Joseph Kanon, Istanbul Passage ****

It has been a while since I last read an espionage thriller even though it used to be one of my favorite genres. Istanbul Passage was an enjoyable return. The spy business was not as convoluted as it often is, allowing the story to focus more on the characters and the setting. As the author says in the interview at the end of the book, Istanbul Passage is "not genre fiction, but character-based literature set in the world of espionage."

I appreciated that the characters' decision-making always seemed reasonable instead of plot-driven. No one said, "I have something vital to tell you, but wait until tomorrow." The only element that felt like a plot contrivance was the medical condition of Leon's wife. I remember Istanbul well enough that I could picture the major locales.

I definitely recommend it.

Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson, Mo'Meta Blues ****

Questlove has a nice casual writing style, first demonstrated in his liner notes for Roots albums. Mo'Meta Blues is a memoir of sorts, although the best parts are when he uses an incident from his life as a springboard for more abstract musings. He has insightful views on the music business and on the role of hip-hop in culture. He relates fun anecdotes about meeting other artists, most notably a visit to Stevie Wonder's hotel and roller skating with Prince. Tantalizing record reviews too.

The book is full of interesting asides; in the first few pages, for example, he refers to the Roots as "the last hip-hop band" because:

Twenty-five years ago, rap acts were mostly groups. You had Run DMC and the Beastie Boys and Public Enemy, ... but today it's all solo acts.

Another one from near the end: The day after Michael Jackson died, the Roots played his songs on the Tonight Show.

Usually, they would be too expensive to use, but there is a special stipulation, a death memorandum, that grants a 48-hour grace period where songs can be used for a standard rate for news purposes.

The book starts to feel fragmented as it approaches the present, and even includes a chapter from the co-writer admitting that "there's less perspective" (part of the meta- from the title).

Paul Kingsnorth, Beast ****

Beast is the new book from the author of The Wake, my favorite book that I've read so far this year. The narrator has come, alone, to an abandoned farmhouse in the high moors of England, for reasons that aren't entirely clear but resemble the reasons most people might undertake such a pilgrimage. As the story begins, he has been there for just over a year.

In the first two-thirds of the book, the narrator presents a vivid account of meditative experiences. One minute he is paying strict attention to his natural surroundings, the next he is noticing the feelings swarming inside himself, and the next he's dissolving into a communion with the world. When he reaches this last state, he sees something move out of the corner of his eye: "It was big and long and dark. It seemed to be a couple of yards in length it was low to the ground and it was black." It disappears when he turns his attention to it.

And so he sets off in search of the beast. What is it? Where does it live? And should he really be pursuing it since it may want to devour him?

I was less fond of the final third of the book, when his search gets more mystical.

Noah Hawley, Before the Fall ***

I had high expectations for this novel from the showrunner of the TV show Fargo. "One part Dennis Lehane, one part Dostoevsky," says Michael Cunningham. It's a competent page-turner that avoids most of the annoying pitfalls that plague the genre, but it failed to create characters that transcend their function in the plot.

I found the rich characters particularly formulaic. The two wives who were killed in the plane crash were so similar as to be indistinguishable. The unrelated Wall Street financier and Internet heiress have very similar thoughts about how money reduces friction.