Buena High School Library Staff Recommendations
Mr. Levin's Book Recommendation for August 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 a timely, timeless examination of where we are now 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 exhaustive, expertly 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 a timely, timeless examination of where we are now 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 exhaustive, expertly 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 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 May 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 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
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
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
