with the "Joey" character. My favorite allusion? The fictional Blyton Hills is adjacent to the Zoinx River. Zoinks! Clearly, Cantero embraces the tongue-in-cheek qualities of his story - and throws in everything but the kitchen sink.
As a whole, though, Meddling Kids is an uneven exercise in what-if storytelling. The novel begins with a slam-bang start and concludes with a potent powder keg of plot twists; along the way, however, the reader encounters hit-or-miss slumps in the narrative. At times, it does feel like well-crafted fan fiction:
*A lesbian Velma pining after Daphne? Check.
*A Scooby-Doo adventure with real supernatural creatures, instead of just old men in rubber masks? Check.
*Shaggy living in a lunatic asylum? Check.
Despite its best moments, however, Meddling Kids is more a middling novel - hence this reviewer only awarding the novel three (and a half) stars. That's not to say that Cantero's novel is a waste of time. Part of the allure (for me at least) in reading Meddling Kids is the exploration of "has-been" characters - something I also wrote about in Incomplete and A Different Slant of Light. Sure, it's exciting to revel in the exploits of famous characters... but what about after the spotlight fades? That plot point is one of the most compelling aspects for me. Unfortunately, Cantero sometimes sacrifices these earnest moments for pithy one-liners and trying-too-hard-to-be-clever descriptions.
Though Meddling Kids doesn't always deliver on its "Scooby-Doo meets H.P. Lovecraft" promise, it's still a fun, engaging read for sentimental fans of Saturday-morning cartoons. In Cantero's tribute, Scooby-Doo is elevated to the canonical realm of Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. It's just a shame that the goofy genre writer who tackles this novel can't completely deliver the goods. Still, though, Cantero enjoyably explores some quirky territory with the adventurous spirit of teenage detectives. While there are always red herrings lurking around every corner in Scooby-Doo, the biggest surprise here is that Meddling Kids is as enjoyable as it is. Jinkies!
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for May 2023:
Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
In turns brilliant, bloody, and bold, Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates should be mandatory reading for all high school and college students. The book, written in the form of a letter from Coates to his adolescent son, touches upon a variety of topics, both subtle and not-so-subtle: racism, police brutality, racial profiling, historical inequity, and a variety of other sociological phenomenon. Is this an easy read? No, not by any means. Is it vitally important for understanding racism and race relations in modern America? The answer is a resounding YES.
With obvious similarities to other revelatory books like Isabel Wilkerson's Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents and the Jason Reynolds/Ibram X. Kendi collaboration, Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You, Between the World and Me is an eye-opening examination of what it means to be black in modern America. Ta-Nehisi Coates is a bold, eloquent storyteller, relating his own personal experiences as a Gen-X American and tying those life events into the broader tapestry of American history. As comes with the territory, the subject matter is heavy and heartbreaking. Coates is not concerned with sugarcoating trauma for his readers: his observations are blunt and brutally honest. In fact, the book begins with Coates relating an experience being interviewed by "the host of a popular news show" whose cynical perspective on race inspires Coates to write that "no machinery could close the gap between her world and the world for which I had been summoned to speak." That division - between races, between perspectives, between worlds - is a recurring theme in the book: an intellectual, psychological, and emotional gap that Coates describes as nearly insurmountable. It might seem bleak or nihilistic, but Coates refuses to embrace the fallacy of a post-racial "happily ever after." Alas, the real world is not a fairy tale.
Much of Between the World and Me focuses on "black bodies" - that is, to say, the physical and physiological suffering of black Americans. Frequently, his book returns to this theme, examining the ways in which the African-American community has suffered at the hands of "the Dreamers" (a.k.a. "those who would call themselves white"). Periodically, his prose incorporates corporeal metaphors and symbolism. As he writes, “racism is a visceral experience... it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth. You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land, with great violence, upon the body.” Additionally, Coates rejects the tenets of religious institutions, presenting himself as an atheist: “I believed, and still do, that our bodies are our selves, that my soul is the voltage conducted through neurons and nerves, and that my spirit is my flesh.” This existential view of the world disavows the promise of a postmortem paradise, and reminds the reader that "Our moment is too brief. Our bodies are too precious." All we have is here and now, Coates explains, which means we can't wait for others to save us from the perils of a cruel world.
Coates is undoubtedly an eloquent, artful writer, capable of conjuring timeless truths with his poetic prose. There are far too many "golden lines" in this book to include in one simple review; suffice to say, Coates is an incredibly talented writer with thought-provoking reflections embedded in every single page. Selfishly, I loved his perspective on libraries: “I was made for the library, not the classroom. The classroom was a jail of other people’s interests. The library was open, unending, free.” At another point, Coates writes, “I was learning the craft of poetry, which really was an intensive version of what my mother had taught me all those years ago—the craft of writing as the art of thinking. Poetry aims for an economy of truth—loose and useless words must be discarded, and I found that these loose and useless words were not separate from loose and useless thoughts.” Although it's impossible to extricate his subject matter from his writing style, Coates is a poet whose words are more potent than any superhero's secret powers.
Racism is always a challenging, maddening, and overwhelming subject to discuss with your children. Still, though, Coates desires a better world for his son. As he writes at one point, “You are growing into consciousness, and my wish for you is that you feel no need to constrict yourself to make other people comfortable.” Regardless of how far America has come in the last 100 years, we still have lifetimes of growth ahead of us. It's fitting that Coates uses a personal metaphor to discuss the interlocking concepts of race and racial disparity: "race is the child of racism, not the father." As a father himself, Ta-Nehisi Coates understand the importance of loving guidance. Let's hope that our own childrearing produces a new, wiser generation that fights against the evils of racism and prejudice. Only then can we break down the barriers between the world and its children.
Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
In turns brilliant, bloody, and bold, Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates should be mandatory reading for all high school and college students. The book, written in the form of a letter from Coates to his adolescent son, touches upon a variety of topics, both subtle and not-so-subtle: racism, police brutality, racial profiling, historical inequity, and a variety of other sociological phenomenon. Is this an easy read? No, not by any means. Is it vitally important for understanding racism and race relations in modern America? The answer is a resounding YES.
With obvious similarities to other revelatory books like Isabel Wilkerson's Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents and the Jason Reynolds/Ibram X. Kendi collaboration, Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You, Between the World and Me is an eye-opening examination of what it means to be black in modern America. Ta-Nehisi Coates is a bold, eloquent storyteller, relating his own personal experiences as a Gen-X American and tying those life events into the broader tapestry of American history. As comes with the territory, the subject matter is heavy and heartbreaking. Coates is not concerned with sugarcoating trauma for his readers: his observations are blunt and brutally honest. In fact, the book begins with Coates relating an experience being interviewed by "the host of a popular news show" whose cynical perspective on race inspires Coates to write that "no machinery could close the gap between her world and the world for which I had been summoned to speak." That division - between races, between perspectives, between worlds - is a recurring theme in the book: an intellectual, psychological, and emotional gap that Coates describes as nearly insurmountable. It might seem bleak or nihilistic, but Coates refuses to embrace the fallacy of a post-racial "happily ever after." Alas, the real world is not a fairy tale.
Much of Between the World and Me focuses on "black bodies" - that is, to say, the physical and physiological suffering of black Americans. Frequently, his book returns to this theme, examining the ways in which the African-American community has suffered at the hands of "the Dreamers" (a.k.a. "those who would call themselves white"). Periodically, his prose incorporates corporeal metaphors and symbolism. As he writes, “racism is a visceral experience... it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth. You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land, with great violence, upon the body.” Additionally, Coates rejects the tenets of religious institutions, presenting himself as an atheist: “I believed, and still do, that our bodies are our selves, that my soul is the voltage conducted through neurons and nerves, and that my spirit is my flesh.” This existential view of the world disavows the promise of a postmortem paradise, and reminds the reader that "Our moment is too brief. Our bodies are too precious." All we have is here and now, Coates explains, which means we can't wait for others to save us from the perils of a cruel world.
Coates is undoubtedly an eloquent, artful writer, capable of conjuring timeless truths with his poetic prose. There are far too many "golden lines" in this book to include in one simple review; suffice to say, Coates is an incredibly talented writer with thought-provoking reflections embedded in every single page. Selfishly, I loved his perspective on libraries: “I was made for the library, not the classroom. The classroom was a jail of other people’s interests. The library was open, unending, free.” At another point, Coates writes, “I was learning the craft of poetry, which really was an intensive version of what my mother had taught me all those years ago—the craft of writing as the art of thinking. Poetry aims for an economy of truth—loose and useless words must be discarded, and I found that these loose and useless words were not separate from loose and useless thoughts.” Although it's impossible to extricate his subject matter from his writing style, Coates is a poet whose words are more potent than any superhero's secret powers.
Racism is always a challenging, maddening, and overwhelming subject to discuss with your children. Still, though, Coates desires a better world for his son. As he writes at one point, “You are growing into consciousness, and my wish for you is that you feel no need to constrict yourself to make other people comfortable.” Regardless of how far America has come in the last 100 years, we still have lifetimes of growth ahead of us. It's fitting that Coates uses a personal metaphor to discuss the interlocking concepts of race and racial disparity: "race is the child of racism, not the father." As a father himself, Ta-Nehisi Coates understand the importance of loving guidance. Let's hope that our own childrearing produces a new, wiser generation that fights against the evils of racism and prejudice. Only then can we break down the barriers between the world and its children.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for April 2023:
The Waste Lands by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Book three of Stephen King's Dark Tower series is where the King of Horror embraces his inner Tolkien nerd and creates the darkest fantasy world this side of Mordor. In The Waste Lands, King's boundless imagination is on full display: we encounter warring tribes, subterranean societies, monstrous mutants, a sentient monorail train, and a full Stephen King multiverse (decades before the Marvel Cinematic Universe made the concept ubiquitous). If you cross The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly with Stranger Things and Westworld you might end up in the general proximity of The Waste Lands. It's a wild ride.
The Waste Lands begins shortly after the conclusion of The Drawing of the Three, with Roland, Eddie, and Susannah (formerly Detta/Odetta) journeying through the wilderness. In short order, our trio enters a sci-fi electronic way station, helps deliver the interdimensional "birth" of a tween-ager from a parallel universe, and even crosses paths with a cyborg bear. Did I just write "cyborg bear" in a book review? Why, yes, I did. The new film Cocaine Bear has got nothing on Stephen King.
As in "Right Hand Man" from Lin-Manuel Miranda's Hamilton, our peerless protagonists are "Outgunned / Outmanned / Outnumbered, out-planned / We gotta make an all-out stand / I'm gonna need a right-hand man." In The Dark Tower, however, Roland ends up with more than just one "right hand man" - he has a trio of humans and a canine/rodent/raccoon hybrid creature (a "billybumbler") by his side. While these makeshift gunslingers are, indeed, outgunned and outmanned, they have their wits and courage to carry them through the arduous journey ahead. And, since Stephen King is playing the "Dungeon Master" for this story, you know it's going to be a horrific, heartfelt, and humorous adventure.
I find it fascinating how The Dark Tower series evolved so quickly after its first installment. The gritty, grim tone of The Gunslinger made way for humorous observations, absurd "fish out of water" scenarios, and comical monstrosities (or lobstrosities, as it were) in the two subsequent installments. As much as the author is best known as the "King of Horror," he's also the "King of Quips and One-Liners." Much of the author's humorous side is delivered through the mouthpiece of Eddie Dean, a crafty New Yorker with a tongue as sharp and piercing as any blade. Although the figure of Eddie felt obnoxious when he was introduced as a struggling addict with a twisted worldview in The Drawing of the Three, King redeems this character with a nobler, conflicted, three-dimensional depiction in the sequel. Likewise, Susannah's evolution from her initial portrayal as a disabled woman with Dissociative Identity Disorder to a more nuanced representation reflects King's growth as a writer and wordsmith from 1982 to 1991. As for Jake... Well, it feels at times like Jake's story is one of the most convoluted RETCONs in literary history (paradox and pondering and parallel universes, oh my!); however, his resurrection from The Gunslinger offers Roland a much-needed redemption and victory that he - and the reader - desperately crave. I'll just have to see how Jake plays into the remaining novels in the series.
The Waste Lands is, for lack of a better term, absolutely NUTS... but in the best way possible. King is clearly indebted to J.R.R. Tolkien: here we have a ragtag group of misfit underdogs inexplicably drawn to a mysterious destination to save the world(s). However, whereas Frodo and company cross from the Shire into Rivendell and beyond, King's Ka-Tet (group of banded travelers) crosses into parallel universes through mysterious portals. That being said, I don't remember Gandalf the Gray or Bilbo Baggins ever riding a sentient, sociopathic monorail train. Regardless of horror-themed components, though, it's still an engaging experience to read about a ragtag group of adventurers who have been tasked with an impossible mission.
On to Wizard and Glass, I go! Wish me luck, fellow "Constant Readers" - I have a feeling I might need it...
The Waste Lands by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Book three of Stephen King's Dark Tower series is where the King of Horror embraces his inner Tolkien nerd and creates the darkest fantasy world this side of Mordor. In The Waste Lands, King's boundless imagination is on full display: we encounter warring tribes, subterranean societies, monstrous mutants, a sentient monorail train, and a full Stephen King multiverse (decades before the Marvel Cinematic Universe made the concept ubiquitous). If you cross The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly with Stranger Things and Westworld you might end up in the general proximity of The Waste Lands. It's a wild ride.
The Waste Lands begins shortly after the conclusion of The Drawing of the Three, with Roland, Eddie, and Susannah (formerly Detta/Odetta) journeying through the wilderness. In short order, our trio enters a sci-fi electronic way station, helps deliver the interdimensional "birth" of a tween-ager from a parallel universe, and even crosses paths with a cyborg bear. Did I just write "cyborg bear" in a book review? Why, yes, I did. The new film Cocaine Bear has got nothing on Stephen King.
As in "Right Hand Man" from Lin-Manuel Miranda's Hamilton, our peerless protagonists are "Outgunned / Outmanned / Outnumbered, out-planned / We gotta make an all-out stand / I'm gonna need a right-hand man." In The Dark Tower, however, Roland ends up with more than just one "right hand man" - he has a trio of humans and a canine/rodent/raccoon hybrid creature (a "billybumbler") by his side. While these makeshift gunslingers are, indeed, outgunned and outmanned, they have their wits and courage to carry them through the arduous journey ahead. And, since Stephen King is playing the "Dungeon Master" for this story, you know it's going to be a horrific, heartfelt, and humorous adventure.
I find it fascinating how The Dark Tower series evolved so quickly after its first installment. The gritty, grim tone of The Gunslinger made way for humorous observations, absurd "fish out of water" scenarios, and comical monstrosities (or lobstrosities, as it were) in the two subsequent installments. As much as the author is best known as the "King of Horror," he's also the "King of Quips and One-Liners." Much of the author's humorous side is delivered through the mouthpiece of Eddie Dean, a crafty New Yorker with a tongue as sharp and piercing as any blade. Although the figure of Eddie felt obnoxious when he was introduced as a struggling addict with a twisted worldview in The Drawing of the Three, King redeems this character with a nobler, conflicted, three-dimensional depiction in the sequel. Likewise, Susannah's evolution from her initial portrayal as a disabled woman with Dissociative Identity Disorder to a more nuanced representation reflects King's growth as a writer and wordsmith from 1982 to 1991. As for Jake... Well, it feels at times like Jake's story is one of the most convoluted RETCONs in literary history (paradox and pondering and parallel universes, oh my!); however, his resurrection from The Gunslinger offers Roland a much-needed redemption and victory that he - and the reader - desperately crave. I'll just have to see how Jake plays into the remaining novels in the series.
The Waste Lands is, for lack of a better term, absolutely NUTS... but in the best way possible. King is clearly indebted to J.R.R. Tolkien: here we have a ragtag group of misfit underdogs inexplicably drawn to a mysterious destination to save the world(s). However, whereas Frodo and company cross from the Shire into Rivendell and beyond, King's Ka-Tet (group of banded travelers) crosses into parallel universes through mysterious portals. That being said, I don't remember Gandalf the Gray or Bilbo Baggins ever riding a sentient, sociopathic monorail train. Regardless of horror-themed components, though, it's still an engaging experience to read about a ragtag group of adventurers who have been tasked with an impossible mission.
On to Wizard and Glass, I go! Wish me luck, fellow "Constant Readers" - I have a feeling I might need it...
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for March 2023:
How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Grady Hendrix has heart. And not just the bloody kind that makes for a tasty zombie meal. Like his idol, Stephen King, Hendrix balances the wholesome and the horrific in equal measure, tackling trauma and terror with a tender hand and humorous quips. At the core of every one of his novels, the author's central focus is on dysfunctional human relationships - relationships, of course, set amid the backdrop of the spooky, surreal, and supernatural. Hendrix's newest novel, How to Sell a Haunted House , is no different: at the center of the story is a family on rocky terrain, with the titular haunted house amplifying the fractured familial relationships... And what a fractured family this is.
How to Sell a Haunted House begins with a pregnancy, but death follows only a few pages later. Our protagonist, Louise Joyner, receives a phone call from her estranged brother, Mark, who delivers heartbreaking news: their parents, Eric and Nancy, have been killed in a car accident. Ever the dutiful daughter, Louise flies from San Francisco to Charleston, ready to take on her seemingly good-for-nothing sibling. Once she arrives in South Carolina, creepy things start happening in her childhood home: TVs flicker on in empty rooms, immobile dolls seem to move about, and inanimate objects attack with a furry vengeance. Nancy's favorite childhood doll, Pupkin, plays a prominent role in terrifying the Joyner household - in multiple generations, nonetheless. This particular puppet, which gives Chucky and Annabelle a run for their macabre money, acts out in grotesque and gory ways; there are some terrifically terrifying sequences (the eyeball and tablesaw scenes are particularly gruesome), providing some ghastly images that will stay with the reader long after the final pages of the story. As the novel progresses, we discover the origins of Pupkin and his link to the Joyner family, with a carefully crafted reveal that brings the story full circle. Needless to say, I'll never look at The Velveteen Rabbit the same way ever again.
In many ways, How to Sell a Haunted House is classic ghost story fare, with dark multigenerational secrets and supernatural artifacts galore. However, Hendrix is more interested in the dynamics of a fractured family than he is in blood and bodily harm (though there is some of that, as well). While there are a few plot holes in the story (wait until you meet "Spider"), the majority of Haunted House is impressively evocative. At times, the novel reminded me of Ari Aster's Hereditary - albeit with fewer beheadings. Like that uber-disturbing film, Hendrix intertwines the horrors of the supernatural with the trauma of familial dysfunction. For me, the most haunting moment of Haunted House involves Louise's daughter, Poppy; while her fate is much less ghastly than that of Charlie in Hereditary, both writers tap into the nightmares of every doting parent. Nothing is worse than watching a child suffer, and Hendrix truly knows how to play upon those fears.
Previous entries in the Hendrix canon have addressed exorcisms, vampires, slasher films, and portals to hell. This time, the author examines two other classic horror tropes: haunted houses and devilish dolls. After reading Hendrix's brilliant Paperbacks from Hell: The Twisted History of '70s and '80s Horror Fiction , I was deeply impressed by his breadth of knowledge about historical trends in the world of horror. Clearly, the man has done his homework. In some ways, How to Sell a Haunted House reads like a long-lost pulp fiction bestseller from the 1980s - with 21st-century sensibilities, of course. You have killer dolls, possessed realia, and even imaginary animals come to life... and, yes, it's as wild as it sounds. It's plain to see that Hendrix enjoys subverting expectations, even as he pays homage to not-so-classic horror novels of yesteryear. And, as usual, he balances horror and humor with heart.
After reading How to Sell a Haunted House, I can honestly say that Grady Hendrix is hitting his stride. Despite a few flawed entries in his early oeuvre, Mr. Hendrix has successfully evolved into a reliable vendor of amusingly insightful horror. Like Stephen King and Mike Flanagan, Grady Hendrix is a purveyor of "wholesome horror" - spooky stories that ultimately provide catharsis and exorcism (sometimes literally). After all, grief is like emotional calculus. No matter how much work you put into working out the problem, it's far too complex to solve in a short period of time. Hendrix understands this phenomenon, and he brings it to life (like The Velveteen Rabbit, come to think of it) in the cleverly crafted pages of How to Sell a Haunted House.
How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Grady Hendrix has heart. And not just the bloody kind that makes for a tasty zombie meal. Like his idol, Stephen King, Hendrix balances the wholesome and the horrific in equal measure, tackling trauma and terror with a tender hand and humorous quips. At the core of every one of his novels, the author's central focus is on dysfunctional human relationships - relationships, of course, set amid the backdrop of the spooky, surreal, and supernatural. Hendrix's newest novel, How to Sell a Haunted House , is no different: at the center of the story is a family on rocky terrain, with the titular haunted house amplifying the fractured familial relationships... And what a fractured family this is.
How to Sell a Haunted House begins with a pregnancy, but death follows only a few pages later. Our protagonist, Louise Joyner, receives a phone call from her estranged brother, Mark, who delivers heartbreaking news: their parents, Eric and Nancy, have been killed in a car accident. Ever the dutiful daughter, Louise flies from San Francisco to Charleston, ready to take on her seemingly good-for-nothing sibling. Once she arrives in South Carolina, creepy things start happening in her childhood home: TVs flicker on in empty rooms, immobile dolls seem to move about, and inanimate objects attack with a furry vengeance. Nancy's favorite childhood doll, Pupkin, plays a prominent role in terrifying the Joyner household - in multiple generations, nonetheless. This particular puppet, which gives Chucky and Annabelle a run for their macabre money, acts out in grotesque and gory ways; there are some terrifically terrifying sequences (the eyeball and tablesaw scenes are particularly gruesome), providing some ghastly images that will stay with the reader long after the final pages of the story. As the novel progresses, we discover the origins of Pupkin and his link to the Joyner family, with a carefully crafted reveal that brings the story full circle. Needless to say, I'll never look at The Velveteen Rabbit the same way ever again.
In many ways, How to Sell a Haunted House is classic ghost story fare, with dark multigenerational secrets and supernatural artifacts galore. However, Hendrix is more interested in the dynamics of a fractured family than he is in blood and bodily harm (though there is some of that, as well). While there are a few plot holes in the story (wait until you meet "Spider"), the majority of Haunted House is impressively evocative. At times, the novel reminded me of Ari Aster's Hereditary - albeit with fewer beheadings. Like that uber-disturbing film, Hendrix intertwines the horrors of the supernatural with the trauma of familial dysfunction. For me, the most haunting moment of Haunted House involves Louise's daughter, Poppy; while her fate is much less ghastly than that of Charlie in Hereditary, both writers tap into the nightmares of every doting parent. Nothing is worse than watching a child suffer, and Hendrix truly knows how to play upon those fears.
Previous entries in the Hendrix canon have addressed exorcisms, vampires, slasher films, and portals to hell. This time, the author examines two other classic horror tropes: haunted houses and devilish dolls. After reading Hendrix's brilliant Paperbacks from Hell: The Twisted History of '70s and '80s Horror Fiction , I was deeply impressed by his breadth of knowledge about historical trends in the world of horror. Clearly, the man has done his homework. In some ways, How to Sell a Haunted House reads like a long-lost pulp fiction bestseller from the 1980s - with 21st-century sensibilities, of course. You have killer dolls, possessed realia, and even imaginary animals come to life... and, yes, it's as wild as it sounds. It's plain to see that Hendrix enjoys subverting expectations, even as he pays homage to not-so-classic horror novels of yesteryear. And, as usual, he balances horror and humor with heart.
After reading How to Sell a Haunted House, I can honestly say that Grady Hendrix is hitting his stride. Despite a few flawed entries in his early oeuvre, Mr. Hendrix has successfully evolved into a reliable vendor of amusingly insightful horror. Like Stephen King and Mike Flanagan, Grady Hendrix is a purveyor of "wholesome horror" - spooky stories that ultimately provide catharsis and exorcism (sometimes literally). After all, grief is like emotional calculus. No matter how much work you put into working out the problem, it's far too complex to solve in a short period of time. Hendrix understands this phenomenon, and he brings it to life (like The Velveteen Rabbit, come to think of it) in the cleverly crafted pages of How to Sell a Haunted House.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for February 2023:
Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
When I read Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven a few years ago, I was thoroughly impressed with the author's thoughtful, insightful twist on science-fiction. Here, at last, was an author who married literary aspirations with the tried-and-true tropes of Sci-Fi, validating a genre that is all too frequently dismissed by critics and "serious" readers. In a rare circumstance, the book actually improves upon its archetypal ancestor, Stephen King's The Stand . Despite some of that novel's imperfections (like the mathematical/scientific implausibility of a virus that simultaneously spreads across the globe while killing its hosts within just a day or two), Station Eleven artfully captures the timeless elements of trauma, grief, loss, and growing up. It's nothing short of a modern masterpiece.
With Sea of Tranquility, Emily St. John Mandel returns to the Sci-Fi landscape in which she found fame, and once again incorporates elements of global pandemics (multiple pandemics, in fact). In four intricately intertwined narratives, Mandel delivers a unique cast of characters: a British expatriate in 1912, a grieving woman in pre-pandemic 2020, a novelist on a book tour in 2203, and a time traveler in 2401. These four disparate threads are more intimately stitched together than one might assume, with an inexplicable time/reality "glitch" uniting the figures across the centuries. Without revealing too much, I will happily report that Mandel delivers the goods in the novel's final act, saving the best twists and turns for the last portion of the book. Unlike, say, Jodi Picoult, Mandel leaves a feast of breadcrumbs for her readers. Whenever there's a plot twist, you can be sure that the author has "done the work" to provide clues for the audience - whether it's subtle details like eye colors and music, or larger passages that repeat important observations and characteristics. It is during the last portion of the novel that Mandel weaves together all her disparate threads - and proves she is a modern master of science-fiction, a worthy heir to Margaret Atwood.
Mandel incorporates some clever "meta" moments in Sea of Tranquility: the story's 23rd-century novelist, Olive Llewellyn, is touring in support of a science-fiction novel about a global pandemic... not unlike Mandel's own experiences as the writer of Station Eleven. During interviews with journalists and lecture hall Q&A sessions, Mandel pokes fun at some of the nuanced criticisms of Station Eleven: How many books did the author sell during the pandemic? Is the death of the novel's antagonist too anticlimactic? Does the author feel validated or vindicated knowing that they wrote a book about a fictional global pandemic shortly before the outbreak of a real global pandemic? There are moments of humor and heartbreak in equal measure, as Mandel uses the avatar of Olive to explore some of her own real-life experiences. Although it's dangerous to assume that writers use autobiographical elements in their novels, I'm always fascinated by the overlapping Venn diagram circles of fiction and non-fiction; I love it when an author's personal experiences are imbued and embedded within their creations. Though it's a precarious wire to walk, the author simply jumps and jetés on that tightrope in Sea of Tranquility. Such acrobatic feats are remarkable from any writer, let alone one as adventurous as Mandel.
Though Sea of Tranquility is quite possibly brilliant, it's not entirely flawless in its execution. The opening chapters, featuring Edwin St. Andrew, feel tedious and almost deterred me from continuing the book; as someone who finds that era of history foreign and uninteresting, I had to struggle through Mandel's first act before I found myself invested in the story. Because of my experience reading Station Eleven, I decided to give Sea of Tranquility the benefit of the doubt - and thank goodness I didn't abandon this ship! Additionally, while Mandel does an excellent job of tidying up loose ends for Gaspery-Jacques Roberts, the fates of other characters seem maddeningly incomplete and unnecessarily truncated. It's strange to watch a writer who effortlessly crafts tidy endings for some characters leave readers unfulfilled with other storylines. While I admire ambiguity in storytelling, I also crave closure... and the two are not mutually exclusive. Likewise, the subplots involving "simulation theory," while injecting faint hints of The Matrix into the narrative, seem slightly forced and unresolved; I only hope that the author revisits these strands of her storytelling in the future. So, while I have very few complaints and criticisms about Sea of Tranquility, they're reminders that Mandel still has a little room for growth as a writer.
Despite these imperfections, Sea of Tranquility is still a thrilling read - one that will appeal to fans of literary fiction and Sci-Fi. While pandemic plagues and time travel have been addressed in media countless times before (there are echoes of 12 Monkeys throughout the novel), Mandel imbues her novel with a sense of humanity and organic authenticity that often escapes the attempts of middling science fiction writers. One of Sea of Tranquility's key lines, “A life lived in a simulation is still a life," is an excellent reminder that Mandel is ultimately most concerned with life, not the trappings of outer space or the failings of a far-off future. Because of this, Mandel capably offers a prayer for the present, a reflection of our own worlds through the filtered lens of fantasy. In the end, Sea of Tranquility masterfully captures the essence of the human spirit - an accomplishment which is even more impressive considering its fanciful imagining of the future and its insightful examination of the past.
Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
When I read Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven a few years ago, I was thoroughly impressed with the author's thoughtful, insightful twist on science-fiction. Here, at last, was an author who married literary aspirations with the tried-and-true tropes of Sci-Fi, validating a genre that is all too frequently dismissed by critics and "serious" readers. In a rare circumstance, the book actually improves upon its archetypal ancestor, Stephen King's The Stand . Despite some of that novel's imperfections (like the mathematical/scientific implausibility of a virus that simultaneously spreads across the globe while killing its hosts within just a day or two), Station Eleven artfully captures the timeless elements of trauma, grief, loss, and growing up. It's nothing short of a modern masterpiece.
With Sea of Tranquility, Emily St. John Mandel returns to the Sci-Fi landscape in which she found fame, and once again incorporates elements of global pandemics (multiple pandemics, in fact). In four intricately intertwined narratives, Mandel delivers a unique cast of characters: a British expatriate in 1912, a grieving woman in pre-pandemic 2020, a novelist on a book tour in 2203, and a time traveler in 2401. These four disparate threads are more intimately stitched together than one might assume, with an inexplicable time/reality "glitch" uniting the figures across the centuries. Without revealing too much, I will happily report that Mandel delivers the goods in the novel's final act, saving the best twists and turns for the last portion of the book. Unlike, say, Jodi Picoult, Mandel leaves a feast of breadcrumbs for her readers. Whenever there's a plot twist, you can be sure that the author has "done the work" to provide clues for the audience - whether it's subtle details like eye colors and music, or larger passages that repeat important observations and characteristics. It is during the last portion of the novel that Mandel weaves together all her disparate threads - and proves she is a modern master of science-fiction, a worthy heir to Margaret Atwood.
Mandel incorporates some clever "meta" moments in Sea of Tranquility: the story's 23rd-century novelist, Olive Llewellyn, is touring in support of a science-fiction novel about a global pandemic... not unlike Mandel's own experiences as the writer of Station Eleven. During interviews with journalists and lecture hall Q&A sessions, Mandel pokes fun at some of the nuanced criticisms of Station Eleven: How many books did the author sell during the pandemic? Is the death of the novel's antagonist too anticlimactic? Does the author feel validated or vindicated knowing that they wrote a book about a fictional global pandemic shortly before the outbreak of a real global pandemic? There are moments of humor and heartbreak in equal measure, as Mandel uses the avatar of Olive to explore some of her own real-life experiences. Although it's dangerous to assume that writers use autobiographical elements in their novels, I'm always fascinated by the overlapping Venn diagram circles of fiction and non-fiction; I love it when an author's personal experiences are imbued and embedded within their creations. Though it's a precarious wire to walk, the author simply jumps and jetés on that tightrope in Sea of Tranquility. Such acrobatic feats are remarkable from any writer, let alone one as adventurous as Mandel.
Though Sea of Tranquility is quite possibly brilliant, it's not entirely flawless in its execution. The opening chapters, featuring Edwin St. Andrew, feel tedious and almost deterred me from continuing the book; as someone who finds that era of history foreign and uninteresting, I had to struggle through Mandel's first act before I found myself invested in the story. Because of my experience reading Station Eleven, I decided to give Sea of Tranquility the benefit of the doubt - and thank goodness I didn't abandon this ship! Additionally, while Mandel does an excellent job of tidying up loose ends for Gaspery-Jacques Roberts, the fates of other characters seem maddeningly incomplete and unnecessarily truncated. It's strange to watch a writer who effortlessly crafts tidy endings for some characters leave readers unfulfilled with other storylines. While I admire ambiguity in storytelling, I also crave closure... and the two are not mutually exclusive. Likewise, the subplots involving "simulation theory," while injecting faint hints of The Matrix into the narrative, seem slightly forced and unresolved; I only hope that the author revisits these strands of her storytelling in the future. So, while I have very few complaints and criticisms about Sea of Tranquility, they're reminders that Mandel still has a little room for growth as a writer.
Despite these imperfections, Sea of Tranquility is still a thrilling read - one that will appeal to fans of literary fiction and Sci-Fi. While pandemic plagues and time travel have been addressed in media countless times before (there are echoes of 12 Monkeys throughout the novel), Mandel imbues her novel with a sense of humanity and organic authenticity that often escapes the attempts of middling science fiction writers. One of Sea of Tranquility's key lines, “A life lived in a simulation is still a life," is an excellent reminder that Mandel is ultimately most concerned with life, not the trappings of outer space or the failings of a far-off future. Because of this, Mandel capably offers a prayer for the present, a reflection of our own worlds through the filtered lens of fantasy. In the end, Sea of Tranquility masterfully captures the essence of the human spirit - an accomplishment which is even more impressive considering its fanciful imagining of the future and its insightful examination of the past.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for January 2023:
The Gunslinger by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Stephen King might be the most prolific author of his generation, with more than sixty books under his belt - several of them hulking behemoths. And, while there are *many* contenders for the title of "best" in his oeuvre, the Dark Tower series seems to have amassed a small army of readers who believe that this is King's masterpiece. So, with the announcement that Mike Flanagan would be tackling a Dark Tower adaptation for Amazon, I figured that it was time for me to enter the world of Gilead, pick up The Gunslinger , and give the series a shot - no pun intended.
In this novel, we're introduced to the rugged Roland Deschain, the last of a dying breed of gun-slinging pseudo-knights. Roland travels the post-apocalyptic wasteland of Gilead (not to be confused with Margaret Atwood's dystopian country of the same name in The Handmaid's Tale ), hot on the trail of the enigmatic Man in Black. Along the way, our protagonist encounters magic, militias, mutants, and a mysterious child who only recently crossed into Gilead from his home in contemporary New York City. Is Gilead in the far-off future? Is it an alternate dimension with tethers to our own universe? Or is it something else entirely? Like Roland, the reader gets some answers during the penultimate chapters of the novel - but there are many, many more mysteries left to solve. It's no surprise, then, that King needed seven more books to complete this epic story.
The end result? A hybrid western/sci-fi/horror/adventure novel that references everything from the Bible to the Beatles. It's an ambitious gambit, but it's one that doesn't always hit the mark. Alas, in The Gunslinger, King is less of a sharpshooter than a middling marksman.
Although this novel is not King's magnum opus, it's still a fascinating story with boundless creativity hidden in its pages. Though I can't in good conscience sing the praises of The Gunslinger, I still applaud King's ambitious attempt to fuse a variety of genres: we see echoes of dime-store pulp novels filtered through the lens of Friday night juke joints, Saturday afternoon monster-movie matinees, and Sunday morning church services. King simply refuses to remain chained to the restrictions of classification, and he clearly delights in subverting audience expectations. For better or worse, King's confidence and ambition are forces to be reckoned with.
Periodically, King's wordplay takes centerstage and reminds the reader that his talents stretch far beyond the realms of the macabre into masterful craft. Take, for instance, King's description of a "big bang" occurrence: " 'Land,' the man in black invited, and there it was; it heaved itself out of the water in endless, galvanic convulsions. It was red, arid, cracked and glazed with sterility. Volcanoes blurted endless magma like giant pimples on some ugly adolescent's baseball head... Continents took shape before his amazed eyes, and were obscured with clocksprings of clouds. The world's atmosphere held it in a placental sac. And the sun, rising beyond the earth's shoulder--" (216). Such stream-of-consciousness description is simply good writing, regardless of genre. In my own subversive way, I would love to throw this passage at an AP English class and simply enjoy the ensuing discussion. I guess that King isn't the only person in this world who likes to subvert expectations.
As I was reading The Gunslinger, it was hard for me to not draw comparisons with Cormac McCarthy's "weird western," Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West . McCarthy's novel is another dark epic that flirts with the supernatural and marries bloodshed with literary aspirations. And, while I'm undeniably "Team King" in that showdown, I have to admit that McCarthy has successfully outdrawn the King of Horror in this duel. That being said, I would love to see some cross-pollinated fan fiction that depicts Roland Deschain taking on The Judge. In that circumstance, my money would definitely be on Roland of Gilead.
With all due respect, I wholeheartedly believe that It is King's true masterpiece - a sprawling pièce de résistance that bridges the traditional Bildungsroman with horror and sci-fi tropes. In that regard, I think Pennywise the Clown could probably teach the Man in Black a few tricks. All the other King-obsessives out there might think otherwise, but Roland Deschain can't hold a candle to the Losers' Club. And I'll challenge anyone who disagrees to a duel in the sewers of Derry.
The Gunslinger by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Stephen King might be the most prolific author of his generation, with more than sixty books under his belt - several of them hulking behemoths. And, while there are *many* contenders for the title of "best" in his oeuvre, the Dark Tower series seems to have amassed a small army of readers who believe that this is King's masterpiece. So, with the announcement that Mike Flanagan would be tackling a Dark Tower adaptation for Amazon, I figured that it was time for me to enter the world of Gilead, pick up The Gunslinger , and give the series a shot - no pun intended.
In this novel, we're introduced to the rugged Roland Deschain, the last of a dying breed of gun-slinging pseudo-knights. Roland travels the post-apocalyptic wasteland of Gilead (not to be confused with Margaret Atwood's dystopian country of the same name in The Handmaid's Tale ), hot on the trail of the enigmatic Man in Black. Along the way, our protagonist encounters magic, militias, mutants, and a mysterious child who only recently crossed into Gilead from his home in contemporary New York City. Is Gilead in the far-off future? Is it an alternate dimension with tethers to our own universe? Or is it something else entirely? Like Roland, the reader gets some answers during the penultimate chapters of the novel - but there are many, many more mysteries left to solve. It's no surprise, then, that King needed seven more books to complete this epic story.
The end result? A hybrid western/sci-fi/horror/adventure novel that references everything from the Bible to the Beatles. It's an ambitious gambit, but it's one that doesn't always hit the mark. Alas, in The Gunslinger, King is less of a sharpshooter than a middling marksman.
Although this novel is not King's magnum opus, it's still a fascinating story with boundless creativity hidden in its pages. Though I can't in good conscience sing the praises of The Gunslinger, I still applaud King's ambitious attempt to fuse a variety of genres: we see echoes of dime-store pulp novels filtered through the lens of Friday night juke joints, Saturday afternoon monster-movie matinees, and Sunday morning church services. King simply refuses to remain chained to the restrictions of classification, and he clearly delights in subverting audience expectations. For better or worse, King's confidence and ambition are forces to be reckoned with.
Periodically, King's wordplay takes centerstage and reminds the reader that his talents stretch far beyond the realms of the macabre into masterful craft. Take, for instance, King's description of a "big bang" occurrence: " 'Land,' the man in black invited, and there it was; it heaved itself out of the water in endless, galvanic convulsions. It was red, arid, cracked and glazed with sterility. Volcanoes blurted endless magma like giant pimples on some ugly adolescent's baseball head... Continents took shape before his amazed eyes, and were obscured with clocksprings of clouds. The world's atmosphere held it in a placental sac. And the sun, rising beyond the earth's shoulder--" (216). Such stream-of-consciousness description is simply good writing, regardless of genre. In my own subversive way, I would love to throw this passage at an AP English class and simply enjoy the ensuing discussion. I guess that King isn't the only person in this world who likes to subvert expectations.
As I was reading The Gunslinger, it was hard for me to not draw comparisons with Cormac McCarthy's "weird western," Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West . McCarthy's novel is another dark epic that flirts with the supernatural and marries bloodshed with literary aspirations. And, while I'm undeniably "Team King" in that showdown, I have to admit that McCarthy has successfully outdrawn the King of Horror in this duel. That being said, I would love to see some cross-pollinated fan fiction that depicts Roland Deschain taking on The Judge. In that circumstance, my money would definitely be on Roland of Gilead.
With all due respect, I wholeheartedly believe that It is King's true masterpiece - a sprawling pièce de résistance that bridges the traditional Bildungsroman with horror and sci-fi tropes. In that regard, I think Pennywise the Clown could probably teach the Man in Black a few tricks. All the other King-obsessives out there might think otherwise, but Roland Deschain can't hold a candle to the Losers' Club. And I'll challenge anyone who disagrees to a duel in the sewers of Derry.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for December 2022:
Before We Were Yours by Lisa Wingate
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
A few months back, my mom loaned me a copy of Lisa Wingate's Before We Were Yours . I took one look at the cover, read the synopsis, and promptly shoved it onto a bookshelf - forgetting about it entirely. Alas, there are just too many books and too little time to read them all. Shortly thereafter, however, my book club decided to tackle Before We Were Yours as our December/January selection; after begrudgingly reading the first few chapters, I have to admit that the novel defied my prejudiced expectations. Wingate's book is a heart-wrenching work of historical fiction that sheds light on a tragic piece of American history, and her writing will undoubtedly thaw even the iciest of hearts.
Bouncing back and forth between 1930s-era Memphis and modern-day South Carolina, the novel unfolds with two intertwined narratives: the story of Rill Foss, a child who (along with her siblings) is abducted from her home, and the life of Avery Stafford, a young woman who is the heir-apparent to her family's political dynasty. As any casual reader will guess, these two stories are inextricably bound together by secrets that will ultimately come to light over the course of the novel. Both parallel plots work well in isolation, but Wingate creates a sleuth-worthy mystery that the characters (and readers) will have to untangle and decipher.
It's not much of a spoiler, because the book's blurb reveals as much, but Before We Were Yours centers on the crimes of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society in the mid-1900s. Over the course of several decades, stretching from the 1930s to the 1950s, a woman named Georgia Tann organized the illegal trade of children through the auspices of adoption. As the novel details through its fictionalized reenactment of history, children in Memphis were regularly abducted from their homes, taken hostage by the Tennessee Children’s Home Society, and abused by their captors before being sold to families under the era's legal channels of adoption. These innocent victims were often subjected to neglect, starvation, physical abuse, psychological torment, and molestation. As Wingate asserts in the novel's afterward, the traumatic experiences of Rill and her siblings were taken directly from the real-life experiences of children who were victims of Georgia Tann and the Tennessee Children’s Home Society. It's almost like the American version of a Charles Dickens novel, with Georgia Tann serving as a stand-in for Miss Havisham or Fagin. Unlike the protagonists of a Dickens novel, however, the Foss siblings don't have a tidy happily-ever-after resolution to their travails. In that regard, Wingate is much more in line with Mark Twain, whose novel, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn , Wingate repeatedly references over the course of her book.
While Wingate's writing is unquestionably eloquent and carefully crafted, the novel does suffer from a few authorial missteps. A romantic subplot in Avery's portion of the story falls flat and undermines the haunting qualities of Rill's experiences. Likewise, the "shocking secret" at the heart of the book relies upon several characters refusing to divulge their personal histories to their own family members; rather than create an honest portrayal of psychological repression, it comes across as forced - as if it's done more to mechanically further the plot than to authentically examine the aftermath of trauma.
Despite these flaws, Before We Were Yours is a fascinating read, complete with complex characters and evocative writing. Although some of the plot twists are visible from miles (knots?) away, the winding river of the novel provides many insights into aging, trauma, and the power of family. Even naysayers (like yours truly) will most likely be won over by this poignant, moving novel and the themes that Wingate explores.
Before We Were Yours by Lisa Wingate
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
A few months back, my mom loaned me a copy of Lisa Wingate's Before We Were Yours . I took one look at the cover, read the synopsis, and promptly shoved it onto a bookshelf - forgetting about it entirely. Alas, there are just too many books and too little time to read them all. Shortly thereafter, however, my book club decided to tackle Before We Were Yours as our December/January selection; after begrudgingly reading the first few chapters, I have to admit that the novel defied my prejudiced expectations. Wingate's book is a heart-wrenching work of historical fiction that sheds light on a tragic piece of American history, and her writing will undoubtedly thaw even the iciest of hearts.
Bouncing back and forth between 1930s-era Memphis and modern-day South Carolina, the novel unfolds with two intertwined narratives: the story of Rill Foss, a child who (along with her siblings) is abducted from her home, and the life of Avery Stafford, a young woman who is the heir-apparent to her family's political dynasty. As any casual reader will guess, these two stories are inextricably bound together by secrets that will ultimately come to light over the course of the novel. Both parallel plots work well in isolation, but Wingate creates a sleuth-worthy mystery that the characters (and readers) will have to untangle and decipher.
It's not much of a spoiler, because the book's blurb reveals as much, but Before We Were Yours centers on the crimes of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society in the mid-1900s. Over the course of several decades, stretching from the 1930s to the 1950s, a woman named Georgia Tann organized the illegal trade of children through the auspices of adoption. As the novel details through its fictionalized reenactment of history, children in Memphis were regularly abducted from their homes, taken hostage by the Tennessee Children’s Home Society, and abused by their captors before being sold to families under the era's legal channels of adoption. These innocent victims were often subjected to neglect, starvation, physical abuse, psychological torment, and molestation. As Wingate asserts in the novel's afterward, the traumatic experiences of Rill and her siblings were taken directly from the real-life experiences of children who were victims of Georgia Tann and the Tennessee Children’s Home Society. It's almost like the American version of a Charles Dickens novel, with Georgia Tann serving as a stand-in for Miss Havisham or Fagin. Unlike the protagonists of a Dickens novel, however, the Foss siblings don't have a tidy happily-ever-after resolution to their travails. In that regard, Wingate is much more in line with Mark Twain, whose novel, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn , Wingate repeatedly references over the course of her book.
While Wingate's writing is unquestionably eloquent and carefully crafted, the novel does suffer from a few authorial missteps. A romantic subplot in Avery's portion of the story falls flat and undermines the haunting qualities of Rill's experiences. Likewise, the "shocking secret" at the heart of the book relies upon several characters refusing to divulge their personal histories to their own family members; rather than create an honest portrayal of psychological repression, it comes across as forced - as if it's done more to mechanically further the plot than to authentically examine the aftermath of trauma.
Despite these flaws, Before We Were Yours is a fascinating read, complete with complex characters and evocative writing. Although some of the plot twists are visible from miles (knots?) away, the winding river of the novel provides many insights into aging, trauma, and the power of family. Even naysayers (like yours truly) will most likely be won over by this poignant, moving novel and the themes that Wingate explores.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for November 2022:
Wish You Were Here by Jodi Picoult
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I have a love/hate relationship with Jodi Picoult. When I read Leaving Time a few years ago, I was thoroughly impressed with her writing... until the novel's big plot twist. Great writers leave breadcrumbs throughout their novels - subtle hints and clues that a clever reader can catch, digest, and use to interpret the unexpected narrative twists that have been embedded within a novel. However, with Leaving Time, Picoult didn't "earn" the big twist that upends the novel's plot. For me, at least, the book was spoiled by the author "pulling out the rug" from beneath her readers, something that left a sour taste in my mouth. Since then, I've been wary of Picoult's writing (especially after learning that another one of her novels, House Rules , promoted the debunked theory that vaccines cause autism). So, it was with some trepidation that I agreed to read Wish You Were Here with my book club. Once again, Ms. Picoult has left me a bit torn as a reader. Is the novel lovingly and eloquently crafted? Undoubtedly. Does the author "earn" her plot twist this time? That's open for debate.
In Wish You Were Here, an up-and-coming Sotheby's art dealer, Diana O'Toole, faces some pretty momentous life changes: an impending proposal from her surgeon boyfriend, a father who prematurely passed away after an accident, an absent mother who struggles with Alzheimer's, a high-pressure job in the art world, an expensive planned trip to the Galápagos Islands, and (last, but certainly not least) the COVID pandemic that throws her meticulously plotted life into turmoil. Without giving away too much, I will say that there is one heck of a plot twist about 2/3 of the way through the book - the kind that calls into question almost everything that you've read up to that point. If only for that reason, I have a feeling that M. Night Shyamalan would enthusiastically give Ms. Picoult two thumbs up for this novel.
So, what can I reveal about Wish You Were Here without ruining its big twist? It's probably safe to say that the book tackles the COVID pandemic in a timely, thoughtful manner. Diana's fiancée, Finn, works in a New York hospital during the early days of the 2020 shutdown, and we see the trauma and PTSD of the experience through his eyes. But Picoult's novel is more than just a quick cash-in on our shared global tragedy; rather, it's an attempt to find some semblance of meaning and purpose during an era of malady and malaise. Our protagonist, Diana, is a thoughtful, reflective narrator, someone whose interpersonal relationships are grounded in reality. Even when the novel broaches surrealist topics (again, I'm trying really hard to avoid spoilers!), Picoult tackles the trials and tribulations of her characters in a tender, eloquent fashion. While lesser writers might paint absent mothers, dead fathers, unfaithful lovers, and/or arrogant art dealers with the kind of broad brush strokes that reduce them to two-dimensional caricatures, Picoult brings a graceful sensitivity to even her most prickly creations. As she reminds us at one point, "Nobody’s all good or all bad. They just get painted that way."
Ultimately, Wish You Were Here is a novel about evolution and adaptation - not just of animals in the Galápagos, but of the human spirit. As Diana weathers her way through the seemingly insurmountable hurricane of the COVID pandemic, we watch her grow and change in ways that might seem unexpected. It's a novel about creation and recreation, incarnation and reincarnation, discovery and rediscovery. So, while Picoult might not have hit a homerun with this latest release, Wish You Were Here has redeemed her - at least a little bit - in my eyes. Clearly, Ms. Picoult is adapting and evolving like a literary finch in the Galápagos Islands. Charles Darwin would be proud.
Wish You Were Here by Jodi Picoult
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I have a love/hate relationship with Jodi Picoult. When I read Leaving Time a few years ago, I was thoroughly impressed with her writing... until the novel's big plot twist. Great writers leave breadcrumbs throughout their novels - subtle hints and clues that a clever reader can catch, digest, and use to interpret the unexpected narrative twists that have been embedded within a novel. However, with Leaving Time, Picoult didn't "earn" the big twist that upends the novel's plot. For me, at least, the book was spoiled by the author "pulling out the rug" from beneath her readers, something that left a sour taste in my mouth. Since then, I've been wary of Picoult's writing (especially after learning that another one of her novels, House Rules , promoted the debunked theory that vaccines cause autism). So, it was with some trepidation that I agreed to read Wish You Were Here with my book club. Once again, Ms. Picoult has left me a bit torn as a reader. Is the novel lovingly and eloquently crafted? Undoubtedly. Does the author "earn" her plot twist this time? That's open for debate.
In Wish You Were Here, an up-and-coming Sotheby's art dealer, Diana O'Toole, faces some pretty momentous life changes: an impending proposal from her surgeon boyfriend, a father who prematurely passed away after an accident, an absent mother who struggles with Alzheimer's, a high-pressure job in the art world, an expensive planned trip to the Galápagos Islands, and (last, but certainly not least) the COVID pandemic that throws her meticulously plotted life into turmoil. Without giving away too much, I will say that there is one heck of a plot twist about 2/3 of the way through the book - the kind that calls into question almost everything that you've read up to that point. If only for that reason, I have a feeling that M. Night Shyamalan would enthusiastically give Ms. Picoult two thumbs up for this novel.
So, what can I reveal about Wish You Were Here without ruining its big twist? It's probably safe to say that the book tackles the COVID pandemic in a timely, thoughtful manner. Diana's fiancée, Finn, works in a New York hospital during the early days of the 2020 shutdown, and we see the trauma and PTSD of the experience through his eyes. But Picoult's novel is more than just a quick cash-in on our shared global tragedy; rather, it's an attempt to find some semblance of meaning and purpose during an era of malady and malaise. Our protagonist, Diana, is a thoughtful, reflective narrator, someone whose interpersonal relationships are grounded in reality. Even when the novel broaches surrealist topics (again, I'm trying really hard to avoid spoilers!), Picoult tackles the trials and tribulations of her characters in a tender, eloquent fashion. While lesser writers might paint absent mothers, dead fathers, unfaithful lovers, and/or arrogant art dealers with the kind of broad brush strokes that reduce them to two-dimensional caricatures, Picoult brings a graceful sensitivity to even her most prickly creations. As she reminds us at one point, "Nobody’s all good or all bad. They just get painted that way."
Ultimately, Wish You Were Here is a novel about evolution and adaptation - not just of animals in the Galápagos, but of the human spirit. As Diana weathers her way through the seemingly insurmountable hurricane of the COVID pandemic, we watch her grow and change in ways that might seem unexpected. It's a novel about creation and recreation, incarnation and reincarnation, discovery and rediscovery. So, while Picoult might not have hit a homerun with this latest release, Wish You Were Here has redeemed her - at least a little bit - in my eyes. Clearly, Ms. Picoult is adapting and evolving like a literary finch in the Galápagos Islands. Charles Darwin would be proud.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for October 2022:
The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Despite my eager hopes, Sarah Perry's The Essex Serpent is decidedly not a supernatural horror novel about a giant winged snake terrorizing the British countryside. Alas, Perry's book shares more serpentine DNA with Charles Dickens than Stephen King. Instead of a suspenseful supernatural story, The Essex Serpent is a slow-burning work of literary fiction that examines the muddy, complicated intersection of science and faith, friendship and love. If you enjoy Victorian literature, star-crossed lovers, and the subtleties of stuffy British settings, this might be more up your (cobblestone) alley.
As she alternates between the Essex countryside and London cityscape, Perry provides a colorful cast of outcasts and misfits. However, the core of the novel revolves around Cora Seaborne: a young widow who finds herself liberated by the death of her older, controlling husband. Cora, a devout fan of science and nature, finds herself drawn to the sleepy seaside town of Aldwinter, where a minister and his family informally adopt Cora and her entourage. This vicar, Will Ransome, is an atypical pastor: while he clearly tends after his sheep (literally, in fact, during one scene), he also finds himself inexplicably drawn to the unpredictable Cora. Meanwhile, Will's ailing wife, Stella, seems intent on bringing her husband and Cora closer together. Along the way, Perry also includes a variety of subplots, including a doctor who pines after Cora, a rich man who pines after Cora's maidservant, and the maidservant who pines after social justice. Oh, what a tangled web (or murky serpent's nest?) we weave when we slither through the British marshland and dingy streets of London! Mixed metaphors aside, the fact remains: things get complicated.
I have to admit, it took me a long time to get into The Essex Serpent. For the first 100+ pages, Perry's book wanders and winds through several seemingly unconnected storylines, leaving the reader without much of a solid thread to follow. Where is this book going? I repeatedly wondered to myself. Like a child lost in the foggy marsh of the British coastline, many readers will undoubtedly meander through chapter after chapter of passable prose until stumbling upon a profound passage or plot point.
Perry is strongest when she subverts expectations - which she does frequently throughout the novel. What you expect to happen from the cliched conventions of Victorian literature rarely comes to fruition. Young lovers don't always stay in love, but old lovers do. The dying don't always die, but the healthy sometimes barely escape death. The wise act foolishly, and the foolish grow wiser through their lived experiences. It's unique enough to differentiate The Essex Serpent from many of its lesser peers. However, while I admire Perry's attempt to break free from tried-and-true tropes, it's not enough for me to overlook the frequently dull pacing of the book.
While I can't say that I enjoyed reading The Essex Serpent, the novel is clearly a complex, well-crafted study of the British experience in Victorian England. Will I ever read this novel again? The answer is a resounding no. Will I recommend it to others? Only if they enjoy tea, crumpets, and novels that flicker through the night like candles in a dusty window.
The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Despite my eager hopes, Sarah Perry's The Essex Serpent is decidedly not a supernatural horror novel about a giant winged snake terrorizing the British countryside. Alas, Perry's book shares more serpentine DNA with Charles Dickens than Stephen King. Instead of a suspenseful supernatural story, The Essex Serpent is a slow-burning work of literary fiction that examines the muddy, complicated intersection of science and faith, friendship and love. If you enjoy Victorian literature, star-crossed lovers, and the subtleties of stuffy British settings, this might be more up your (cobblestone) alley.
As she alternates between the Essex countryside and London cityscape, Perry provides a colorful cast of outcasts and misfits. However, the core of the novel revolves around Cora Seaborne: a young widow who finds herself liberated by the death of her older, controlling husband. Cora, a devout fan of science and nature, finds herself drawn to the sleepy seaside town of Aldwinter, where a minister and his family informally adopt Cora and her entourage. This vicar, Will Ransome, is an atypical pastor: while he clearly tends after his sheep (literally, in fact, during one scene), he also finds himself inexplicably drawn to the unpredictable Cora. Meanwhile, Will's ailing wife, Stella, seems intent on bringing her husband and Cora closer together. Along the way, Perry also includes a variety of subplots, including a doctor who pines after Cora, a rich man who pines after Cora's maidservant, and the maidservant who pines after social justice. Oh, what a tangled web (or murky serpent's nest?) we weave when we slither through the British marshland and dingy streets of London! Mixed metaphors aside, the fact remains: things get complicated.
I have to admit, it took me a long time to get into The Essex Serpent. For the first 100+ pages, Perry's book wanders and winds through several seemingly unconnected storylines, leaving the reader without much of a solid thread to follow. Where is this book going? I repeatedly wondered to myself. Like a child lost in the foggy marsh of the British coastline, many readers will undoubtedly meander through chapter after chapter of passable prose until stumbling upon a profound passage or plot point.
Perry is strongest when she subverts expectations - which she does frequently throughout the novel. What you expect to happen from the cliched conventions of Victorian literature rarely comes to fruition. Young lovers don't always stay in love, but old lovers do. The dying don't always die, but the healthy sometimes barely escape death. The wise act foolishly, and the foolish grow wiser through their lived experiences. It's unique enough to differentiate The Essex Serpent from many of its lesser peers. However, while I admire Perry's attempt to break free from tried-and-true tropes, it's not enough for me to overlook the frequently dull pacing of the book.
While I can't say that I enjoyed reading The Essex Serpent, the novel is clearly a complex, well-crafted study of the British experience in Victorian England. Will I ever read this novel again? The answer is a resounding no. Will I recommend it to others? Only if they enjoy tea, crumpets, and novels that flicker through the night like candles in a dusty window.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for September 2022:
The Stand by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Once upon a time, way back in the 1990s, I picked up Stephen King's original, "abridged" version of The Stand . At the time, it all seemed so far-fetched: a global pandemic that rages out of control and ends up claiming millions of lives? What fantastical science fiction! Imagine my surprise when, several decades later, a global pandemic raged out of control and claimed millions of lives. It turns out that Stephen King, the spine-tingling storyteller of the supernatural, was something of a prophet - the Nostradamus of the 1980s, as it were.
Though I kept the unabridged version of The Stand on my "TBR" list for many years, COVID inspired me to finally tackle this behemoth of a book. I realize that it's morbid to read a novel about a deadly pandemic while in the middle of a deadly pandemic, but my macabre sensibilities prevailed over my good taste. And, after almost exactly two years of off-and-on-again reading, I finally finished all 1,141 pages of King's magnum opus. Needless to say, it feels like I just finished a never-ending literary marathon. With that analogy in mind, crossing the finish line simultaneously feels like a relief and a reward.
For those not in the know, The Stand is essentially three books wrapped in one: a cautionary science-fiction tale about the outbreak of a government-manufactured virus, a quasi-realistic yarn about rebuilding civilization in a post-apocalyptic world, and a supernatural story involving the immortal battle of good and evil. With its vaguely Christian overtones (most obviously represented in the angelic figure of Mother Abagail and the devilishly vicious Randall Flagg), the novel details the never-ending conflict of God and the Devil - the polar extremes that exact their gravitational pull on the mild-mannered citizens of the United States. Though Mother Abagail fails dangerously close to the "Magical Negro" trope, she is the purest, holiest figure in the novel. Hopefully, King's intentions were not to dehumanize; however, I won't speak to his complex, complicated motivations. In any case, this super-sized novel tackles some big themes, including government malfeasance, the temptation of evil, and the triumph of the human spirit. Unsurprisingly, for an ambitious novel of this scale, the book is not a literary grand slam: King falters periodically, with majestic moments of poetic glory frequently overshadowed by his bloated storytelling.
While I'm normally a fan of the "director's cut" with movies and books, I think it's safe to say that King would have benefitted from an artful editor. Although The Stand is impressive with its epic ambition, the story gets bogged down in too many subplots and convoluted characters. Did we really need a chapter about The Trashcan Man and The Kid traversing the desert and spending a night in a motel room? In my opinion: NO. Though I admire King's dedication to crafting a narrative of this scope, reading The Stand became incredibly tedious - insurmountably so, it seemed at times. As I mentioned previously, reading through the 1,141 pages of the book often felt like a never-ending marathon. In this case, I would've settled for a half-marathon and been happy.
That's not to say, however, that The Stand is without merit. Undeniably, King captures the suffering, grief, and tenacity of survivors - something even more relatable because of our recent experiences with the coronavirus. There are passages threaded throughout the novel that ring of true beauty and poetry; likewise, several conversations (particularly between Glen Bateman and Stu Redman) raise thoughtful - perhaps even profound - philosophical questions. Not too shabby for a book about the end of the world.
Recent trends in literary fiction have widened the gates for science fiction and horror in ways that would have been unfathomable in the past. Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven is a prime example of a sci-fi novel that brilliantly tackles apocalyptic settings with the luminescence of well-crafted poetry and insightful prose. Sadly, The Stand pales in comparison to such works. Perhaps, it's unfair to compare King's novel with Station Eleven: although Mandel's book is vastly superior, the kernel of her novel owes a sizable debt to King. However, Station Eleven succeeds in capturing the struggles of three-dimensional characters caught in the surreal storm of unthinkable events, creating a literary masterpiece in the process. It's in this fashion that Mandel surpasses King: although certain characters in The Stand are imbued with thoughtful, three-dimensional portrayals, others (especially the women in the story) are less effectively crafted. By comparison, Kirsten Raymonde and Jeevan Chaudhary (let alone Arthur Leander, Miranda Carroll, and Tyler Leander) have been carefully wrought in ways that Frannie Goldsmith and Harold Lauder are not. And don't even get me started on the Trash Can Man. While King is clearly a visionary, sometimes he overlooks the forest of his characters for the trees of his plot points. That's truly a pity.
Mark Twain once said that “A classic is something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.” By that definition, The Stand is indisputably a classic piece of literature. Although I do feel a sense of accomplishment after completing a Herculean undertaking like reading this novel, I also recognize that King's magnum opus is a marathon that I didn't need to tackle. That might sound like sacrilege to the King-obsessives out there, but it's true. For the casual King fans out there, I only have one piece of advice: skip the book and watch the TV series, instead. Stephen King is, undoubtedly, one of the most impressive, prodigious writers of his - or any other - generation. As flawed and imperfect as The Stand might be, it's still a historic achievement worth celebrating. Hopefully, other readers won't wait until the next pandemic to give it a shot.
The Stand by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Once upon a time, way back in the 1990s, I picked up Stephen King's original, "abridged" version of The Stand . At the time, it all seemed so far-fetched: a global pandemic that rages out of control and ends up claiming millions of lives? What fantastical science fiction! Imagine my surprise when, several decades later, a global pandemic raged out of control and claimed millions of lives. It turns out that Stephen King, the spine-tingling storyteller of the supernatural, was something of a prophet - the Nostradamus of the 1980s, as it were.
Though I kept the unabridged version of The Stand on my "TBR" list for many years, COVID inspired me to finally tackle this behemoth of a book. I realize that it's morbid to read a novel about a deadly pandemic while in the middle of a deadly pandemic, but my macabre sensibilities prevailed over my good taste. And, after almost exactly two years of off-and-on-again reading, I finally finished all 1,141 pages of King's magnum opus. Needless to say, it feels like I just finished a never-ending literary marathon. With that analogy in mind, crossing the finish line simultaneously feels like a relief and a reward.
For those not in the know, The Stand is essentially three books wrapped in one: a cautionary science-fiction tale about the outbreak of a government-manufactured virus, a quasi-realistic yarn about rebuilding civilization in a post-apocalyptic world, and a supernatural story involving the immortal battle of good and evil. With its vaguely Christian overtones (most obviously represented in the angelic figure of Mother Abagail and the devilishly vicious Randall Flagg), the novel details the never-ending conflict of God and the Devil - the polar extremes that exact their gravitational pull on the mild-mannered citizens of the United States. Though Mother Abagail fails dangerously close to the "Magical Negro" trope, she is the purest, holiest figure in the novel. Hopefully, King's intentions were not to dehumanize; however, I won't speak to his complex, complicated motivations. In any case, this super-sized novel tackles some big themes, including government malfeasance, the temptation of evil, and the triumph of the human spirit. Unsurprisingly, for an ambitious novel of this scale, the book is not a literary grand slam: King falters periodically, with majestic moments of poetic glory frequently overshadowed by his bloated storytelling.
While I'm normally a fan of the "director's cut" with movies and books, I think it's safe to say that King would have benefitted from an artful editor. Although The Stand is impressive with its epic ambition, the story gets bogged down in too many subplots and convoluted characters. Did we really need a chapter about The Trashcan Man and The Kid traversing the desert and spending a night in a motel room? In my opinion: NO. Though I admire King's dedication to crafting a narrative of this scope, reading The Stand became incredibly tedious - insurmountably so, it seemed at times. As I mentioned previously, reading through the 1,141 pages of the book often felt like a never-ending marathon. In this case, I would've settled for a half-marathon and been happy.
That's not to say, however, that The Stand is without merit. Undeniably, King captures the suffering, grief, and tenacity of survivors - something even more relatable because of our recent experiences with the coronavirus. There are passages threaded throughout the novel that ring of true beauty and poetry; likewise, several conversations (particularly between Glen Bateman and Stu Redman) raise thoughtful - perhaps even profound - philosophical questions. Not too shabby for a book about the end of the world.
Recent trends in literary fiction have widened the gates for science fiction and horror in ways that would have been unfathomable in the past. Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven is a prime example of a sci-fi novel that brilliantly tackles apocalyptic settings with the luminescence of well-crafted poetry and insightful prose. Sadly, The Stand pales in comparison to such works. Perhaps, it's unfair to compare King's novel with Station Eleven: although Mandel's book is vastly superior, the kernel of her novel owes a sizable debt to King. However, Station Eleven succeeds in capturing the struggles of three-dimensional characters caught in the surreal storm of unthinkable events, creating a literary masterpiece in the process. It's in this fashion that Mandel surpasses King: although certain characters in The Stand are imbued with thoughtful, three-dimensional portrayals, others (especially the women in the story) are less effectively crafted. By comparison, Kirsten Raymonde and Jeevan Chaudhary (let alone Arthur Leander, Miranda Carroll, and Tyler Leander) have been carefully wrought in ways that Frannie Goldsmith and Harold Lauder are not. And don't even get me started on the Trash Can Man. While King is clearly a visionary, sometimes he overlooks the forest of his characters for the trees of his plot points. That's truly a pity.
Mark Twain once said that “A classic is something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.” By that definition, The Stand is indisputably a classic piece of literature. Although I do feel a sense of accomplishment after completing a Herculean undertaking like reading this novel, I also recognize that King's magnum opus is a marathon that I didn't need to tackle. That might sound like sacrilege to the King-obsessives out there, but it's true. For the casual King fans out there, I only have one piece of advice: skip the book and watch the TV series, instead. Stephen King is, undoubtedly, one of the most impressive, prodigious writers of his - or any other - generation. As flawed and imperfect as The Stand might be, it's still a historic achievement worth celebrating. Hopefully, other readers won't wait until the next pandemic to give it a shot.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for August 2022:
Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West by Cormac McCarthy
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I originally picked up Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West as part of my deep dive into the "Weird Western" genre. Although there aren't supernatural figures, per se, in McCarthy's novel, Blood Meridian is one of the goriest, most horrifying novels I've ever read. As much as the horror genre is synonymous with Stephen King and the paranormal, Cormac McCarthy proves in this novel that nothing is more cruel, vicious, or malevolent than mankind.
Blood Meridian is less of a straightforward narrative than a free-flowing treatise on trauma. The novel loosely follows the (mis)adventures of "the kid" - our antihero protagonist who teams up with a band of malicious marauders in the wild, wild west. Make no mistake, though: this isn't the winsome, whitewashed western of Woody, Bullseye, and Jessie. McCarthy's central mission in Blood Meridian is to illustrate (in explicit detail) the violence that permeated the American landscape of the 1800s. Callous cruelty abounds, with rampant racism and vicious acts of dehumanizing violence that would put any Marvel supervillain to shame. The first half of the novel is essentially a nonstop bloodbath of biblical proportions, with the historical Glanton gang rampaging through the southwest states and into the fringes of Mexico. Bloodshed ensues.
So. Much. Bloodshed.
Threaded throughout the pages of death and dismemberment is an eloquent, philosophical core that attempts to elevate Blood Meridian to literary heights. The book echoes several other "great American novels," most notably Moby-Dick or, the Whale and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn . "The kid" shares some literary DNA with Huck, another orphaned young man with a deformed conscience; one of Glanton's mercenaries, the malicious Judge Holden, eventually emerges as the "white whale" of McCarthy's tale, haunting "the kid" from town to town like an unholy ghost made corporeal through his trail of scalped corpses. Though the only other Cormac McCarthy novel that I've read is No Country for Old Men , I think it's safe to assume that McCarthy ascribes to the Charles Bukowski/Chuck Palahniuk school of ambiguous, amoral antiheroes. These authors are less interested in tidy, tightly constructed story arcs than in messy, maddening narratives with frayed loose ends. In McCarthy's eyes, it's less important to tie up your novel with a bow than to blow it to pieces with a howitzer cannon.
It's hard to say that I "enjoyed" reading Blood Meridian, because only a sociopath (like Judge Holden, for example) would find amusement in the gory series of events transpiring in McCarthy's novel. At one point, Holden states that "War is God" - and most of the book's characters worship at this altar of altercation. That being said, McCarthy's prose can be incredibly insightful, thought-provoking, and piercing; in some ways, Blood Meridian is more a philosophical reflection on war, violence, and (im)morality than an adventure novel set in the wild west. While McCarthy periodically draws upon references to vampires, exorcisms, ghost armies, and primordial gods, these allusions are used to describe something even more frightening: human nature.
Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West by Cormac McCarthy
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I originally picked up Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West as part of my deep dive into the "Weird Western" genre. Although there aren't supernatural figures, per se, in McCarthy's novel, Blood Meridian is one of the goriest, most horrifying novels I've ever read. As much as the horror genre is synonymous with Stephen King and the paranormal, Cormac McCarthy proves in this novel that nothing is more cruel, vicious, or malevolent than mankind.
Blood Meridian is less of a straightforward narrative than a free-flowing treatise on trauma. The novel loosely follows the (mis)adventures of "the kid" - our antihero protagonist who teams up with a band of malicious marauders in the wild, wild west. Make no mistake, though: this isn't the winsome, whitewashed western of Woody, Bullseye, and Jessie. McCarthy's central mission in Blood Meridian is to illustrate (in explicit detail) the violence that permeated the American landscape of the 1800s. Callous cruelty abounds, with rampant racism and vicious acts of dehumanizing violence that would put any Marvel supervillain to shame. The first half of the novel is essentially a nonstop bloodbath of biblical proportions, with the historical Glanton gang rampaging through the southwest states and into the fringes of Mexico. Bloodshed ensues.
So. Much. Bloodshed.
Threaded throughout the pages of death and dismemberment is an eloquent, philosophical core that attempts to elevate Blood Meridian to literary heights. The book echoes several other "great American novels," most notably Moby-Dick or, the Whale and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn . "The kid" shares some literary DNA with Huck, another orphaned young man with a deformed conscience; one of Glanton's mercenaries, the malicious Judge Holden, eventually emerges as the "white whale" of McCarthy's tale, haunting "the kid" from town to town like an unholy ghost made corporeal through his trail of scalped corpses. Though the only other Cormac McCarthy novel that I've read is No Country for Old Men , I think it's safe to assume that McCarthy ascribes to the Charles Bukowski/Chuck Palahniuk school of ambiguous, amoral antiheroes. These authors are less interested in tidy, tightly constructed story arcs than in messy, maddening narratives with frayed loose ends. In McCarthy's eyes, it's less important to tie up your novel with a bow than to blow it to pieces with a howitzer cannon.
It's hard to say that I "enjoyed" reading Blood Meridian, because only a sociopath (like Judge Holden, for example) would find amusement in the gory series of events transpiring in McCarthy's novel. At one point, Holden states that "War is God" - and most of the book's characters worship at this altar of altercation. That being said, McCarthy's prose can be incredibly insightful, thought-provoking, and piercing; in some ways, Blood Meridian is more a philosophical reflection on war, violence, and (im)morality than an adventure novel set in the wild west. While McCarthy periodically draws upon references to vampires, exorcisms, ghost armies, and primordial gods, these allusions are used to describe something even more frightening: human nature.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for July 2022:
Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Isabel Wilkerson's Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents should be required reading for all high school and college students. Although America has found itself in the throes of racial division since the nation's inception, Caste is simultaneously a timely and timeless examination of where we are as a country and how we arrived here. Over the course of her brilliant book, Wilkerson threads a thorough narrative of our nation in a heartbreaking, illuminating tapestry of American history. Caste is nothing short of a masterpiece, and I only hope that it sparks the millions of hard conversations we need to enact positive social change.
With her expertly (and exhaustively) researched book, Wilkerson examines slavery and its chilling legacy of brutality in the United States - ultimately culminating in the racial division that plagues us today. Wilkerson's central thesis is that America's racial hierarchy is simply the European incarnation of India's caste system: layers of social status arbitrarily ascribed to cross-sections of the population. Circling between histories of India, America, and Nazi Germany, Wilkerson recounts the tragic history of racism and subjugation in the United States and abroad. Whereas India's caste system is based on the belief that ancestral names and occupations reflect one's position in the social order, America's own caste system is derived from a perceived value in one's skin tone. Since 1619, American soil has been host to generations of discrimination and violence that have dehumanized both perpetrator and victim, erecting invisible barriers between America's diverse populations. Caste is one writer's valiant attempt to battle that inhumane inheritance.
In the opening chapters of Caste, Wilkerson cleverly compares America to an architectural structure plagued by preexisting damage that threatens to destroy the entire edifice: "we in the developed world are like homeowners who inherited a house on a piece of land that is beautiful on the outside, but whose soil is unstable loam and rock, heaving and contracting over generations, cracks patched but the deeper ruptures waved away for decades, centuries even." With her sophisticated, insightful prose, Wilkerson discusses how racism is not a simple choice of the individual; rather, racism is a societal structure that conditions us to view each other with suspicion and disgust based on a few insignificant strands of DNA. Not to to minimize the gravity of Wilkerson's book, but it does share a thematic helix with Avenue Q's "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" - "Look around and you will find, / No one's really color-blind." The first step towards battling racism is to recognize that we all harbor (consciously or subconsciously) racist beliefs and ideas that have been inculcated through multitudinous signs, symbols, and signifiers broadcast into our brains via millions of interactions and observations. Like it or not, society has programmed us with faulty, manipulative code; it's our job to seek out the biased bugs in the script and combat them with wisdom and self-awareness. Unfortunately, as Wilkerson reminds us, it's a lifelong battle: "America is an old house," she writes. "We can never declare the work over."
In many ways, Caste is a "hard" book to read: the detailed descriptions of cruelty and violence (including in-depth discussion of lynchings, beatings, rape, and abuse) are horrifying. Likewise, the emotional challenge of facing one's own preexisting prejudices can be psychologically taxing. However, it's only through a clinical self-evaluation of our reflections that we can begin the acts of attrition that will lead us towards humility and healing. The first step to repairing the damage is to investigate its origins, and Wilkerson thoughtfully quotes Albert Einstein on the subject of racism: "If the majority knew the root of this evil, then the road to its cure would not be long." Sadly, as long as people fail to learn about the roots of racism, it will only prolong the path towards equality.
As Wilkerson states in the book's epilogue, "We are responsible for our own ignorance or, with time and openhearted enlightenment, our own wisdom." Despite the fact that society has brainwashed us and shaped us like unwilling clay, we can educate ourselves (with help from brilliant minds like Isabel Wilkerson) and assert our own agency. We have a duty to combat these programmed prejudices, in order to improve the world for subsequent generations. However, the author also reminds us that "unless people are willing to transcend their fears, endure discomfort and derision, suffer the scorn of loved ones and neighbors and co-workers and friends, fall into disfavor of perhaps everyone they know, face exclusion and even banishment, it would be numerically impossible, humanly impossible" to stand up against injustice. It's high time for us to do the hard work of improving the world. We should count ourselves lucky that we have Isabel Wilkerson to inspire us with her words.
Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Isabel Wilkerson's Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents should be required reading for all high school and college students. Although America has found itself in the throes of racial division since the nation's inception, Caste is simultaneously a timely and timeless examination of where we are as a country and how we arrived here. Over the course of her brilliant book, Wilkerson threads a thorough narrative of our nation in a heartbreaking, illuminating tapestry of American history. Caste is nothing short of a masterpiece, and I only hope that it sparks the millions of hard conversations we need to enact positive social change.
With her expertly (and exhaustively) researched book, Wilkerson examines slavery and its chilling legacy of brutality in the United States - ultimately culminating in the racial division that plagues us today. Wilkerson's central thesis is that America's racial hierarchy is simply the European incarnation of India's caste system: layers of social status arbitrarily ascribed to cross-sections of the population. Circling between histories of India, America, and Nazi Germany, Wilkerson recounts the tragic history of racism and subjugation in the United States and abroad. Whereas India's caste system is based on the belief that ancestral names and occupations reflect one's position in the social order, America's own caste system is derived from a perceived value in one's skin tone. Since 1619, American soil has been host to generations of discrimination and violence that have dehumanized both perpetrator and victim, erecting invisible barriers between America's diverse populations. Caste is one writer's valiant attempt to battle that inhumane inheritance.
In the opening chapters of Caste, Wilkerson cleverly compares America to an architectural structure plagued by preexisting damage that threatens to destroy the entire edifice: "we in the developed world are like homeowners who inherited a house on a piece of land that is beautiful on the outside, but whose soil is unstable loam and rock, heaving and contracting over generations, cracks patched but the deeper ruptures waved away for decades, centuries even." With her sophisticated, insightful prose, Wilkerson discusses how racism is not a simple choice of the individual; rather, racism is a societal structure that conditions us to view each other with suspicion and disgust based on a few insignificant strands of DNA. Not to to minimize the gravity of Wilkerson's book, but it does share a thematic helix with Avenue Q's "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" - "Look around and you will find, / No one's really color-blind." The first step towards battling racism is to recognize that we all harbor (consciously or subconsciously) racist beliefs and ideas that have been inculcated through multitudinous signs, symbols, and signifiers broadcast into our brains via millions of interactions and observations. Like it or not, society has programmed us with faulty, manipulative code; it's our job to seek out the biased bugs in the script and combat them with wisdom and self-awareness. Unfortunately, as Wilkerson reminds us, it's a lifelong battle: "America is an old house," she writes. "We can never declare the work over."
In many ways, Caste is a "hard" book to read: the detailed descriptions of cruelty and violence (including in-depth discussion of lynchings, beatings, rape, and abuse) are horrifying. Likewise, the emotional challenge of facing one's own preexisting prejudices can be psychologically taxing. However, it's only through a clinical self-evaluation of our reflections that we can begin the acts of attrition that will lead us towards humility and healing. The first step to repairing the damage is to investigate its origins, and Wilkerson thoughtfully quotes Albert Einstein on the subject of racism: "If the majority knew the root of this evil, then the road to its cure would not be long." Sadly, as long as people fail to learn about the roots of racism, it will only prolong the path towards equality.
As Wilkerson states in the book's epilogue, "We are responsible for our own ignorance or, with time and openhearted enlightenment, our own wisdom." Despite the fact that society has brainwashed us and shaped us like unwilling clay, we can educate ourselves (with help from brilliant minds like Isabel Wilkerson) and assert our own agency. We have a duty to combat these programmed prejudices, in order to improve the world for subsequent generations. However, the author also reminds us that "unless people are willing to transcend their fears, endure discomfort and derision, suffer the scorn of loved ones and neighbors and co-workers and friends, fall into disfavor of perhaps everyone they know, face exclusion and even banishment, it would be numerically impossible, humanly impossible" to stand up against injustice. It's high time for us to do the hard work of improving the world. We should count ourselves lucky that we have Isabel Wilkerson to inspire us with her words.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for June 2022:
Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Taylor Jenkins Reid's Daisy Jones & The Six is a captivating, enthralling novel about 1970s rock 'n' roll, written by a talented author who has no idea how rock bands, collaborative songwriting, and music careers actually work. In short, it's a beautiful, ambitious rollercoaster of a novel that is maddening in its musical inaccuracies. Like a halfway-brilliant rock album that contains a variety of throwaway tracks (Fleetwood Mac's Mirage, anyone?), Daisy Jones & the Six is a hybrid of hell-raising highs and lackluster lows - a respectable attempt to grab the golden ring of literary greatness, even as it falls short of its aspirations.
In many ways, Daisy Jones & the Six is a love letter to classic rock, specifically to Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. It's clear from reading this novel that Reid adores Stevie Nicks and company (perhaps to the point of obsessiveness), and the book oftentimes feels like Fleetwood Mac fan fiction. It's all here: egos, rivalries, jealousy, infidelity, smashed instruments, trashed hotel rooms, houseboats, unplanned pregnancies, and SNL afterparties. And, of course, sex and drugs. Soooooooo many drugs. Reid basically provides a pharmaceutical crash course for her readers, tempered with her earnest discussions of sobriety and sober living. It's not incidental that Rolling Stone called Fleetwood Mac "the lovingest, fightingest, druggingest band of the '70s." And Reid tries really hard to evoke that sentiment with Daisy Jones & the Six.
Like VH1's Behind the Music docu-series, Daisy Jones & the Six is structured in an oral history format: the story is told almost entirely by the members of the band, their families, rock critics, sound engineers, photographers, and the like. Daisy Jones is unapologetically modeled after Stevie Nicks; consequently, the Six's leader, Billy Dunne, serves as a Lindsey Buckingham avatar. Apart from these well-developed figureheads (and Billy's tortured wife, Camila), most of Reid's characters are two-dimensional caricatures of rock star excess; every tried-and-true rock star trope that you can imagine (from tourbus shenanigans to reluctant rehab) finds its way into this novel. The most cartoonish figure is the band's drummer, Warren - who is intended to provide comic relief, but undermines the artistry of Reid's novel by uttering predictable platitudes about rock stardom. When she shoots for the lowest common denominator, Reid reminds us that she still has a lot to learn about capturing authentic human experiences.
Despite these missteps, however, Taylor Jenkins Reid clearly understands the complexities of the human heart and the longings of imperfect, unfulfilled love. The aching conveyed by various characters (most notably Billy and Daisy, but also Camile, Graham, and Karen at other points in the novel) cuts to the quick. Though I haven't read any of Reid's other novels, I'm willing to bet that she's a master of star-crossed circumstances, a chronicler of love lost and almost-found. That being said, the "will-they-or-won't-they" nature of Billy and Daisy's relationship feels forced at times, as if the author hasn't earned the heartache that her readers are supposed to feel for these characters. Nevertheless, readers will salivate over these fictionalized superstar romances, eagerly plowing through the novel's various twists and turns - especially a third-act revelation that helps illuminate the "writing" of the book-within-a-book that comprises the core of Daisy Jones & the Six.
Fans of rock trivia will appreciate the subtle nods to real-life historical moments: the scene in which Daisy records in the vocal booth while wrapped in a blanket is taken almost line-for-line from Stevie Nicks's experience tracking "Gold Dust Woman" while battling a head cold. Likewise, the provocative photoshoot for the Aurora album cover is a callback to Linda Ronstadt's Hasten Down the Wind. It's in subtler moments like these that Reid works her true magic, illuminating the behind-the-scenes cogs of the rockstar machine (when she gets them right, of course). These rock 'n' roll Easter eggs can provide amusing fodder for rock obsessives (like yours truly), while endearing Reid to her readers.
The novel's conclusion, while bittersweet, offers just the right amount of hope in the darkness - a hint of "young stars" shining through the darkened sheets of despair and loss. In the end, Daisy Jones & the Six is a sprawling, sometimes-brilliant rock 'n' roll mockumentary, a breezy beachside read for fans of rock music and doomed romances. Just make sure that you have Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac playing in the background: that soundtrack will make all the difference for mildly invested readers. Alas, if This is Spinal Tap - a true rock 'n' roll mockumentary masterpiece - can "go to 11," it's a shame that Daisy Jones only goes to a Six.
Daisy Jones and the Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Taylor Jenkins Reid's Daisy Jones & The Six is a captivating, enthralling novel about 1970s rock 'n' roll, written by a talented author who has no idea how rock bands, collaborative songwriting, and music careers actually work. In short, it's a beautiful, ambitious rollercoaster of a novel that is maddening in its musical inaccuracies. Like a halfway-brilliant rock album that contains a variety of throwaway tracks (Fleetwood Mac's Mirage, anyone?), Daisy Jones & the Six is a hybrid of hell-raising highs and lackluster lows - a respectable attempt to grab the golden ring of literary greatness, even as it falls short of its aspirations.
In many ways, Daisy Jones & the Six is a love letter to classic rock, specifically to Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac. It's clear from reading this novel that Reid adores Stevie Nicks and company (perhaps to the point of obsessiveness), and the book oftentimes feels like Fleetwood Mac fan fiction. It's all here: egos, rivalries, jealousy, infidelity, smashed instruments, trashed hotel rooms, houseboats, unplanned pregnancies, and SNL afterparties. And, of course, sex and drugs. Soooooooo many drugs. Reid basically provides a pharmaceutical crash course for her readers, tempered with her earnest discussions of sobriety and sober living. It's not incidental that Rolling Stone called Fleetwood Mac "the lovingest, fightingest, druggingest band of the '70s." And Reid tries really hard to evoke that sentiment with Daisy Jones & the Six.
Like VH1's Behind the Music docu-series, Daisy Jones & the Six is structured in an oral history format: the story is told almost entirely by the members of the band, their families, rock critics, sound engineers, photographers, and the like. Daisy Jones is unapologetically modeled after Stevie Nicks; consequently, the Six's leader, Billy Dunne, serves as a Lindsey Buckingham avatar. Apart from these well-developed figureheads (and Billy's tortured wife, Camila), most of Reid's characters are two-dimensional caricatures of rock star excess; every tried-and-true rock star trope that you can imagine (from tourbus shenanigans to reluctant rehab) finds its way into this novel. The most cartoonish figure is the band's drummer, Warren - who is intended to provide comic relief, but undermines the artistry of Reid's novel by uttering predictable platitudes about rock stardom. When she shoots for the lowest common denominator, Reid reminds us that she still has a lot to learn about capturing authentic human experiences.
Despite these missteps, however, Taylor Jenkins Reid clearly understands the complexities of the human heart and the longings of imperfect, unfulfilled love. The aching conveyed by various characters (most notably Billy and Daisy, but also Camile, Graham, and Karen at other points in the novel) cuts to the quick. Though I haven't read any of Reid's other novels, I'm willing to bet that she's a master of star-crossed circumstances, a chronicler of love lost and almost-found. That being said, the "will-they-or-won't-they" nature of Billy and Daisy's relationship feels forced at times, as if the author hasn't earned the heartache that her readers are supposed to feel for these characters. Nevertheless, readers will salivate over these fictionalized superstar romances, eagerly plowing through the novel's various twists and turns - especially a third-act revelation that helps illuminate the "writing" of the book-within-a-book that comprises the core of Daisy Jones & the Six.
Fans of rock trivia will appreciate the subtle nods to real-life historical moments: the scene in which Daisy records in the vocal booth while wrapped in a blanket is taken almost line-for-line from Stevie Nicks's experience tracking "Gold Dust Woman" while battling a head cold. Likewise, the provocative photoshoot for the Aurora album cover is a callback to Linda Ronstadt's Hasten Down the Wind. It's in subtler moments like these that Reid works her true magic, illuminating the behind-the-scenes cogs of the rockstar machine (when she gets them right, of course). These rock 'n' roll Easter eggs can provide amusing fodder for rock obsessives (like yours truly), while endearing Reid to her readers.
The novel's conclusion, while bittersweet, offers just the right amount of hope in the darkness - a hint of "young stars" shining through the darkened sheets of despair and loss. In the end, Daisy Jones & the Six is a sprawling, sometimes-brilliant rock 'n' roll mockumentary, a breezy beachside read for fans of rock music and doomed romances. Just make sure that you have Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac playing in the background: that soundtrack will make all the difference for mildly invested readers. Alas, if This is Spinal Tap - a true rock 'n' roll mockumentary masterpiece - can "go to 11," it's a shame that Daisy Jones only goes to a Six.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for May 2022:
The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book is a clever, thoroughly engaging twist on Rudyard Kipling’s classic novel, The Jungle Book . Like Kipling’s story, a young orphaned boy is adopted by local residents who don’t quite fit the typical profile of surrogate parents; however, Kipling’s jungle animals have been replaced by ghosts, vampires, and werewolves. In transferring Kipling’s archetypal tale from a jungle in India to a graveyard in Great Britain, Gaiman has resurrected the story (no pun intended) for today’s readers and crafted a story that is captivatingly unique in its own right.
Although The Graveyard Book requires quite a bit of suspended disbelief, the core themes at the heart of the novel are universal: coming of age, seeking identity, dealing with death, reconciling family/heritage, and searching for one’s place in the world. The orphan Nobody Owens (who is also addressed with the abbreviated nickname “Bod”) is a likable character, and the reader experiences firsthand Bod's sense of wonder through his many discoveries - supernatural and otherwise. Gaiman’s use of foreshadowing in the narrative framework makes for a thrilling and satisfying conclusion to the novel, as Bod utilizes all of his knowledge and skill to combat forces of evil… with a little help from the denizens of the graveyard, of course.
As I finished the book, I was most impressed with the sophisticated examination of death as part of the natural life cycle. Nothing is more frightening than the loss of life, but The Graveyard Book actually presents death in a comforting way: death is no longer the end, but merely a portal into a more comfortable, secure world that is free from pain and suffering. On the surface, Gaiman’s novel is essentially The Jungle Book for the Twilight generation; however, underneath the spooky exterior, readers will find a heartwarming, uplifting tale that turns the frightening into the familiar.
The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book is a clever, thoroughly engaging twist on Rudyard Kipling’s classic novel, The Jungle Book . Like Kipling’s story, a young orphaned boy is adopted by local residents who don’t quite fit the typical profile of surrogate parents; however, Kipling’s jungle animals have been replaced by ghosts, vampires, and werewolves. In transferring Kipling’s archetypal tale from a jungle in India to a graveyard in Great Britain, Gaiman has resurrected the story (no pun intended) for today’s readers and crafted a story that is captivatingly unique in its own right.
Although The Graveyard Book requires quite a bit of suspended disbelief, the core themes at the heart of the novel are universal: coming of age, seeking identity, dealing with death, reconciling family/heritage, and searching for one’s place in the world. The orphan Nobody Owens (who is also addressed with the abbreviated nickname “Bod”) is a likable character, and the reader experiences firsthand Bod's sense of wonder through his many discoveries - supernatural and otherwise. Gaiman’s use of foreshadowing in the narrative framework makes for a thrilling and satisfying conclusion to the novel, as Bod utilizes all of his knowledge and skill to combat forces of evil… with a little help from the denizens of the graveyard, of course.
As I finished the book, I was most impressed with the sophisticated examination of death as part of the natural life cycle. Nothing is more frightening than the loss of life, but The Graveyard Book actually presents death in a comforting way: death is no longer the end, but merely a portal into a more comfortable, secure world that is free from pain and suffering. On the surface, Gaiman’s novel is essentially The Jungle Book for the Twilight generation; however, underneath the spooky exterior, readers will find a heartwarming, uplifting tale that turns the frightening into the familiar.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for February 2022:
My Best Friend's Exorcism by Grady Hendrix
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Like a teenager suddenly and unexpectedly possessed by an ancient demon, I was not prepared for Grady Hendrix's My Best Friend's Exorcism. While Hendrix continuously crafts my favorite kind of horror (hilarious and haunting in weighted measure), he tends to lose his path towards the end of each novel. In fact, I once described Grady Hendrix as "the Stephen King of modern horror... but not in a good way." My biggest complaint with Hendrix is that, like King, he creates brilliantly creative premises, but fails to live up to the promise of such clever conceits. With My Best Friend's Exorcism, however, Hendrix has crafted a heartfelt horror novel and actually managed to "stick the landing." Imagine Linda Blair doing a Simone Biles routine as choregraphed by James Wan, and that just about sums up My Best Friend's Exorcism.
Like William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist, Hendrix's novel depicts the untimely and horrific possession of a young girl - with all the trimmings and trappings of stereotypical supernatural scripts. Over the course of My Best Friend's Exorcism, best friends Abby and Gretchen grow up from E.T.-loving little girls to substance-abusing adolescents; along the way, the two girls form close relationships with a couple of classmates (Margaret and Glee) and partake in the usual soaking-up-the-sun activities of typical teenagers. That all changes one night, however, when the acid-addled girls go skinny-dipping and Gretchen mysteriously disappears into the woods. When she reappears, she's... different. After a slowly emerging sense of horror starts to overtake Gretchen (first with invisible pricking of her skin and ultimately transforming into something much more overwhelming), it gets dark. Really dark. Chaos ensues, friendships unravel, and the seemingly unbreakable bond between Gretchen and Abby is driven to a breaking point. Cue the titular exorcism and watch how the story unfolds.
As would be expected, there are the usual, predictable elements of exorcism stories: demonic entities, unsightly transformations of the possessed, voracious vomiting, a plethora of profanity, and fantastical familiars of the woodland variety. However, Hendrix deviates from expectations with some unforeseen alterations: iron-pumping exorcists, high school hierarchies, horrifying eating disorders, and a poppy 1980s soundtrack. This novel also shares DNA (and a South Carolina setting) with The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires, though the two books offer decidedly different takes on surviving the supernatural. The juxtaposition, while jarring, provides just enough levity to lighten the horrifying levitation of high school girls.
It's clear that Hendrix loves his old-school horror: between his many novels, he's tackled demons, devils, vampires, serial killers, haunted houses, and various other macabre monster mashups. But he also has a soft spot for vintage "sisterhood cinema" (or "chick flicks" to the cynical), drawing upon films as diverse as Steel Magnolias, Mean Girls, and Beaches. No one can accuse Hendrix of unabashed, malevolent misogyny - especially considering that every single one of his novels is written from the perspective of a female protagonist. In that regard, My Best Friend's Exorcism is very much in line with Hendrix's attempts at creating empowered female characters. With this novel, Hendrix balances a respectful reverence with more subversive sendups of the horror genre. Nothing is sacred to Hendrix - nor is anything profane enough to remain off-limits. That includes all the terrifying tropes of horror, as well as the timeless binds of sentimental sororities.
I have to admit, I actually dragged my feet reading this novel, working my way through the rest of Hendrix's oeuvre before finally tackling My Best Friend's Exorcism. Boy, did I make a mistake. The talented and insightful Claire Laminen once told me that MBFE was her favorite Hendrix novel, and I wish I had taken her sage advice sooner. Though I've consumed Hendrix's books like Goya's "Saturn Devouring His Son," thoroughly enjoying the goofy twists and turns of his comedic horror, I did NOT anticipate the emotional connections forged between the two main protagonists of the novel, Abby and Gretchen. Unlike Kris Pulaski's solo journey in We Sold Our Souls or Lynnette Tarkington's withdrawn isolation in The Final Girl Support Group, Abby and Gretchen have a tightknit bond that's as unbreakable as Marley's chains. Between the violent and disturbing supernatural descriptions, Hendrix manages to weave in some truly heartfelt relationships, examining a sisterhood between Abby and Gretchen that's even more powerful than Satan's minions. And THAT makes My Best Friend's Exorcism a truly unique, worthwhile read.
My Best Friend's Exorcism by Grady Hendrix
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Like a teenager suddenly and unexpectedly possessed by an ancient demon, I was not prepared for Grady Hendrix's My Best Friend's Exorcism. While Hendrix continuously crafts my favorite kind of horror (hilarious and haunting in weighted measure), he tends to lose his path towards the end of each novel. In fact, I once described Grady Hendrix as "the Stephen King of modern horror... but not in a good way." My biggest complaint with Hendrix is that, like King, he creates brilliantly creative premises, but fails to live up to the promise of such clever conceits. With My Best Friend's Exorcism, however, Hendrix has crafted a heartfelt horror novel and actually managed to "stick the landing." Imagine Linda Blair doing a Simone Biles routine as choregraphed by James Wan, and that just about sums up My Best Friend's Exorcism.
Like William Peter Blatty's The Exorcist, Hendrix's novel depicts the untimely and horrific possession of a young girl - with all the trimmings and trappings of stereotypical supernatural scripts. Over the course of My Best Friend's Exorcism, best friends Abby and Gretchen grow up from E.T.-loving little girls to substance-abusing adolescents; along the way, the two girls form close relationships with a couple of classmates (Margaret and Glee) and partake in the usual soaking-up-the-sun activities of typical teenagers. That all changes one night, however, when the acid-addled girls go skinny-dipping and Gretchen mysteriously disappears into the woods. When she reappears, she's... different. After a slowly emerging sense of horror starts to overtake Gretchen (first with invisible pricking of her skin and ultimately transforming into something much more overwhelming), it gets dark. Really dark. Chaos ensues, friendships unravel, and the seemingly unbreakable bond between Gretchen and Abby is driven to a breaking point. Cue the titular exorcism and watch how the story unfolds.
As would be expected, there are the usual, predictable elements of exorcism stories: demonic entities, unsightly transformations of the possessed, voracious vomiting, a plethora of profanity, and fantastical familiars of the woodland variety. However, Hendrix deviates from expectations with some unforeseen alterations: iron-pumping exorcists, high school hierarchies, horrifying eating disorders, and a poppy 1980s soundtrack. This novel also shares DNA (and a South Carolina setting) with The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires, though the two books offer decidedly different takes on surviving the supernatural. The juxtaposition, while jarring, provides just enough levity to lighten the horrifying levitation of high school girls.
It's clear that Hendrix loves his old-school horror: between his many novels, he's tackled demons, devils, vampires, serial killers, haunted houses, and various other macabre monster mashups. But he also has a soft spot for vintage "sisterhood cinema" (or "chick flicks" to the cynical), drawing upon films as diverse as Steel Magnolias, Mean Girls, and Beaches. No one can accuse Hendrix of unabashed, malevolent misogyny - especially considering that every single one of his novels is written from the perspective of a female protagonist. In that regard, My Best Friend's Exorcism is very much in line with Hendrix's attempts at creating empowered female characters. With this novel, Hendrix balances a respectful reverence with more subversive sendups of the horror genre. Nothing is sacred to Hendrix - nor is anything profane enough to remain off-limits. That includes all the terrifying tropes of horror, as well as the timeless binds of sentimental sororities.
I have to admit, I actually dragged my feet reading this novel, working my way through the rest of Hendrix's oeuvre before finally tackling My Best Friend's Exorcism. Boy, did I make a mistake. The talented and insightful Claire Laminen once told me that MBFE was her favorite Hendrix novel, and I wish I had taken her sage advice sooner. Though I've consumed Hendrix's books like Goya's "Saturn Devouring His Son," thoroughly enjoying the goofy twists and turns of his comedic horror, I did NOT anticipate the emotional connections forged between the two main protagonists of the novel, Abby and Gretchen. Unlike Kris Pulaski's solo journey in We Sold Our Souls or Lynnette Tarkington's withdrawn isolation in The Final Girl Support Group, Abby and Gretchen have a tightknit bond that's as unbreakable as Marley's chains. Between the violent and disturbing supernatural descriptions, Hendrix manages to weave in some truly heartfelt relationships, examining a sisterhood between Abby and Gretchen that's even more powerful than Satan's minions. And THAT makes My Best Friend's Exorcism a truly unique, worthwhile read.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for January 2022:
Anxious People by Fredrik Backman
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
In turns blunt and brilliant, hilarious and heartbreaking, Anxious People is an absolute revelation. Having read A Man Called Ove a few years ago, I anticipated a similar sensibility for Fredrik Backman's Anxious People... and I was not disappointed. While covering very different ground than A Man Called Ove, Anxious People radiates with Backman's signature wry humor and piercing insight, introducing a diverse cast of complex characters thrust into an absurd scenario: a bank robbery gone awry. Over the course of the novel, these characters become (in the words of one protagonist) the "Worst. Hostages. Ever." Saying much more than that would ruin the many surprises that Backman has in store for his readers.
Imagine a Peter Sellers film directed by Paul Thomas Anderson with a script by John Green, and you might have a slight glimpse of what's in store for you. That kind of combustible comedy (with cutting satire interwoven throughout) is exactly the kind of unpredictable narrative that Backman has crafted. Somehow, Anxious People manages to pack a potent punch while subverting expectations all along the way. The novel begins with a bank robbery, but the book twists and turns and contorts into a much broader rumination on life, love, loss, grieving, parenting, and mental health. As Backman proclaims to his readers, human beings are frequently best described as "idiots" - but those self-same "idiots" are often simply misguided, wounded creatures trying to navigate the complex waterways of life. It's no accident that the architectural structure of a bridge plays a pivotal role in several scenes: so much of Backman's story forces characters to bridge the gaping chasms that divide them. Along the way, readers also get to make their way across the tenuous, rickety platforms that connect characters - but Anxious People repeatedly reminds us that teetering on the ledge is never the solution to life's cruelties.
I don't want to spew out too much plot summary, however, because so much of this novel's genius relies upon subverting the expectations of readers and avoiding tried-and-true (albeit tedious and tired) tropes of storytelling. At one point, Backman makes an offhand reference to the definitive "twist-ending" film, The Sixth Sense... and then immediately pulls off a narrative trick worthy of M. Night Shyamalan himself. It's a clever and calculated move, an impressive flex of the muscles that will undoubtedly inspire many readers to thumb through previous chapters to search for breadcrumbs. Fortunately for them, there's a literary feast scattered throughout these pages.
It's rare that I give any novel a five-star rating (it's the elitist English teacher in me), but Anxious People absolutely deserves such potent praise. The flawless juxtaposition of silly and serious, heartfelt and humbling, makes Backman's novel a unique piece of literature. In the end, this life-affirming novel will make you laugh, cry, and experience every emotion in-between - sometimes, even, within the confines of a single page.
Anxious People by Fredrik Backman
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
In turns blunt and brilliant, hilarious and heartbreaking, Anxious People is an absolute revelation. Having read A Man Called Ove a few years ago, I anticipated a similar sensibility for Fredrik Backman's Anxious People... and I was not disappointed. While covering very different ground than A Man Called Ove, Anxious People radiates with Backman's signature wry humor and piercing insight, introducing a diverse cast of complex characters thrust into an absurd scenario: a bank robbery gone awry. Over the course of the novel, these characters become (in the words of one protagonist) the "Worst. Hostages. Ever." Saying much more than that would ruin the many surprises that Backman has in store for his readers.
Imagine a Peter Sellers film directed by Paul Thomas Anderson with a script by John Green, and you might have a slight glimpse of what's in store for you. That kind of combustible comedy (with cutting satire interwoven throughout) is exactly the kind of unpredictable narrative that Backman has crafted. Somehow, Anxious People manages to pack a potent punch while subverting expectations all along the way. The novel begins with a bank robbery, but the book twists and turns and contorts into a much broader rumination on life, love, loss, grieving, parenting, and mental health. As Backman proclaims to his readers, human beings are frequently best described as "idiots" - but those self-same "idiots" are often simply misguided, wounded creatures trying to navigate the complex waterways of life. It's no accident that the architectural structure of a bridge plays a pivotal role in several scenes: so much of Backman's story forces characters to bridge the gaping chasms that divide them. Along the way, readers also get to make their way across the tenuous, rickety platforms that connect characters - but Anxious People repeatedly reminds us that teetering on the ledge is never the solution to life's cruelties.
I don't want to spew out too much plot summary, however, because so much of this novel's genius relies upon subverting the expectations of readers and avoiding tried-and-true (albeit tedious and tired) tropes of storytelling. At one point, Backman makes an offhand reference to the definitive "twist-ending" film, The Sixth Sense... and then immediately pulls off a narrative trick worthy of M. Night Shyamalan himself. It's a clever and calculated move, an impressive flex of the muscles that will undoubtedly inspire many readers to thumb through previous chapters to search for breadcrumbs. Fortunately for them, there's a literary feast scattered throughout these pages.
It's rare that I give any novel a five-star rating (it's the elitist English teacher in me), but Anxious People absolutely deserves such potent praise. The flawless juxtaposition of silly and serious, heartfelt and humbling, makes Backman's novel a unique piece of literature. In the end, this life-affirming novel will make you laugh, cry, and experience every emotion in-between - sometimes, even, within the confines of a single page.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for June 2021:
The Disenchantments by Nina LaCour
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Despite its title, The Disenchantments is a thoroughly enchanting coming-of-age novel that tackles imperfect romances, adolescent rites of passage, and raucous rock & roll. In some ways, Nina LaCour's book is a sprawling, untidy, chaotic mess - not unlike the Riot Grrrl music that the characters in the novel adore. And yet, despite those imperfections, the novel is a a gorgeous escape into the trials and tribulations of youth. Is the book perfect? No, but it's still a heartfelt, lovingly crafted novel worth the read.
Much of The Disenchantments revolves around the will-they-or-won't-they romance of Colby, the novel's heartsick narrator, and his best friend, Bev, the lead singer of the novel's eponymous band. BFFs from childhood, Bev and Colby have a rich, sophisticated relationship - despite the fact that they've never taken the plunge into a formal romance. Over the course of seven days (the first week of summer following high school graduation), Colby and Bev drive up the Pacific Northwest coast from their hometown of San Francisco to Bev's band's final gig in Portland. Their companions on the trip, adopted sisters Alexa and Meg (drums and bass, respectively), help Colby and Bev navigate the journey - of their relationship and the final tour for The Disenchantments. When long-buried secrets start to spill out and Colby's meticulously plotted post-graduation plans fall apart, the band members (and Colby, their sole male companion) face a reckoning that will determine what happens at the conclusion of the tour.
Over the course of this picaresque adventure (which includes bizarre gigs, late-night diners, crummy hotel rooms, and other road trip trappings), The Disenchantments examines the tenuous webs that unite and connect each of its characters. LaCour tackles a wide swath of subjects in the novel - too many, perhaps, than can be effectively addressed in a meager three-hundred-page book. I can see why some readers might be bored or underwhelmed by The Disenchantments: the story sometimes rambles like a road trip without a roadmap, meandering like an extended guitar solo in an overpacked pop song. However, those overly callused critics are missing the point: this is a book about escaping the tedious ordinariness of everyday life and embracing the extraordinary events that occur in frustratingly short bursts. The Disenchantments reminds us there is more magic in the human existence than just a multitude of mundane days. I, for one, am grateful for the reminder - and I appreciate the message (reprinted on the cover) that "maybe we always were the people we imagined ourselves to be."
All good "rock" novels require a firm foundation in the classics and a deep appreciation of modern music. Does Nina LaCour have good taste in tunes? Absolutely. Rock goddesses Sleater-Kinney play a pivotal role in the novel, with Carrie Brownstein and company even making an appearance during a live concert that Colby and Bev attend in San Francisco. Other musical references (including the Runaways, Heart, and Elliott Smith) imbue the novel with authentic hipster cred. Music aficionados (like yours truly) will undoubtedly geek out over these awesome musical artifacts.
This is a novel I wish I had read in high school... if the book had been written by then, of course. I have a soft spot for YA novels and I'm a sucker for road trip stories - and an even bigger sucker for books about rock bands. Besides the fact that I'm no longer a young adult (heck, I've been teaching young adults for almost two decades), I'm probably the target demographic for LaCour's novel.
Perhaps I'm a bit biased because I just published my own novel about... *ahem*... imperfect romances, adolescent rites of passage, and rock & roll. Even without those biases, however, I can safely say that The Disenchantments is a minor masterpiece. As I finish revising the sequel to Incomplete , I can only hope that my two rock-band-themed novels hold up as well as Nina LaCour's delightful Disenchantments.
The Disenchantments by Nina LaCour
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Despite its title, The Disenchantments is a thoroughly enchanting coming-of-age novel that tackles imperfect romances, adolescent rites of passage, and raucous rock & roll. In some ways, Nina LaCour's book is a sprawling, untidy, chaotic mess - not unlike the Riot Grrrl music that the characters in the novel adore. And yet, despite those imperfections, the novel is a a gorgeous escape into the trials and tribulations of youth. Is the book perfect? No, but it's still a heartfelt, lovingly crafted novel worth the read.
Much of The Disenchantments revolves around the will-they-or-won't-they romance of Colby, the novel's heartsick narrator, and his best friend, Bev, the lead singer of the novel's eponymous band. BFFs from childhood, Bev and Colby have a rich, sophisticated relationship - despite the fact that they've never taken the plunge into a formal romance. Over the course of seven days (the first week of summer following high school graduation), Colby and Bev drive up the Pacific Northwest coast from their hometown of San Francisco to Bev's band's final gig in Portland. Their companions on the trip, adopted sisters Alexa and Meg (drums and bass, respectively), help Colby and Bev navigate the journey - of their relationship and the final tour for The Disenchantments. When long-buried secrets start to spill out and Colby's meticulously plotted post-graduation plans fall apart, the band members (and Colby, their sole male companion) face a reckoning that will determine what happens at the conclusion of the tour.
Over the course of this picaresque adventure (which includes bizarre gigs, late-night diners, crummy hotel rooms, and other road trip trappings), The Disenchantments examines the tenuous webs that unite and connect each of its characters. LaCour tackles a wide swath of subjects in the novel - too many, perhaps, than can be effectively addressed in a meager three-hundred-page book. I can see why some readers might be bored or underwhelmed by The Disenchantments: the story sometimes rambles like a road trip without a roadmap, meandering like an extended guitar solo in an overpacked pop song. However, those overly callused critics are missing the point: this is a book about escaping the tedious ordinariness of everyday life and embracing the extraordinary events that occur in frustratingly short bursts. The Disenchantments reminds us there is more magic in the human existence than just a multitude of mundane days. I, for one, am grateful for the reminder - and I appreciate the message (reprinted on the cover) that "maybe we always were the people we imagined ourselves to be."
All good "rock" novels require a firm foundation in the classics and a deep appreciation of modern music. Does Nina LaCour have good taste in tunes? Absolutely. Rock goddesses Sleater-Kinney play a pivotal role in the novel, with Carrie Brownstein and company even making an appearance during a live concert that Colby and Bev attend in San Francisco. Other musical references (including the Runaways, Heart, and Elliott Smith) imbue the novel with authentic hipster cred. Music aficionados (like yours truly) will undoubtedly geek out over these awesome musical artifacts.
This is a novel I wish I had read in high school... if the book had been written by then, of course. I have a soft spot for YA novels and I'm a sucker for road trip stories - and an even bigger sucker for books about rock bands. Besides the fact that I'm no longer a young adult (heck, I've been teaching young adults for almost two decades), I'm probably the target demographic for LaCour's novel.
Perhaps I'm a bit biased because I just published my own novel about... *ahem*... imperfect romances, adolescent rites of passage, and rock & roll. Even without those biases, however, I can safely say that The Disenchantments is a minor masterpiece. As I finish revising the sequel to Incomplete , I can only hope that my two rock-band-themed novels hold up as well as Nina LaCour's delightful Disenchantments.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for May 2021:
Dragon Hoops by Gene Luen Yang
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Gene Luen Yang's newest graphic novel, Dragon Hoops , is magic - pure and simple. As someone with little interest in sports and limited patience for graphic novels, I debated picking up this behemoth of a book. After all, the 400+ pages collected herein make for an opponent more intimidating than LeBron James. In the end, though, I'm grateful that I took the time to read Yang's clever comic masterpiece.
Dragon Hoops is an autobiographical journey into high school athletics, as told through the lens of a high school math/computer science teacher - who also happens to be an award-winning writer/artist. Over the course of the graphic novel (which takes place during the 2014-2015 school year), Yang plunges into the world of sports and embraces the multitudinous madness of varsity basketball. There are plenty of comical "fish out of water" elements, as the decidedly unathletic Yang delves deeper and deeper into the history, hysteria, and histrionics of sports teams; however, Yang's nascent interest in b-ball slowly evolves into a mild obsession, forcing him out of his comic-book comfort zone into more ambiguous, athletic territory.
Part of what I found so captivating about Dragon Hoops is its deviation from traditional sports-hero tropes. After all, as Yang himself admits in the opening pages, he's about as athletic as Superman wearing a Kryptonite necklace. Fortunately, Yang went against his better judgment and threw himself headfirst into the world of high school athletics. His individual profiles of the student-athletes on the team, coupled with intermittent examinations of sports history, provide a fascinating perspective that will engage even non-obsessives (like yours truly). What I personally found most engaging wasn't the victories that Bishop O'Dowd's Dragons accrue on their path to the state championship: it's the honest glimpses into Yang's personal life, including his creative process and his relationship with his family. I know I'm in the minority here, but I would much rather spend an afternoon interviewing Gene Luen Yang than Shaquille O'Neal.
As a fellow high school teacher, I appreciate Yang's nods to the subtleties of working on a secondary school campus. Dragon Hoops addresses big issues, including work-life balance, overt racism, and campus-wide scandals; Yang also artfully addresses the surreal inanities of his job, like student-created nicknames for teachers, the inability to properly fist-bump a colleague, and a limited understanding of high school sports culture. Dragon Hoops earnestly elucidates the stories of Yang's community, as well as his own internal struggles as he decides whether or not he should quit teaching and pursue a full-time career in the comic book industry. It might not be as flashy as a game-winning three-point shot, but it's just as powerful from my perspective.
That being said, Dragon Hoops has its finest moments when Yang breaks free from the traditional tropes and limitations of graphic novels. In a series of fourth-wall-breaking panels, Yang agonizes over his obligation to truthful, perfectly accurate history - versus the imperfect, inaccurate aspects of storytelling that he must embrace for a cohesive narrator. It's a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a master artist, and the audience is in for quite a treat as Yang recounts his personal - and professional - experiences.
Fans of basketball, comic books, and non-fiction can all find something to celebrate in this masterpiece of a graphic novel. To put it simply, Dragon Hoops is a slam dunk.
Dragon Hoops by Gene Luen Yang
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Gene Luen Yang's newest graphic novel, Dragon Hoops , is magic - pure and simple. As someone with little interest in sports and limited patience for graphic novels, I debated picking up this behemoth of a book. After all, the 400+ pages collected herein make for an opponent more intimidating than LeBron James. In the end, though, I'm grateful that I took the time to read Yang's clever comic masterpiece.
Dragon Hoops is an autobiographical journey into high school athletics, as told through the lens of a high school math/computer science teacher - who also happens to be an award-winning writer/artist. Over the course of the graphic novel (which takes place during the 2014-2015 school year), Yang plunges into the world of sports and embraces the multitudinous madness of varsity basketball. There are plenty of comical "fish out of water" elements, as the decidedly unathletic Yang delves deeper and deeper into the history, hysteria, and histrionics of sports teams; however, Yang's nascent interest in b-ball slowly evolves into a mild obsession, forcing him out of his comic-book comfort zone into more ambiguous, athletic territory.
Part of what I found so captivating about Dragon Hoops is its deviation from traditional sports-hero tropes. After all, as Yang himself admits in the opening pages, he's about as athletic as Superman wearing a Kryptonite necklace. Fortunately, Yang went against his better judgment and threw himself headfirst into the world of high school athletics. His individual profiles of the student-athletes on the team, coupled with intermittent examinations of sports history, provide a fascinating perspective that will engage even non-obsessives (like yours truly). What I personally found most engaging wasn't the victories that Bishop O'Dowd's Dragons accrue on their path to the state championship: it's the honest glimpses into Yang's personal life, including his creative process and his relationship with his family. I know I'm in the minority here, but I would much rather spend an afternoon interviewing Gene Luen Yang than Shaquille O'Neal.
As a fellow high school teacher, I appreciate Yang's nods to the subtleties of working on a secondary school campus. Dragon Hoops addresses big issues, including work-life balance, overt racism, and campus-wide scandals; Yang also artfully addresses the surreal inanities of his job, like student-created nicknames for teachers, the inability to properly fist-bump a colleague, and a limited understanding of high school sports culture. Dragon Hoops earnestly elucidates the stories of Yang's community, as well as his own internal struggles as he decides whether or not he should quit teaching and pursue a full-time career in the comic book industry. It might not be as flashy as a game-winning three-point shot, but it's just as powerful from my perspective.
That being said, Dragon Hoops has its finest moments when Yang breaks free from the traditional tropes and limitations of graphic novels. In a series of fourth-wall-breaking panels, Yang agonizes over his obligation to truthful, perfectly accurate history - versus the imperfect, inaccurate aspects of storytelling that he must embrace for a cohesive narrator. It's a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a master artist, and the audience is in for quite a treat as Yang recounts his personal - and professional - experiences.
Fans of basketball, comic books, and non-fiction can all find something to celebrate in this masterpiece of a graphic novel. To put it simply, Dragon Hoops is a slam dunk.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for April 2021:
Wonder Woman: Tempest Tossed by Laurie Halse Anderson and Leila del Duca
⭐️⭐️⭐️ 1/2
Let me start by saying that I love Laurie Halse Anderson. Speak is one of the most important novels of the past fifty years, and Anderson has consistently crafted profound, thoughtful examinations of modern adolescence, from Wintergirls to The Impossible Knife of Memory to Shout . When she announced that her newest offering would be a Wonder Woman graphic novel, I was excited to see how her writing would translate to the superhero(ine) genre. So, how did it turn out? Well, if I'm being as honest as Diana Prince's Lasso of Truth will allow... it's a bit of a mixed bag.
Wonder Woman: Tempest Tossed is yet another Wonder Woman origin tale, detailing Diana Prince's journey from Themyscira to the United States. What makes Anderson's take on the tried-and-true "Year One" format unique is that she delves into several hot-button issues - specifically the refugee experience, the complications of immigration, and the horrors of human trafficking. In short, it's another poignant entry in Anderson's collection of "topical" tales. In Anderson's version of Wonder Woman's origin, the young Princess Diana sees her comfortable island life turned upside-down and inside-out when a cohort of refugees starts to encroach on Themyscira's isolated shoreline. Diana follows her heart over the traditions of her tribe, rushing to the rescue of these tempest-tossed refugees - and subsequently finds herself unintentionally exiled from her heroic home. When Diana ends up in a refugee camp, she witnesses firsthand the horrific living conditions of these asylum-seekers, and she takes it upon herself to become their protector. Eventually, this role leads her to modern America, where she becomes entrenched in local social justice movements.
Tempest Tossed has fleeting moments of brilliance - but is imperfectly executed. The author removes the romantic elements of the Wonder Woman mythos, cleverly transforming the swoonworthy Steve Trevor into an interracial gay couple (Steve and Trevor) who sponsor Diana's immigration to the United States. More potently, Anderson's use of the Statue of Liberty and its accompanying Emma Lazarus poem (from which the book draws its title) is a profoundly moving reminder that America's immigrant experience is a bittersweet one. Too often, our conflicted nation falls prey to xenophobia and racism, treating our newcomers as less-than-human. Tempest Tossed's portrayal of the plight of refugees is heartbreaking, humanizing the faceless statistics that we see derided on the news. In that regard, Anderson invokes Abraham Lincoln's statement that "We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature." We should be grateful that we have the angelic Laurie Halse Anderson reminding us to be better versions of ourselves.
Wonder Woman is only one of several classic comic book characters born from the womb of immigration. Let's not forget that the world's first famous superhero, Superman, was created in 1938 by two Jewish immigrants (Jerry Siegel & Joe Shuster) and has an interplanetary immigration story as his origin. Our most "American" heroes were actually born on foreign soil (or planets, in Clark Kent's case). As Lin-Manuel Miranda would say, "Immigrants... We get the job done!"
Of course, since this is a graphic novel, I would be remiss if I didn't discuss Anderson's creative partner-in-crime, Leila del Duca. In sharp contrast to the heavy, heartbreaking heroics of Anderson's script, Leila del Duca's playful artwork belies the intensity of the topics addressed in Tempest Tossed. The illustrator's contemporary style makes the subject matter more palatable and "kid-friendly," though this is decidedly not a graphic novel for preteen readers. I was hoping that I could give Tempest Tossed to my eleven-year-old daughter, but a few aspects of the book (including some choice language) make me want to wait until she's in middle school.
Anderson is at her best when she delves deeply into one particular topic. Unfortunately, choosing breadth over depth tends to undermine her work (case in point: 2002's Catalyst). Human trafficking, immigration, and the plight of refugees are all incredibly important issues; cramming so much into 187 pages of a graphic novel inadvertently sabotages Anderson's artistry. That being said, Tempest Tossed is still a worthwhile read - and a well-crafted narrative that will undoubtedly engage YA readers. Laurie Halse Anderson has very much "lifted her lamp beside the golden door," providing us with a beacon of righteous light in these dark times.
Wonder Woman: Tempest Tossed by Laurie Halse Anderson and Leila del Duca
⭐️⭐️⭐️ 1/2
Let me start by saying that I love Laurie Halse Anderson. Speak is one of the most important novels of the past fifty years, and Anderson has consistently crafted profound, thoughtful examinations of modern adolescence, from Wintergirls to The Impossible Knife of Memory to Shout . When she announced that her newest offering would be a Wonder Woman graphic novel, I was excited to see how her writing would translate to the superhero(ine) genre. So, how did it turn out? Well, if I'm being as honest as Diana Prince's Lasso of Truth will allow... it's a bit of a mixed bag.
Wonder Woman: Tempest Tossed is yet another Wonder Woman origin tale, detailing Diana Prince's journey from Themyscira to the United States. What makes Anderson's take on the tried-and-true "Year One" format unique is that she delves into several hot-button issues - specifically the refugee experience, the complications of immigration, and the horrors of human trafficking. In short, it's another poignant entry in Anderson's collection of "topical" tales. In Anderson's version of Wonder Woman's origin, the young Princess Diana sees her comfortable island life turned upside-down and inside-out when a cohort of refugees starts to encroach on Themyscira's isolated shoreline. Diana follows her heart over the traditions of her tribe, rushing to the rescue of these tempest-tossed refugees - and subsequently finds herself unintentionally exiled from her heroic home. When Diana ends up in a refugee camp, she witnesses firsthand the horrific living conditions of these asylum-seekers, and she takes it upon herself to become their protector. Eventually, this role leads her to modern America, where she becomes entrenched in local social justice movements.
Tempest Tossed has fleeting moments of brilliance - but is imperfectly executed. The author removes the romantic elements of the Wonder Woman mythos, cleverly transforming the swoonworthy Steve Trevor into an interracial gay couple (Steve and Trevor) who sponsor Diana's immigration to the United States. More potently, Anderson's use of the Statue of Liberty and its accompanying Emma Lazarus poem (from which the book draws its title) is a profoundly moving reminder that America's immigrant experience is a bittersweet one. Too often, our conflicted nation falls prey to xenophobia and racism, treating our newcomers as less-than-human. Tempest Tossed's portrayal of the plight of refugees is heartbreaking, humanizing the faceless statistics that we see derided on the news. In that regard, Anderson invokes Abraham Lincoln's statement that "We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature." We should be grateful that we have the angelic Laurie Halse Anderson reminding us to be better versions of ourselves.
Wonder Woman is only one of several classic comic book characters born from the womb of immigration. Let's not forget that the world's first famous superhero, Superman, was created in 1938 by two Jewish immigrants (Jerry Siegel & Joe Shuster) and has an interplanetary immigration story as his origin. Our most "American" heroes were actually born on foreign soil (or planets, in Clark Kent's case). As Lin-Manuel Miranda would say, "Immigrants... We get the job done!"
Of course, since this is a graphic novel, I would be remiss if I didn't discuss Anderson's creative partner-in-crime, Leila del Duca. In sharp contrast to the heavy, heartbreaking heroics of Anderson's script, Leila del Duca's playful artwork belies the intensity of the topics addressed in Tempest Tossed. The illustrator's contemporary style makes the subject matter more palatable and "kid-friendly," though this is decidedly not a graphic novel for preteen readers. I was hoping that I could give Tempest Tossed to my eleven-year-old daughter, but a few aspects of the book (including some choice language) make me want to wait until she's in middle school.
Anderson is at her best when she delves deeply into one particular topic. Unfortunately, choosing breadth over depth tends to undermine her work (case in point: 2002's Catalyst). Human trafficking, immigration, and the plight of refugees are all incredibly important issues; cramming so much into 187 pages of a graphic novel inadvertently sabotages Anderson's artistry. That being said, Tempest Tossed is still a worthwhile read - and a well-crafted narrative that will undoubtedly engage YA readers. Laurie Halse Anderson has very much "lifted her lamp beside the golden door," providing us with a beacon of righteous light in these dark times.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for March 2021:
The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires by Grady Hendrix
⭐️⭐️⭐️ 1/2
Grady Hendrix is the Stephen King of modern horror... but not in a good way. In the same manner that "The King of Horror" captures our attention with brilliant ideas - and then sometimes fails to live up to those captivating concepts - Mr. Hendrix has once again fallen short of his potent potential. That's not to say that The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires is a worthless waste of time; on the contrary, the book is a unique take on the tried-and-true vampire story that will undoubtedly please hordes of horror fans. It just misses the mark, like a stake through the appendix rather than the heart.
Here's the basic plot, broken down in simple, succinct terms: a housewife and her family move to a southern town in the 1990s and do their best to fit in, but a mysterious stranger interferes with the mundane comfort of their lives. Spoiler alert: it's a vampire. As would be expected when the Undead appear, situations spiral out of control and things get weird. Really weird.
You will find no sparkle-skinned heartthrobs in these pages, nor will you encounter Transylvanian trauma. Instead, Hendrix has conjured up a villain who comes across as more of a child molester than a champion of evil. In that regard, Hendrix has reclaimed vampires from the neutered necrophilia of the Twilight series and updated Bram Stoker for a new generation of horror junkies.
There are moments when Hendrix's humor sneaks through (my personal favorite is a cringe-worthy scene in an awkward book club meeting when the hostess hasn't read that month's selection), but much of the novel focuses on the dark undercurrents of modern suburbia. These true-crime-loving housewives aren't only squaring off against the town's new vampire: they're also facing the trials and tribulations of child-rearing, finances, religious faith, alcoholism, domestic abuse, and a flurry of other Faustian issues. At times, it's hard to determine whether the malevolent antagonist of the novel is more frightening than the insensitive, manipulative husbands who undermine the stability of their wives' lives. In the end, these women will need all their strength - and a supportive community - to overcome the variety of vicious villains in their neighborhood.
Because of Southern Book Club's clever twists and intermittent humor, I'll round up to 3.5 stars. I wish that the final product could have warranted more, but sometimes our expectations fall short of reality. However, as Shelby in Steel Magnolias says, "I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special." For now, I'll settle for four hundred pages of an engaging Grady Hendrix novel if the other option is no Hendrix at all.
The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires by Grady Hendrix
⭐️⭐️⭐️ 1/2
Grady Hendrix is the Stephen King of modern horror... but not in a good way. In the same manner that "The King of Horror" captures our attention with brilliant ideas - and then sometimes fails to live up to those captivating concepts - Mr. Hendrix has once again fallen short of his potent potential. That's not to say that The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires is a worthless waste of time; on the contrary, the book is a unique take on the tried-and-true vampire story that will undoubtedly please hordes of horror fans. It just misses the mark, like a stake through the appendix rather than the heart.
Here's the basic plot, broken down in simple, succinct terms: a housewife and her family move to a southern town in the 1990s and do their best to fit in, but a mysterious stranger interferes with the mundane comfort of their lives. Spoiler alert: it's a vampire. As would be expected when the Undead appear, situations spiral out of control and things get weird. Really weird.
You will find no sparkle-skinned heartthrobs in these pages, nor will you encounter Transylvanian trauma. Instead, Hendrix has conjured up a villain who comes across as more of a child molester than a champion of evil. In that regard, Hendrix has reclaimed vampires from the neutered necrophilia of the Twilight series and updated Bram Stoker for a new generation of horror junkies.
There are moments when Hendrix's humor sneaks through (my personal favorite is a cringe-worthy scene in an awkward book club meeting when the hostess hasn't read that month's selection), but much of the novel focuses on the dark undercurrents of modern suburbia. These true-crime-loving housewives aren't only squaring off against the town's new vampire: they're also facing the trials and tribulations of child-rearing, finances, religious faith, alcoholism, domestic abuse, and a flurry of other Faustian issues. At times, it's hard to determine whether the malevolent antagonist of the novel is more frightening than the insensitive, manipulative husbands who undermine the stability of their wives' lives. In the end, these women will need all their strength - and a supportive community - to overcome the variety of vicious villains in their neighborhood.
Because of Southern Book Club's clever twists and intermittent humor, I'll round up to 3.5 stars. I wish that the final product could have warranted more, but sometimes our expectations fall short of reality. However, as Shelby in Steel Magnolias says, "I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special." For now, I'll settle for four hundred pages of an engaging Grady Hendrix novel if the other option is no Hendrix at all.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for February 2021:
Agnes at the End of the World by Kelly McWilliams
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
An apocalyptic YA novel? With a gifted young protagonist breaking free from a cult ruled by a self-proclaimed prophet? In the middle of a global pandemic? Leading into a series of supernatural occurrences and culminating in an examination of faith in the 21st century?
Be still, my heart. You had me at "apocalyptic YA novel."
Agnes at the End of the World (not to be confused with the similarly titled Anna and the Apocalypse) is an engaging, thought-provoking debut novel from author Kelly McWilliams. In the book, the eponymous Agnes embarks on a journey to the "Outside," leaving behind the smothering cult of her community, Red Creek. However, Agnes liberates herself from the chains of Red Creek's "Prophet" only to find that the world has been overtaken by a strange new pandemic that turns all animals (including humans) into zombies with bristling red, crystalline skin. Although religious fanaticism, cults, zombies, supernatural events, and prophetic powers have all been frequently addressed in literature and media, rarely has one piece tackled them all simultaneously - and tackled them all successfully, I might add.
I've read a number of cult-related novels over the years (Pete Hautman's Eden West being one of the best), but few have the gravitas and unique narrative arc that McWilliams creates for her story. Watching Agnes transform from a weary, overworked, cult-confined teenager into a truly powerful, independent (but humble) young woman is inspiring. And, though it's tempting to dismiss all spirituality based on the dangerously dubious actions of religious zealots, McWilliams maintains a respectful perspective on God - even as her protagonist breaks free from the psychological chains of her cult-controlled upbringing.
This is the third pandemic novel I've tackled since the start of Covid-19, and I'm not sure if that's enhanced or detracted from my experience reading these books. If nothing else, Agnes at the End of the World has reminded me that there is always hope - even when it seems like the apocalypse is hovering just above the horizon.
Agnes at the End of the World by Kelly McWilliams
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
An apocalyptic YA novel? With a gifted young protagonist breaking free from a cult ruled by a self-proclaimed prophet? In the middle of a global pandemic? Leading into a series of supernatural occurrences and culminating in an examination of faith in the 21st century?
Be still, my heart. You had me at "apocalyptic YA novel."
Agnes at the End of the World (not to be confused with the similarly titled Anna and the Apocalypse) is an engaging, thought-provoking debut novel from author Kelly McWilliams. In the book, the eponymous Agnes embarks on a journey to the "Outside," leaving behind the smothering cult of her community, Red Creek. However, Agnes liberates herself from the chains of Red Creek's "Prophet" only to find that the world has been overtaken by a strange new pandemic that turns all animals (including humans) into zombies with bristling red, crystalline skin. Although religious fanaticism, cults, zombies, supernatural events, and prophetic powers have all been frequently addressed in literature and media, rarely has one piece tackled them all simultaneously - and tackled them all successfully, I might add.
I've read a number of cult-related novels over the years (Pete Hautman's Eden West being one of the best), but few have the gravitas and unique narrative arc that McWilliams creates for her story. Watching Agnes transform from a weary, overworked, cult-confined teenager into a truly powerful, independent (but humble) young woman is inspiring. And, though it's tempting to dismiss all spirituality based on the dangerously dubious actions of religious zealots, McWilliams maintains a respectful perspective on God - even as her protagonist breaks free from the psychological chains of her cult-controlled upbringing.
This is the third pandemic novel I've tackled since the start of Covid-19, and I'm not sure if that's enhanced or detracted from my experience reading these books. If nothing else, Agnes at the End of the World has reminded me that there is always hope - even when it seems like the apocalypse is hovering just above the horizon.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for January 2021:
The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu and Their Race to Save the World's Most Precious Manuscripts by Joshua Hammer
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
As a Teacher Librarian, I simply couldn't resist the urge to read a book with "Bad-Ass Librarians" in the title. Despite the irreverent title, though, Joshua Hammer's fascinating book, The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu: And Their Race to Save the World’s Most Precious Manuscripts , is more accurately described as a historical overview of Mali's academic achievements and political turmoil. Alas, there's no "Conan the Librarian" in this tome; however, that doesn't make the exploits of its protagonists any less death-defying or remarkable.
Here's the Reader's Digest version of the story: despite existing colonial stereotypes of the "backwards," "savage" inhabitants of Africa, Timbuktu was once an academic haven - the "Athens of Africa," so to speak. With the rise of religious extremists in the area, however, thousands of volumes of historical documents and breathtaking artistry were in danger of destruction. Thanks to the efforts of a small network of passionate individuals, a clandestine cadre of heroic caretakers was charged with evacuating some 350,000 priceless manuscripts from Timbuktu. This is that story.
As thrilling as this premise sounds, Hammer actually devotes the majority of his book to the political and sociological history of western Africa, with a particular focus on the waves of religious extremism that have rocked the continent over the centuries. Much of this, I must sheepishly admit, was brand-new history to me: my tenth-grade World History class was primarily dedicated to European history, with only passing references to the rest of the world. As such, half of Hammer's chapters felt like a didactic history textbook, with clinical writing that seemed less "bad-ass" than overtly academic. When I read the acknowledgments section of the book, I was not-so-shocked to learn that Hammer has spent a sizable portion of his career writing for National Geographic magazine. National Geographic...? You don't say!
Of the book's 242 pages of text, only about a third of The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu covers the daring rescue attempts that saved hundreds of thousands of priceless manuscripts. While I understand the importance of historical context and background, Hammer's over-reliance on exposition and antecedents tends to bog down his narrative; by comparison, the much more thrilling aspects of his book seem rushed. It's hard not to compare The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu with, say, something written by Jon Krakauer - an author who masterfully frames an individual's circumstances within a larger social context without sacrificing the most engaging elements of a story.
For me, the most uncanny aspect of the novel is the parallel between fundamentalist Islamic takeovers in Africa and the current White Supremacist riots in the United States. Amazingly, Hammer's book almost seems more timely now than when it was published half a decade ago - but for altogether different reasons. When I started reading The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu on New Year's Day, I was shocked reading about small, armed groups laying siege to entire cities as they tried to impose an authoritarian regime. How does that happen in a modern-day country? I asked myself. Five days later, I watched the same kind of insurrection unfold in Washington, D.C., as hordes of violent rioters overtook the Capitol Building. Although we, as Americans, tend to view ourselves as so much more refined than the rest of the world, we're not so far removed from the regime revolutions of the Middle East. I only pray that if something happens here, on American soil, that we have bad-ass librarians of our own to save our most precious books.
The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu and Their Race to Save the World's Most Precious Manuscripts by Joshua Hammer
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
As a Teacher Librarian, I simply couldn't resist the urge to read a book with "Bad-Ass Librarians" in the title. Despite the irreverent title, though, Joshua Hammer's fascinating book, The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu: And Their Race to Save the World’s Most Precious Manuscripts , is more accurately described as a historical overview of Mali's academic achievements and political turmoil. Alas, there's no "Conan the Librarian" in this tome; however, that doesn't make the exploits of its protagonists any less death-defying or remarkable.
Here's the Reader's Digest version of the story: despite existing colonial stereotypes of the "backwards," "savage" inhabitants of Africa, Timbuktu was once an academic haven - the "Athens of Africa," so to speak. With the rise of religious extremists in the area, however, thousands of volumes of historical documents and breathtaking artistry were in danger of destruction. Thanks to the efforts of a small network of passionate individuals, a clandestine cadre of heroic caretakers was charged with evacuating some 350,000 priceless manuscripts from Timbuktu. This is that story.
As thrilling as this premise sounds, Hammer actually devotes the majority of his book to the political and sociological history of western Africa, with a particular focus on the waves of religious extremism that have rocked the continent over the centuries. Much of this, I must sheepishly admit, was brand-new history to me: my tenth-grade World History class was primarily dedicated to European history, with only passing references to the rest of the world. As such, half of Hammer's chapters felt like a didactic history textbook, with clinical writing that seemed less "bad-ass" than overtly academic. When I read the acknowledgments section of the book, I was not-so-shocked to learn that Hammer has spent a sizable portion of his career writing for National Geographic magazine. National Geographic...? You don't say!
Of the book's 242 pages of text, only about a third of The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu covers the daring rescue attempts that saved hundreds of thousands of priceless manuscripts. While I understand the importance of historical context and background, Hammer's over-reliance on exposition and antecedents tends to bog down his narrative; by comparison, the much more thrilling aspects of his book seem rushed. It's hard not to compare The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu with, say, something written by Jon Krakauer - an author who masterfully frames an individual's circumstances within a larger social context without sacrificing the most engaging elements of a story.
For me, the most uncanny aspect of the novel is the parallel between fundamentalist Islamic takeovers in Africa and the current White Supremacist riots in the United States. Amazingly, Hammer's book almost seems more timely now than when it was published half a decade ago - but for altogether different reasons. When I started reading The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu on New Year's Day, I was shocked reading about small, armed groups laying siege to entire cities as they tried to impose an authoritarian regime. How does that happen in a modern-day country? I asked myself. Five days later, I watched the same kind of insurrection unfold in Washington, D.C., as hordes of violent rioters overtook the Capitol Building. Although we, as Americans, tend to view ourselves as so much more refined than the rest of the world, we're not so far removed from the regime revolutions of the Middle East. I only pray that if something happens here, on American soil, that we have bad-ass librarians of our own to save our most precious books.
Mr. Levin's 2021 Goodreads Challenge
These are the titles Mr. Levin has read so far during 2021:
These are the titles Mr. Levin has read so far during 2021:
- The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu by Joshua Hammer
- Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Louise Simonson et al.
- Agnes at the End of the World by Kelly McWilliams
- The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas
- We Sold Our Souls by Grady Hendrix
- Horrorstor by Grady Hendrix
- Lara Dean Keeps Breaking Up With Me by Mariko Tamaki
- Ralph S. Mouse by Beverly Cleary
- Fifty Sides of the Beach Boys by Mark Dillon
- Wonder Woman: Tempest Tossed by Laurie Halse Anderson et al.
- Fables, Book One by Bill Willingham et al.
- Julian is a Mermaid by Jessica Love
- Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson
- Batman: Three Jokers by Geoff Johns
- The Mark of Athena by Rick Riordan
- Good Neighbors by Sarah Langan
- The Southern Book Clubs Guide to Slaying Vampires by Grady Hendrix
- Haunted Universal Studios by Brain Clune et al.
- The Disenchantments by Nina LaCour
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for December 2020:
Let It Snow by John Green, Maureen Johnson, and Lauren Myracle
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Unlike other YA books in the vein of John Green, which tend to necessitate boxes of Kleenex (*ahem* The Fault in Our Stars *ahem*), Let It Snow showcases Green and his collaborators in merry, mirthful, and mischievous spirits. The three intertwined stories that comprise Let It Snow offer realistic, believable underdogs, all of whom are looking for love in a particularly nasty winter storm.
The first story in the book, Johnson's "The Jubilee Express," follows the eponymous title character, Jubilee - an intelligent (albeit snarky) protagonist who finds herself stranded in a foreign town on Christmas Eve. Like Johnson's tale, John Green's "A Cheertastic Christmas Miracle," also features teenagers adventuring without parents on the same evening; though missing the characteristic tragedy that defines much of Green's heartrending fiction, the story still benefits from his warmly optimistic tone and uniquely quirky characters. The final story in the trilogy, Lauren Myracle's "The Patron Saint of Pigs," is the least effective tale in the bunch: it features a guilt-ridden, self-loathing Starbucks barista and a teacup pig. 'Nuff said.
The most rewarding aspect of this book is the cleverly interlocking set of stories - all of which converge on specific locations (Starbucks, The Waffle House, etc.) in a tidy ending that wraps up neatly... like a Christmas present tied together with a bow. Regardless of their individual flaws, these three heartwarming holiday tales would each make Ebeneezer Scrooge chuckle; as a whole, though, the three authors create a memorable and engaging book in Let It Snow.
Let It Snow by John Green, Maureen Johnson, and Lauren Myracle
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Unlike other YA books in the vein of John Green, which tend to necessitate boxes of Kleenex (*ahem* The Fault in Our Stars *ahem*), Let It Snow showcases Green and his collaborators in merry, mirthful, and mischievous spirits. The three intertwined stories that comprise Let It Snow offer realistic, believable underdogs, all of whom are looking for love in a particularly nasty winter storm.
The first story in the book, Johnson's "The Jubilee Express," follows the eponymous title character, Jubilee - an intelligent (albeit snarky) protagonist who finds herself stranded in a foreign town on Christmas Eve. Like Johnson's tale, John Green's "A Cheertastic Christmas Miracle," also features teenagers adventuring without parents on the same evening; though missing the characteristic tragedy that defines much of Green's heartrending fiction, the story still benefits from his warmly optimistic tone and uniquely quirky characters. The final story in the trilogy, Lauren Myracle's "The Patron Saint of Pigs," is the least effective tale in the bunch: it features a guilt-ridden, self-loathing Starbucks barista and a teacup pig. 'Nuff said.
The most rewarding aspect of this book is the cleverly interlocking set of stories - all of which converge on specific locations (Starbucks, The Waffle House, etc.) in a tidy ending that wraps up neatly... like a Christmas present tied together with a bow. Regardless of their individual flaws, these three heartwarming holiday tales would each make Ebeneezer Scrooge chuckle; as a whole, though, the three authors create a memorable and engaging book in Let It Snow.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for November 2020:
Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood by Trevor Noah
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
My wife and I are big fans of The Daily Show, and we've spent the last few years religiously watching Trevor Noah's incredibly insightful (but humorous) perspective on the national news. So, I was thrilled when my book club picked Born a Crime: Stories From a South African Childhood for our November selection. Knowing what I did about Mr. Noah, I assumed that one of my favorite comedians would provide a few hearty chuckles with a lighthearted memoir of his youthful exploits.
Boy, was I wrong.
Before reading Born a Crime, I knew a little bit about Noah's youth from interviews: he was born in South Africa in the 1980's, the child of a white father and a black mother, and he grew up with very few "creature comforts." Based on the title alone, I knew that South Africa's horrific policy of apartheid undoubtedly shaped his perspective on politics, race relations, and the human experience. Of course, I assumed (incorrectly) that he would predominately relate his experiences with his signature levity and leave the heartbreak to another author.
Needless to say, I was unprepared for just how dark Noah's memoir would be. Because I was a child in the 1980s (I'm only four years older than Trevor Noah himself), I was relatively oblivious to the horrors of apartheid and South Africa's unjust laws. As he weaves his life story with brief history lessons about South Africa, Noah sheds light on the centuries of suffering in his home country; likewise, he examines the complicated dynamics of racism through the lens of a biracial "bastard" child growing up in this environment. Even with such sweeping, heavy topics at the forefront of his narrative, Noah still discusses the typical coming-of-age rites of passage: learning to fit in with his peers, experiencing romantic woes, and getting into trouble (lots of trouble, in fact). However, these trials and tribulations are nothing compared to the abject poverty and domestic abuse he survived during those pivotal years of his youth.
In many ways, Born a Crime is a life-changing book - the kind of read that shapes your understanding of an entire nation. It seems unfathomable that the horrors of apartheid could have affected the life of someone younger than me, but Trevor Noah's autobiography is a reminder that the suburban comforts of Ventura, California, are a heavenly fairy tale compared to the lives of many, many others. Thank God we have Trevor Noah to give us an honest, unflinching perspective on South Africa and its citizens. He might have been "born a crime," but his life story feels more like an inspiring liberation to his readers.
Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood by Trevor Noah
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
My wife and I are big fans of The Daily Show, and we've spent the last few years religiously watching Trevor Noah's incredibly insightful (but humorous) perspective on the national news. So, I was thrilled when my book club picked Born a Crime: Stories From a South African Childhood for our November selection. Knowing what I did about Mr. Noah, I assumed that one of my favorite comedians would provide a few hearty chuckles with a lighthearted memoir of his youthful exploits.
Boy, was I wrong.
Before reading Born a Crime, I knew a little bit about Noah's youth from interviews: he was born in South Africa in the 1980's, the child of a white father and a black mother, and he grew up with very few "creature comforts." Based on the title alone, I knew that South Africa's horrific policy of apartheid undoubtedly shaped his perspective on politics, race relations, and the human experience. Of course, I assumed (incorrectly) that he would predominately relate his experiences with his signature levity and leave the heartbreak to another author.
Needless to say, I was unprepared for just how dark Noah's memoir would be. Because I was a child in the 1980s (I'm only four years older than Trevor Noah himself), I was relatively oblivious to the horrors of apartheid and South Africa's unjust laws. As he weaves his life story with brief history lessons about South Africa, Noah sheds light on the centuries of suffering in his home country; likewise, he examines the complicated dynamics of racism through the lens of a biracial "bastard" child growing up in this environment. Even with such sweeping, heavy topics at the forefront of his narrative, Noah still discusses the typical coming-of-age rites of passage: learning to fit in with his peers, experiencing romantic woes, and getting into trouble (lots of trouble, in fact). However, these trials and tribulations are nothing compared to the abject poverty and domestic abuse he survived during those pivotal years of his youth.
In many ways, Born a Crime is a life-changing book - the kind of read that shapes your understanding of an entire nation. It seems unfathomable that the horrors of apartheid could have affected the life of someone younger than me, but Trevor Noah's autobiography is a reminder that the suburban comforts of Ventura, California, are a heavenly fairy tale compared to the lives of many, many others. Thank God we have Trevor Noah to give us an honest, unflinching perspective on South Africa and its citizens. He might have been "born a crime," but his life story feels more like an inspiring liberation to his readers.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for October 2020:
Dead in the West by Joe R. Lansdale
⭐️⭐️⭐️
Joe R. Lansdale's Dead in the West is a fun, campy monster mashup of genres. Subtitled "A Zombie Western," the novel features a tough-as-nails preacher who unexpectedly faces his most horrifying challenge: a legion of the undead. Like any good antihero, Reverend Jebediah Mercer struggles with a tragic history full of sinful secrets - and the accompanying guilt that haunts him like a tethered specter. The ghosts of the past, however, pale in comparison to the resurrected zombies that have started stalking Mercer's new home in Mud Creek, Texas.
Although this 1986 publication is often heralded as the grandfather of "weird western" tales, it draws upon many familiar elements from horror films and cowboy comics. In many ways, the last chunk of the novel (which features the last living townsfolk making their final stand against encroaching hordes of the undead), feels like a generic zombie film - but with antique firearms and wild west decor.
That being said, Lansdale's writing is sparse and straightforward, lacking the gorgeous grit of Stephen King or the understated poetry of Cormac McCarthy. A few descriptions conjure up powerful visuals ("The head, like a powdered ball of ash paper, came apart and the teeth scattered like rotten peppermints to join the smoking remains of the other zombies on the blood-slick floor"), but much of Lansdale's writing comes across as simple and superficial. And yet, for all its cliches and redundancies, the book's union of these two disparate genres provides a thrilling novelty.
In the future, I might pass on Lansdale in favor of the aforementioned Stephen King, but I'm grateful that Dead in the West's author kick-started such an intriguing genre of literature.
Dead in the West by Joe R. Lansdale
⭐️⭐️⭐️
Joe R. Lansdale's Dead in the West is a fun, campy monster mashup of genres. Subtitled "A Zombie Western," the novel features a tough-as-nails preacher who unexpectedly faces his most horrifying challenge: a legion of the undead. Like any good antihero, Reverend Jebediah Mercer struggles with a tragic history full of sinful secrets - and the accompanying guilt that haunts him like a tethered specter. The ghosts of the past, however, pale in comparison to the resurrected zombies that have started stalking Mercer's new home in Mud Creek, Texas.
Although this 1986 publication is often heralded as the grandfather of "weird western" tales, it draws upon many familiar elements from horror films and cowboy comics. In many ways, the last chunk of the novel (which features the last living townsfolk making their final stand against encroaching hordes of the undead), feels like a generic zombie film - but with antique firearms and wild west decor.
That being said, Lansdale's writing is sparse and straightforward, lacking the gorgeous grit of Stephen King or the understated poetry of Cormac McCarthy. A few descriptions conjure up powerful visuals ("The head, like a powdered ball of ash paper, came apart and the teeth scattered like rotten peppermints to join the smoking remains of the other zombies on the blood-slick floor"), but much of Lansdale's writing comes across as simple and superficial. And yet, for all its cliches and redundancies, the book's union of these two disparate genres provides a thrilling novelty.
In the future, I might pass on Lansdale in favor of the aforementioned Stephen King, but I'm grateful that Dead in the West's author kick-started such an intriguing genre of literature.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for March 2020:
Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Wendelin Van Draanen's 2001 YA novel, Flipped , is an absolutely adorable he-said/she-said coming-of-age story. In alternating chapters, we view the same events from the eyes of two very different characters: the precocious Juli and the cynical Bryce. For seven-year-old Juli, it's love at first sight when Bryce's family moves in across the street; her new neighbor, however, takes a lot longer to appreciate Juli's quirky habits and behavior.
Though Bryce initially views the atypical girl in the run-down house across the street as a freak, he slowly (very slowly, mind you) begins to appreciate her unique sensibilities and vivacious spirit. Keep in mind that Juli is the kind of girl who incubates eggs for a science fair project and continues to raise the baby chicks after they hatch; Bryce, on the other hand, is completely grossed-out by hen poop and dirty chicken coops. By the time that the two narrators wind up their eighth-grade year, everything goes topsy-turvy in a variety of delightful ways. The fact that the novel ends without a tidy, wrapped-up-in-a-bow conclusion only reinforces the unique sensibilities of this quirky, fun YA offering.
Though the target demographic for Flipped is the middle-school crowd, I was impressed by the wide variety of topics that Van Draanen incorporates into her novel. This isn't just a tween-age love story; rather, Flipped examines social pressure, domestic strife, shame, poverty, grief, developmental disabilities, and a variety of other sophisticated themes that go beyond the tropes of a simple star-crossed romance. In the end, you'll find yourself rooting for Juli and Bryce as they learn to navigate the turbulent waters of adolescence.
First love might be a tale as old as time, but it's never been told before with quite so many chickens.
Flipped by Wendelin Van Draanen
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Wendelin Van Draanen's 2001 YA novel, Flipped , is an absolutely adorable he-said/she-said coming-of-age story. In alternating chapters, we view the same events from the eyes of two very different characters: the precocious Juli and the cynical Bryce. For seven-year-old Juli, it's love at first sight when Bryce's family moves in across the street; her new neighbor, however, takes a lot longer to appreciate Juli's quirky habits and behavior.
Though Bryce initially views the atypical girl in the run-down house across the street as a freak, he slowly (very slowly, mind you) begins to appreciate her unique sensibilities and vivacious spirit. Keep in mind that Juli is the kind of girl who incubates eggs for a science fair project and continues to raise the baby chicks after they hatch; Bryce, on the other hand, is completely grossed-out by hen poop and dirty chicken coops. By the time that the two narrators wind up their eighth-grade year, everything goes topsy-turvy in a variety of delightful ways. The fact that the novel ends without a tidy, wrapped-up-in-a-bow conclusion only reinforces the unique sensibilities of this quirky, fun YA offering.
Though the target demographic for Flipped is the middle-school crowd, I was impressed by the wide variety of topics that Van Draanen incorporates into her novel. This isn't just a tween-age love story; rather, Flipped examines social pressure, domestic strife, shame, poverty, grief, developmental disabilities, and a variety of other sophisticated themes that go beyond the tropes of a simple star-crossed romance. In the end, you'll find yourself rooting for Juli and Bryce as they learn to navigate the turbulent waters of adolescence.
First love might be a tale as old as time, but it's never been told before with quite so many chickens.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for February 2020:
Educated: A Memoir by Tara Westover
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Tara Westover's compelling memoir, Educated , is a heartbreaking examination of one family's erratic behavior and off-the-grid living. Westover's father, a manic but charismatic leader who suffers from paranoid delusions of grandeur, has fallen prey to conspiracy theories about government takeovers; as a result, he refuses to trust public schools, doctors, hospitals, and every imaginable form of government intervention. Even the Church of Latter Day Saints is considered "not holy enough" in his fundamentalist eyes. Subsequently, his children - including the brilliant but scarred Tara - never attend public school, never see doctors, and never receive treatment at hospitals. Instead, they are forced to teach themselves - not only the tacit, sterile verbiage of textbooks, but also how to navigate through the wildness and wilderness of their homelife.
As Tara and her siblings grow up, however, they must come to grips with the brainwashing they've received their entire lives. For Tara and two of her brothers, that means deciding to break with family tradition and attend school, despite their father's admonitions that they'll come back "brainwashed by socialist teachers." Watching Tara grow up and learn to think for herself - to construct her own ideas, opinions, and beliefs - is simultaneously gut-wrenching and liberating.
Educated, with its brilliant writing and painful reflections of a life lived off-the-grid, reminds us that we ultimately determine our own fates. Our experiences may not define us, but they allow us to define ourselves. For Tara Westover, that act of self-definition is absolutely heroic and life-changing: an education beyond the hallowed halls of school and into the deeper, darker recesses of the human soul.
Educated: A Memoir by Tara Westover
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Tara Westover's compelling memoir, Educated , is a heartbreaking examination of one family's erratic behavior and off-the-grid living. Westover's father, a manic but charismatic leader who suffers from paranoid delusions of grandeur, has fallen prey to conspiracy theories about government takeovers; as a result, he refuses to trust public schools, doctors, hospitals, and every imaginable form of government intervention. Even the Church of Latter Day Saints is considered "not holy enough" in his fundamentalist eyes. Subsequently, his children - including the brilliant but scarred Tara - never attend public school, never see doctors, and never receive treatment at hospitals. Instead, they are forced to teach themselves - not only the tacit, sterile verbiage of textbooks, but also how to navigate through the wildness and wilderness of their homelife.
As Tara and her siblings grow up, however, they must come to grips with the brainwashing they've received their entire lives. For Tara and two of her brothers, that means deciding to break with family tradition and attend school, despite their father's admonitions that they'll come back "brainwashed by socialist teachers." Watching Tara grow up and learn to think for herself - to construct her own ideas, opinions, and beliefs - is simultaneously gut-wrenching and liberating.
Educated, with its brilliant writing and painful reflections of a life lived off-the-grid, reminds us that we ultimately determine our own fates. Our experiences may not define us, but they allow us to define ourselves. For Tara Westover, that act of self-definition is absolutely heroic and life-changing: an education beyond the hallowed halls of school and into the deeper, darker recesses of the human soul.
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for January 2020:
Misery: A Novel by Stephen King
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After watching the second season of Hulu’s Castle Rock, I felt compelled to finally read Stephen King’s bloody (and brilliant) novel that inspired the Annie Wilkes story arc, Misery. Though the novel lacks the supernatural elements that usually define King’s novels (there are no telekinetic children, shapeshifting clowns, or ethereal ghosts of any sort), we have something much more frightening instead: a cruel and psychotic nurse who has trapped and overmedicated her favorite author in a makeshift hospital bed.
I’ll take Pennywise the Clown or Carrie White over Annie Wilkes any day.
What I enjoyed most about Misery was not the brutal bloodshed or the psychological terror or the suspenseful cat-and-mouse games between characters; rather, it was Stephen King’s creative and clever discussions about the craft of writing. As the author Paul Sheldon does his Scheherazade routine, telling stories to his captor in order to remain alive as long as possible, King delves into the artistry and inspiration for writing novels. King’s descriptions of journeying “through the hole in the paper” and “playing fair” with your audience (amongst other qualities) provide valuable insight into the writing process for one of our era’s most prolific and prodigious authors.
Fortunately for us, King isn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed, forced to watch his appendages being cut off. Of course, it wouldn’t be a Stephen King novel without a few missing limbs, now would it?
Misery: A Novel by Stephen King
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
After watching the second season of Hulu’s Castle Rock, I felt compelled to finally read Stephen King’s bloody (and brilliant) novel that inspired the Annie Wilkes story arc, Misery. Though the novel lacks the supernatural elements that usually define King’s novels (there are no telekinetic children, shapeshifting clowns, or ethereal ghosts of any sort), we have something much more frightening instead: a cruel and psychotic nurse who has trapped and overmedicated her favorite author in a makeshift hospital bed.
I’ll take Pennywise the Clown or Carrie White over Annie Wilkes any day.
What I enjoyed most about Misery was not the brutal bloodshed or the psychological terror or the suspenseful cat-and-mouse games between characters; rather, it was Stephen King’s creative and clever discussions about the craft of writing. As the author Paul Sheldon does his Scheherazade routine, telling stories to his captor in order to remain alive as long as possible, King delves into the artistry and inspiration for writing novels. King’s descriptions of journeying “through the hole in the paper” and “playing fair” with your audience (amongst other qualities) provide valuable insight into the writing process for one of our era’s most prolific and prodigious authors.
Fortunately for us, King isn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed, forced to watch his appendages being cut off. Of course, it wouldn’t be a Stephen King novel without a few missing limbs, now would it?
Mr. Levin's 2020 Goodreads Challenge
Although 2020 has thrown a multitude of roadblocks in our paths, it's always therapeutic to read a good book in times of trouble. Before and during the pandemic shutdown, Mr. Levin was steadily plugging away at his own reading, aiming for at least 24 books over the course of the year (two books per month). These are the titles Mr. Levin read during 2020:
Although 2020 has thrown a multitude of roadblocks in our paths, it's always therapeutic to read a good book in times of trouble. Before and during the pandemic shutdown, Mr. Levin was steadily plugging away at his own reading, aiming for at least 24 books over the course of the year (two books per month). These are the titles Mr. Levin read during 2020:
- Misery by Stephen King
- Killers of the Flower Moon by David Mann
- The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan
- Penny Dreadful, Vol. 1 by Krysty Wilson-Cairns
- Educated by Tara Westover
- Flipped by Wendelin Van Draaneb
- Emotional Machines by Kate Bello (BHS class of '98!)
- The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek by Kim Michele Richardson
- Pirates of the Caribbean: From the Magic Kingdom to the Movies by Jason Surrel
- Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
- Good Vibrations: My Life as a Beach Boy by Mike Love
- Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens
- Resistance by Tori Amos
- The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver
- The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See
- Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas: Disney Manga by Jun Asuka
- Lovecraft Country By Matt Ruff
- The Son of Neptune by Rick Riordan
- Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
- At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft, adapted by I.N.J. Culbard
- Grateful Dead: Origins by Chris Miskiewicz
- Dead in the West by Joe Lansdale
- Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood by Trevor Noah
- Harleen by Stjepan Šejić
- Let It Snow by John Green, Maureen Johnson, and Lauren Myracle
- A Christmas Carol (Graphic Novel) by Charles Dickens, adapted by Scott McCullar
- Shadow of the Batgirl by Sarah Kuhn
