Nicholas Monsarrat, The Cruel Sea *****

The Cruel Sea is one of my all-time favorite books. It follows the crew of the corvette Compass Rose as they provide protection for merchant ship convoys during the Battle of the Atlantic in World War II. It's an impossible job, fighting against the elements and the ever-increasing threat from U-Boats.

The story rarely strays from the crew's point of view, but Monsarrat manages to include a sense of the strategic development of the conflict by filtering it through their eyes. The prose style is generally earnest and matter-of-fact, which actually enhances the emotional impact. As a war novel, it's got plenty of adventure, quiet heroism, gnarly injuries, and sudden death.

The final third of the book flags compared to the rest. Our heroes move to a larger ship where they can't possibly know their crew mates as intimately, and the business of escorting conveys settles into something like routine. The tide of the war turns in their favor. ("If I were writing the story of this contest, this is where the book would tail off, because we've reached the moment where nothing happens—we're just winning the war, and that's all there is to say.")

This one gets my highest recommendation. No fancy literary technique, just good old-fashioned immersive adventure, with some history to boot.

Harold Frederic, The Damnation of Theron Ware or Illumination ****

I stand by my original review for this forgotten classic, although I shaved a half star from its rating. Rereading (and re-enjoying) it, I realized how many of my favorite books deal with character development rather than plot development. The plot of The Damnation of Theron Ware serves to lead us through his intellectual progress; it doesn't have any suspense or narrative interest beyond that.

Two shortcomings lead me to reduce my original rating.

• Theron has a reputation as a fine orator, and this skill is important to the story. However, the author does not include examples of his sermons despite a few obvious opportunities to quote them.
  
  
• The book carefully charts Theron's intellectual engagement with the progressive ideas that lead to his damnation or illumination. By comparison, his shifting attitude toward his wife is woefully underdeveloped and felt too abrupt.

Aea Varfis-van Warmelo, Attention-Seeking Behavior ****

Attention-Seeking Behavior validates the continued value of browsing in bookstores. I'd never heard of this novel or its unlikely-sounding author before I came across it on the "New in Paperback" table. Nor do I know Anna Dorn, who wrote the blurb that sold me on the book: "I live for a protagonist who's both extremely self-aware and incredibly deluded, and Aea Varfis-van Warmelo nails that delightfully unnerving combo."

The narrator is a self-admitted pathological liar who takes an analytical approach to justifying her unreliability. She has fallen for a man she calls Normal Ben, who appears to be earnest and comfortable in his own skin. She starts to wonder how she can unravel the web of lies she has told him about who she is, to perhaps achieve a true intimacy.

The first half of Attention-Seeking Behavior is full five-star awesome. The couple's conversations are clever and funny, and the narrator has real insight into her motivations (mostly related to control).

I liked the process of getting to know new people, especially people I disliked on principle because of their jobs, politics, or taste, so I could understand a psychological framework that seemed foreign to mine, but I mostly liked the process of becoming known to new people and practicing different parts of my personality—displaying the worst parts and seeing how far I could go until they pulled back.

She also discusses the history of lie-detecting techniques as a way of complicating the question of what constitutes a justified lie.

I found Part Two a bit less effective. The fundamental problem is a lack of plot development. Aea researches an incident of workplace sexual misconduct that may or may not shed light on her own past. The story only returns to its emotional core (the relationship with Normal Ben) at the end. 

David McCullough, The Path Between the Seas ****

In anticipation of our upcoming cruise through the Panama Canal, I read this award-winning popular history of its construction. 

The book is exhaustive (and sometimes exhausting), covering the initial French attempt, the geopolitical intrigue, and the sociology in addition to the engineering. Construction doesn't start in earnest until page 500 of the 617-page book, and technical details occupy only the final chapter. In other words, McCullough focuses on the human side of the story.

Despite its comprehensiveness, there were still subjects I wish I'd learned more about.

• The first third of the book details the French attempt to build a canal across Panama and the resulting human and financial disasters. During the same time period (roughly 1870 - 1890), the Americans set out to build a canal across Nicaragua, but all we learn is that "it had been an underfinanced affair that collapsed with the Wall Street Panic of 1893."
  
  
• Ferdinand de Lesseps, the mastermind of the French canal, had to convince the Americans that his canal did not violate the Monroe Doctrine. What were his arguments? How skeptical was the America government?
  
  
• McCullough emphasizes the monumental scale of the problems the canal builders needed to solve, both technically and logistically. He also notes that many key decisions were still in debate as last as 1910 (including the fundamental one: sea-level canal or locks?) He then describes the impressive, unprecedented results. How did they manage it? Most of the planning and problem-solving takes place offstage.

Undoubtedly having read this book will enhance my experience when we travel through the canal. I will know what to look for and marvel at.

The Path Between the Seas is the first book I've read by David McCullough. I found his writing style to be a tad more academic than I expected from a popular historian. The story he has to tell is inherently dramatic and he organizes it well, but the prose often lacks the immediacy that would make the scenes come to life. McCullough's sentences tend to be too long and to eschew the simple past tense; in other words, he needs to follow my writing guidelines for accentuating the transitive (email me for details!). A brief example, chosen at random:

Phillippe Bunau-Varilla had gone directly from Hay's house to the station, had taken the next train to New York, and during the stop at Baltimore had sent a telegram...

This sentence would be so much more dynamic in the simple past tense: "Phillippe Bunau-Varilla went directly from Hay's house to the station, took the next train to New York, and during the stop at Baltimore sent a telegram..."

Lisa Scottoline, The Truth About the Devlins ***

The Truth About the Devlins is a solid example of what I call a "supermarket thriller." It is the literary genre that most resembles the crime procedurals that you find all over network TV. A whodunit murder mystery, characters sketched quickly through personal quirks, a resolution that ties together the various subplots. The Devlin clan are lawyers, so add in white collar crime and familial dynamics.

The book is well plotted, although I did guess the basics of the solution early on. I'm not sure I believe that the bad guys would resort to this level of violence, but hey, the story has to have stakes and clock-beating action. 

Scottoline avoids the most annoying tics that often mar the genre, like twists that depend on non-communication between characters. However, the dialogue does tend toward blocks of exposition rather than natural speech, and characters do form lifelong bonds of friendship or enmity based on a single encounter.

Brian Goldstone, There Is No Place For Us ****

When I learned to sail, the heart of the certification test was the person-overboard drill. Successfully retrieving a person who falls overboard requires coordinating all of the skills learned throughout the course. I happen to believe that the crisis of homelessness holds a similar position with respect to contemporary societal issues: successfully addressing it requires coordinating our responses to wealth inequality, racism, class prejudice, dwindling public services, gentrification, and so on. That's why I read so many books on the subject (see here, here, and here).

There Is No Place For Us has the subtitle "Working and Homeless in America," but it doesn't really focus on the fact that working people can't afford housing. Its larger purpose is to draw attention to people who are not literally homeless: families residing in relatives' living rooms and extended-stay hotels and unlivable buildings. This group far outnumbers the more visible folks living in tents and on the streets, and they often don't have access to the same support services.

The book follows several families in Atlanta as they struggle to find and retain housing. Their challenges are relatable and infuriating, and they paint a clear picture of the business and social service ecosystems. I will admit, however, that I had a hard time remembering which families endured which trials and who was living where at any given time.

I appreciate that Goldstone stays locked into the families' perspective, but I do wish he had found a way to acknowledge the perspective of the landlords and/or government officials. The bureaucracy seems clearly intended to frustrate and humiliate the homeless; I would like to have someone attempt to explain why the system is set up the way it is. I am inclined to believe that homelessness is a systemic problem but many readers will believe that it's a function of the individual's poor choices; Goldstone doesn't attempt to address those readers.

Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan *****

My favorite Vonnegut novel. The Sirens of Titan deals with issues of fate, free will, personal responsibility, and the meaning(lessness) of life in the inimitable Vonnegut style. The science-fiction plot is silly but its questions are profound.

I can't provide anything close to an objective opinion about the book because it was so formative when I  read it in high school. My journals from the time are littered with quotes from Salo and Winston Rumfoord. Vonnegut's outlook is rather dark despite the surface humor. It would be a fantastic book club book because it's short, easy to read, and philosophical.

As they say in the Church of God the Utterly Indifferent:

I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, Dream Count **

The first 11 pages of Dream Count are an excellent evocation of the social dynamics of Zoom calls during the COVID shutdown. The narrator Chiamaka is a Nigerian travel writer living in Maryland, and this introductory section introduces her international network of friends and family.

On page 12, Chiamaka turns her attention to previous boyfriends, making a "dream count" of other possible lives. She sketches the male characters well, but I quickly lost interest. I learned very little about her.

The book has sections devoted to three other women in Chiamaka's orbit: Zikora, a Washington D.C. lawyer; Omelogor, a successful financier in Nigeria, and Kadiatou, a Guinean maid who works for Chiamaka. These descriptions make them sound like interesting people, but they never become full-bodied characters. In fact, their characters feel inconsistent.

There is a horrific incident at the center of the story, one that Adiche confirms is the "seed around which I would weave my imagination," but like so much of the intriguing background it gets buried under clichéd chatter about dating. I'm not sure what Adiche wants to say.

David Bather Woods, Arthur Schopenhauer ***

The subtitle of this book is "The Life and Thought of Philosophy's Greatest Pessimist," but it's not a biography to read to learn about Schopenhauer. Woods assumes the reader is largely familiar with Schopenhauer's core ideas—by which I mean he doesn't explain them—and acknowledges up front that Schopenhauer could be an unpleasant character. The book will mostly interest people who are already Schopenhauer fans. It emphasizes how Schopenhauer's pessimistic worldview led him to have a great deal of compassion for his fellow sufferers.

In the first chapter, Woods notes that Schopenhauer had a bigger influence on creative writers than on philosophical protégés. The reason for the lack of followers, I would say, is that he never held a powerful academic position and instead alienated other philosophers. (He particularly hated Hegel.) The reason for his literary admirers is his clear and entertaining writing style, unusual among German philosophers of the period.

My favorite story comes near the end, when Schopenhauer rents rooms from a family with small children. He appears so grumpy and intimidating that the parents discipline their kids by threatening to report their misbehavior to Herr Schopenhauer. Pretty quickly, though, little Lucia fell in love with Schopenhauer's poodle and ended up spending long hours in his rooms cuddling with the dog.

Daniel Kraus, Angel Down ***

Angel Down has a fantastic premise (in both senses of the word): Soldiers fighting in France during World War I save a fallen angel from the battlefield. It tackles the story with an audacious stylistic gambit: the book starts with the word "and" and consists of a single sentence.

I applaud the author's ambitions but his execution was merely serviceable. The various characters' reactions to the angel were predictable and shopworn. The single sentence was just a lot of normal sentences connected with "and." The prose is laid out in paragraphs that imply a poetic intention, like a modern Illiad, but the vivid brutal violence lacks a spiritual or metaphorical dimension, save for a visit to hell in the late going.

Tom Newlands, Only Here, Only Now ****

Only Here, Only Now is a coming-of-age story narrated by a Scottish teenage girl in the mid-1990s. She lives in a rundown former coal-mining town and dreams of moving away to the big city of Glasgow.

I was a bit bored in the early going, due to a lack of dramatic action. The introduction of a new stepfather felt rather clichéd. What kept me going was the colorful Scottish dialect and the sense that the people in Cora's life genuinely had her best interest at heart—meaning I wasn't in for the miserabilism so common in this type of book. On the contrary, Cora seemed to recognize the virtues of the people she interacted with even as she felt disappointed in them. This sense of positivity increased as I grew fond of Cora and her milieu.

My one complaint is that the author leans too hard on the idea that Cora is not neurotypical. The first words in Tom Newlands author biography are "multiply neurodivergent," reviewers compare it to The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, and the book finishes with a note about the rate of ADHD diagnoses in the UK in the 1990s. Cora frequently cites diagnostic phrases from "printouts" she got from the school counselor.

The emphasis on ADHD bothered me for a few reasons. First, I felt that most of Cora's actions and responses seemed appropriate for any discontented teen, and that attributing them to a condition made them less relatable. Second, Cora is too self-aware and articulate about her behavior. Third, Newland expects us to believe that Cora's mam and her stepfather Gunner are unaware of her ADHD despite the explicit diagnosis from the school counselor. I think the story works better if we don't read it as being about "loss, resilience, and undiagnosed ADHD in 90's Scotland."

Allegra Goodman, Isola ****

Inspired by a true story, Isola is about a sixteenth-century French woman whose guardian squanders her fortune and abandons her on a small island in the Gulf of St Lawrence. 

The first half of the book paints a convincing picture of our heroine's privilege and her powerlessness. The machinations that determine her fate all happen elsewhere, at court, only whispered about in the rumors of servants. The settings—her childhood château, the guardian's house in town, the merchant ship, the island—are well drawn. Overall, I found the novel engaging.

My only problem with Isola was the anachronistic attitudes of the heroine and narrator. I found most of the characters' actions to be appropriate for the period (1531 - 1545), but Marguerite's reactions to them are conspicuously modern. The cover of my paperback edition calls the book "a feminist castaway tale about love, faith, and self-actualization"; feminism and self-actualization are twentieth-century notions which would have made no sense to a sixteenth-century noblewoman. I appreciated the times when Marguerite struggled with her faith, and cringed when she demanded respect for things to which she felt she was entitled.

 

Nancy Lemann, Lives of the Saints ** 1/2

I sought out Lives of the Saints after it was lauded by multiple reviewers of Lemann's new book The Oyster Diaries. The reviewers note the narrator's "frank, sardonic, bookish, self-absorbed and neurotic" voice and the story's New Orleans setting. Sounds right up my alley!

Comedy, when it does not strike you funny, feels curiously flat. You can see the jokes and why they might be funny, but the timing or something seems off. The same goes for wry narration. I could see that Lemann's style was unique and "as witty as it is melancholy," but I couldn't enjoy it.

I met someone the other day who was just like you—he yearned after vague things. You could tell, when you asked him about his job, that what he really liked to do was just to yearn after vague things.

The (meta-)vagueness of this description is clever and almost funny, but in the end it is too nebulous and too repetitive. Those are precisely the adjectives I would apply to the writing style overall.

When I hand out a two-star rating to anyone other than Dean Koontz, I feel compelled to clarify that my rating relates to my enjoyment of the book and to the likelihood that I would recommend it to other readers. I certainly don't want to suggest that Lives of the Saints is an objectively bad book; I just didn't connect with the narrative voice.

Ben Lerner, Transcription ***

Transcription is short enough and slight enough to count as a (long) short story rather than a novel. It riffs on how our relationship with smartphones shifts our experience of the world, but doesn't offer real insights. The individual incidents are well drawn but don't enrich each other.

Lerner retains his "impressive if over-intellectualized writing style." I was impressed by how vividly he painted the character of Thomas, the 90-year-old artist, with very few strokes outside of dialogue. In the short middle section, he nails the atmosphere of an academic conference.

Tom Vanderbilt, Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do ****

Traffic is a popular science book that explores a variety of topics related to driving: the mysterious causes of jams, why the other lane always seems to move faster, the theory behind metering lights, the underappreciated complexity of the task, the inescapable human factors that defy careful planning.

I first read this book in 2009. I remembered it as a fascinating collection of tidbits about traffic engineering, improving road utilization and safety. The introduction, for example, considers the question of what a driver should do when they see a sign announcing the imminent closing of the left lane; should you merge right as early or as late as you can?

In an effort to be comprehensive, Traffic also includes a lot of pop psychology to explain why we are worse drivers than we think we are, and the last chapter throws in inconclusive statistics about what causes accidents. (The subtitle hints at this, I suppose.) I found those parts trite and less compelling. The book is also starting to be dated, especially with the era of the self-driving car upon us.

Hisham Matar, My Friends ** 1/2

My Friends is a novel about three Libyan men living in England during Qaddafi's reign, and their differing responses when that regime begins to falter. As in his non-fiction book The Return, Matar effectively conveys the emotion strain of living in exile.

I find Matar's writing style to be overly ornate, with strained metaphors and a plethora of Conradian subordinate clauses. My Friends is organized as a series of memories as our narrator Khaled walks home after seeing off his friend Hosam at the train station, but the conceit is applied sparingly, making it disorienting when Khaled refers to his location in the present day.

Lastly, Khaled is a disappointingly passive character. His personality is ill-defined, making it hard to understand what attracts Mustafa and Hosam to him. I didn't feel his passion for literature.

Tove Jansson, The Summer Book **** 1/2

The Summer Book is a quiet, meditative novel about a six-year-old girl and her grandmother spending time together at their summer house on an island in the Gulf of Finland. The girl's father is there too, always in the background (he has a single line of dialogue, three pages from the end). Her mother has recently died, which no one talks about but which accounts for the existential undertone to many of the conversations.

The book consists of twenty-two "crystalline" vignettes about everyday life on the island, each one nearly a standalone story. Jannson's writing has lovely imagery that merely suggests the associated emotional depths. As Ali Smith says on the back cover, "Her sentences [are] simple and loaded; the novel reads like looking through clear water and seeing, suddenly, the depth."

Daniel Immerwahr, How to Hide an Empire **** 1/2

How to Hide an Empire is "a history of the Greater United States," meaning that it looks at US history through the lens of its non-state territories. In the eighteen and nineteenth centuries, much of the West consisted of undigested territories, notably including the ever-shrinking Indian Territory. In the second half of the nineteenth century, the United States started claiming sovereignty over uninhabited islands (for their guano), then won several colonies in the Spanish-American War. We fancy ourselves a republic not an empire, so that status of these territories has always been murky.

The introduction talks about how we "mainlanders" talk about "Pearl Harbor" on "December 7, 1941," despite the fact that the Japanese attacked the much larger US territory of the Philippines at the same time... where it was already December 8.

The book is full of fascinating stories that I was only dimly aware of. Immerwahr shows how things look different from the provinces, and how the federal government has been able to take advantage of the murky legal status to act like other imperial powers (which is to say beastly).

After the Second World War, the US was in a position to greatly expand its empire but instead started divesting itself of many existing territories. Immerwahr argues that empires in the traditional sense are unnecessary in the modern world, where you don't need to control territory to secure trade routes or fight wars. He doesn't note it, but the other imperial powers also gave up their colonies after the war; see Postwar.

The only thing preventing me from granting How to Hide an Empire five stars is that the final chapters try a bit too hard to tie all aspects of recent history to our hidden empire. I felt like I had to do more work on my own to see the key points.

Satu Rämö, The Clues in the Fjord ** 1/2

If you gave an AI chatbot the prompt Write a crime thriller that takes place in Iceland, with characters who will recur in subsequent installments, you'd get something pretty close to The Clues in the Fjord. 

The prose is full of exposition that sounds like it comes from a travel guidebook ("The Westfjords made up a fifth of Iceland's land area, but less than 2 per cent of the population lived at the end of the narrow road"; "the maximum speed on Iceland's roads was ninety kilometres per hour"). The plot is designed to give opportunities to reference traditional foods and cultural touchstones. The main characters have colorful personal quirks—Hildur loves surfing, Jakob knits—and buried traumas to provide an ongoing background through the series of novels.

The (first) murder isn't discovered until page 110, one third of the way through. The police repeatedly pause their investigation to pursue personal agendas. The big break in the case comes from a random tip rather than from detective work. The title and tag line ("Death waits in the icy depths") are generic and have nothing to do with the story.

Overall, the book felt like a typical episode of CSI: Ísafjörður.

Randy Baker, Half Fast ****

Half Fast is an unusual cruising memoir in that it features comparatively few sailing adventures. The first chapters deal with onshore tribulations: riding out Hurricane Andrew anchored in the Bahamas, repairing the damage when their boat is blown ashore, tracking down outboard motor thieves in Honduras, working for a season in the Virgin Islands, refitting for more than a year in Trinidad. Even the on-water stories are harrowing: rescuing smugglers in Saint Vincent, dealing with an aggressive sea lion, nearly getting run down by a Chinese fishing vessel. The book ends with their boat nearly destroyed in a tsunami. Where's the poetry about the call of the sea and the freedom of the cruising lifestyle?

I would say the target audience for Half Fast is fellow sailors rather than people dreaming about sailing the world. Baker's stories are exactly the kind you would share with crew mates out on the water. 

In the final third of the book, Baker and his wife sail through the Panama Canal and cross to the South Pacific. This section features more typical content about life on board and the remote exotic places they visit.

The title, by the way, is a pun.

Andrew Miller, The Land in Winter *** 1/2

This novel features two couples living in the West Country of England in the winter of 1962/3. The Big Freeze forces them to confront their insecurities and dissatisfaction.

The writing style and subject matter make it read like a book written in the 1960s rather than a work of historical fiction published in 2024. It seems like a British variant of an Updike or Cheever novel, addressing the discontents of the suburban class.

Yoko Tawada, Exophony ***

The word exophony refers to the experience of "existing outside of one's mother tongue." Tawada is a Japanese writer who lives in Germany and writes many of her books in German. In this collection of essays, she celebrates exophony as a source of creative inspiration. Non-native speakers notice aspects of a language that native speakers are blind to.

My experience reading Tawada's non-fiction was similar to my experience reading her fiction. She offers interesting observations, but they don't add up to larger points. 

Charlotte McConaghy, Wild Dark Shore ***

Wild Dark Shore has an awesome setting: a mostly abandoned research station on a tiny island between Australia and Antarctica. The only human inhabitants are a man and his three children, left behind as caretakers when the scientists left due to encroaching climate change. Until, that is, a mysterious woman washes ashore.

McConaghy offers fantastic descriptions of the island, its abundant wildlife, its challenging weather, and its isolation. The characters, though, are unbelievable. Every one of them acts strangely due to traumatic secrets that will be revealed in due course. McConaghy exacerbates the believability problem by having characters narrate chapters in the first person; it makes their withholding of secrets more clearly a pure plot device.

The plot gets increasingly melodramatic as all secrets are revealed. The incongruous appearance of a copy of Jane Eyre forecasts one of the twists.

Wild Dark Shore is a thriller dressed in the clothes of a literary novel. Character's personalities follow from the demands of the outlandish plot rather than driving the action. I give McConaghy credit for exploring various emotional responses to climate change, but I was never able to accept the characters as real people.

Henry Threadgill, Easily Slip Into Another World ***

This memoir from a well-respected creative musician and composer seemed like the perfect accompaniment to attending the Big Ears Festival (a "celebration of musical and artistic adventure and discovery"). And it was. It introduced ideas about creativity in music, life as a working musician, interactions between bandmates, composition versus improvisation, and live performance versus recordings—all subjects relevant to the shows we were seeing in Knoxville.

While Threadgill offers ideas about the development of his music, most of the book is a straightforward memoir about his life experiences, including an intense period serving in Vietnam during the war. He (along with his co-author Brent Hayes Edwards) manages to convey his personal character, in ways both intentional and not. He credits his two grandfathers with providing him an uncompromising sense of dignity and restless experimentation. At the same time, he repeatedly tells stories in which he apparently innocently gets into trouble: he gets sent into combat for creating an avant-garde arrangement of patriotic American songs; he is twice dragged against his will into visiting prostitutes; his evolving quest to capture new soundscapes requires him to abandon existing projects. He has a suspiciously passive role in his interactions (good and bad) with band mates and musical heroes like Duke Ellington. I suspect he is more prickly than he lets on, and I applaud the authors' ability to include that character shading.

Vincenzo Latronico, Perfection ****

Perfection is a short novel about Anna and Tom, a couple of "digital creatives" living and working in Berlin during the early 2000s. They alternate between feeling self-satisfied with their expatriate life and feeling anxious about the mismatch between that life and the version they curate on social media. 

It is a life of coffees taken out on the east-facing balcony... while scrolling New York Times headlines and social media on a tablet. the plants are watered as part of a daily routine that also includes yoga and a breakfast featuring an assortment of seeds. ... And it is a happy life...for rental at one hundred and eighteen euros a day, plus the fee to cover the Ukrainian cleaner, paid through a French gig economy company that files its taxes in Ireland; plus the commission for the online hosting platform, with offices in California but tax-registered in the Netherlands...

Their social circle consists of young people just like them, meeting in clubs and galleries and speaking (non-native) English. They are in Berlin, but it could be any cosmopolitan city in the world. Anna and Tom eventually get bored and look for a way to recapture the excitement of their earlier adventure.

What was happening in the city—the replacement of its historical inhabitants with younger, wealthier newcomers, and the resulting price hikes and decline in diversity—was gentrification, a term used almost exclusively by the people who caused it.

The author has a delightfully droll way of describing modern life, where we gain aspirations from online sources and desire authentic experience as long as we also have a good WiFi signal. He captures the contradictory desires for unique lives and shared culture.

Anna and Tom stand in for an entire cohort of young online professionals: "an identical struggle for a different life motivated an entire sector of their generation... Mysteriously enough, they had discovered homemade fermentation kits, fire-roasted cauliflower, and umami at the same time..." Their symbolic nature means that they lack individuality as characters, much like Berlin is flattened into a generic global city.

The comparatively brief length and the lack of character development make Perfection feel more like a long short story.

George Santayana, The Essential Santayana ** 1/2

There's no way that truly essential Santayana should run to over 600 pages. The title suggests a judicious selection of important articles in which the philosopher George Santayana clearly and concisely explains his theories. The Essential Santayana, by contrast, includes whole chapters from his major books while strangely omitting entirely his first successful first book about aesthetics. For example, it includes thirteen chapters from Skepticism and Animal Faith when it could have relied on the paper "Some Meanings of the Word 'Is'," about which Santayana himself said "it contains my whole philosophy in a very clear and succinct form." 

The heart of Santayana's philosophy is the idea that a person's worldview or philosophical system is akin to a personal work of art: it's a product of productive imagination that provides "a distinct vision of the universe" built to help us understand and navigate our lives. It is not, and could not be, an accurate objective description of the world. Ideas are symbols representing the world, metaphors emphasizing qualities useful to human interest. Santayana also believed that art supports the aspirations of our highest selves, so it is no insult to call a philosophy a work of art.

I find this vision compelling as a framework, but the specifics of Santayana's philosophy feel to me derivative of other thinkers. I was also put off by his often dismissive tone toward other philosophers, especially those who attempt to construct universal systems such as Kant or Plato. His personality seems opposite from the open-minded curiosity of his former teacher and colleague William James. He reserves his admiration for Spinoza, Heraclitus, and Democritis.

Wolfgang Herrndorf, Sand ****

Sand is a "darkly sophisticated literary thriller" (according to its back-cover blurb), translated from the German. It was a bookseller's recommendation from the Napa Bookmine. In an unnamed North African country, an amnesiac finds himself hunted by intimidating thugs; who is he and what do his pursuers want?

Book One (the first 80 pages of 440) introduces the locale, the cast of characters, and a series of crimes: murders, stolen suitcases, an aborted espionage rendezvous, an escaped suspect. The descriptions are cinematic and the tone delightfully sardonic. 

Book Two narrows the point of view to that of our amnesiac hero. The action remains vivid and the mystery of his identity is compelling, but the author isn't able to maintain the satirical tone. Most of the characters and investigations from Book One recede into the background. From this point forward, Sand is a (very good but) more conventional thriller, with a few descents into surreal comedy.

Sand would make an excellent limited series. It has an exotic locale, absorbing mysteries, and colorful characters. Adapting it, I would attempt to retain the tone and wider perspective of Book One.

Sophie Elmhurst, A Marriage at Sea ****

The central event in A Marriage at Sea is a shipwreck: Maurice and Maralyn Bailey were sailing toward the Galapagos when their 31-foot boat Auralyn was struck and sunk by an injured whale. They spent 118 days drifting across the Pacific in a life raft before a Korean fishing vessel spotted them.

The title is the first clue that the book is not fundamentally an adventure tale. Elmhurst describes the Baileys ' improvised survival and subsequent press tour with a journalist's attention to detail, but she is most interested in what their ordeal tells us about their relationship. Just as the undeterred Baileys are about to embark on a second ocean trip, Elmhurst spells out her metaphor explicitly: "For what else is a marriage, really, if not being stuck on a small raft with someone and trying to survive?"

The final section of the book jumps forward a few decades to show how their marriage worked under more normal circumstances. We see how Maralyn's relentlessly forward-looking spirit was critical to their survival both on the raft and off.

Charlotte Wood, Stone Yard Devotional ***

Stone Yard Devotional is the fictional story of a woman who retreats to a small nunnery in rural Australia. She is an atheist but feels the need to seclude herself from the challenges of her job as a wildlife conservationist. The book appeared on several "Best of 2025" lists and was a Booker Prize finalist. 

The writing was not as meditative or introspective as I expected and hoped. The narrator doesn't focus on day-to-day life in the community nor on her lack of/loss of faith, and says little about the pressures that led her here. Two themes stood out to me: whether retreat or engagement is the better approach to challenging problems (like climate change or injustice); and how to live with regrets when the possibility of forgiveness is gone.

Stone Yard Devotional has a quiet strength to it, but its wisdom applies to subjects that I am not currently struggling with.

Meghan O'Gieblyn, God Human Animal Machine ****

A collection of essays about the metaphors we use to understand our relationship to technology (specifically AI), and how they are largely the same metaphors we use to understand our relationships to God and to the "disenchanted" scientific world.

Many "new" ideas are merely attempts to answer questions that we have inherited from earlier periods of history, questions that have lost their specific context in medieval Christianity as they've made the leap from one century to the next, traveling from theology to philosophy to science and technology.

The unanswerable questions we keep returning to are about subjectivity and understanding. What is consciousness? What counts as an explanation for natural phenomena? 

Despite the technical subject matter, O'Gieblyn writes in the classic style of personal essays, including first-person stories about her own struggles with the issues. Her style makes the abstruse topics feel relevant, although I sometimes lost the thread of her argument.

She makes thought-provoking connections; for example, thinking of consciousness as software running on the hardware of the brain is a modern variant of the mind-body problem, which in turn is a recurrence of the religious idea of a soul. ("The metaphor has not solved our most pressing existential problems; it has merely transferred them to a new substrate.") I was particularly intrigued by the idea that science struggles to understand subjectivity because the enterprise was designed precisely to eliminate subjectivity from our understanding.

 

Daniyal Mueenuddin, This Is Where the Serpent Lives **** 1/2

This Is Where the Serpent Lives is ostensibly a novel by the author of the excellent story collection In Other Rooms. Other Wonders. Like the earlier book, it provides a convincing portrait of characters from various castes attempting to get ahead as the old feudal society of Pakistan gives way under modern and Western pressures. Every detail contributes to a realistic milieu, from the choice of which language to speak to whether you accept your host's offer to sit down.

The book seems like a Russian story that takes place in Pakistan. The subject matter is similar, peasants and landowners, social stagnation and transition, corrupt officials and disappointed dreamers, characters with multiple nicknames and forms of address. Mueenuddin's writing style is extremely Chekhovian. 

While it purports to be a novel, This Is Where the Serpent Lives is actually a collection of linked stories that includes the title novella. The four sections share characters, but they don't enrich each other as they would in a proper novel. For example, the main character in "The Golden Boy" is the orphan Bayazid who eventually becomes the driver for the Atar family. Yazid is also an important character in the title section, but none of his adventures from the first section affect his responses in the last.

Lyndal Roper, Summer of Fire and Blood ** 1/2

This history of the Peasant's War in Germany (1524-26) is extremely well researched and provides an abundance of detail about the massive public uprising that occurred just as the Reformation was taking hold. I got a clear sense of the peasant's grievances, the complex interplay of authority among the lords and clergymen, the social forces that led to the rebellion, even the attire of the armies. It's an impressive feat of research given that the events happened 500 years ago and the participants were either illiterate or self-interested.

Unfortunately, though, Roper writes like a sociologist rather than a narrative historian. The book is organized into chronological sections for autumn 1524 through summer 1525, but the individual chapters explore the conflict thematically, exploring concepts like freedom, lordship, and brotherhood. 

One cause for this collapse of authority was the empire's confusing patchwork of different rights and claims. What prevailed was not what we today understand by 'rule.' Rather, it was a kind of negotiated governing that depended on cooperation and, ultimately, comparative strength. Rights and jurisdictions could be bought and sold or even swapped. The buyer of a castle might gain judicial rights associated with it; the tithe of a village could be bought as an investment. ... Because sovereignty was frequently fragmented and not unitary, subjects could sometimes pick their fights and play one authority against another.

The result feels curiously static for a bloody and tragic war story, a description of the "rich detail of [the peasants'] daily lives" not a chronicle of battles. I would be hard pressed to describe the chronology of the conflict or its flashpoints.

The last 10 pages reveal the reason for this academic approach: "Some of the most profound political debates in historical writing of the last two hundred years, and especially over Marxism and its legacies, were fought out on the terrain of the German Peasants' War." Marx and Engels both wrote about it, East and West Germany highlighted different aspects of it, and historians of the Reformation blame it on one or another of the major religious figures. Roper is engaging with the meaning of the conflict more than the tale.

Tony Tulathimutte, Rejection ***

Rejection is a collection of linked stories in which characters fail to understand why their attempts to connect with others lead instead to rejection. For example, the first (and best) story "The Feminist" features a young man who has internalized the tenets of modern feminism but discovers that his less enlightened peers are the ones getting laid.

Tulathimutte describes his characters' thinking in ways both subtle and darkly hilarious, especially in the first couple of stories. He's got the style of online conversations down cold. Unfortunately, though, he doesn't provide any actual story in the sense of narrative or character development. The later stories ramp up the level of postmodernist reflexivity to no great effect.

Rejection reminded me of David Foster Wallace's Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. Both books feature unpleasant people tying themselves into rhetorical knots; they both experiment with writing styles; and they both concern themselves with the failure of self-conscious pluralism to improve our connections with other people. The story "Ahegao" builds to an elaborate, explicit, over-the-top sexual fantasy that wouldn't be out of place in a mid-career Chuck Palahniuk book.

Agnes Callard, Open Socrates ****

Socrates is more renowned for his method than for the content of his philosophy. The Socratic method involves questioning the premises underlying commonly held beliefs in the form of an inquisitive dialogue. Callard argues that the method is the philosophy: Socrates believed that we rarely achieve true knowledge, and that the key to a good life is continuous conversation moving us ever closer to truth.

Open Socrates is an oddly structured book. Collard wants to produce what she calls "an inquisitive text" that simulates Socratic inquiry, which is a difficult, if not impossible, task because Socratic inquiry requires two cooperative interlocutors, one seeking the truth and the other looking to avoid error.

I feel as if I got the flavor of the Socratic dialogues and clarification on common misunderstandings about them. Collard shows how to apply Socrates' techniques to contemporary questions. She successfully creates an inquisitive text if we take that to mean a work that invites the reader into a conversation. I feel like she is on the right track with many of her ideas, but I would need to talk with her to clarify the conclusions she draws from the ideas. For example, the chapter about equality is very insightful about conversational status-seeking but I remain unconvinced about how these insights relate to equality.

The book's subtitle is "The Case for a Philosophical Life," but Collard neglects to argue that a life lived philosophically is better than an incurious one.