steveatwaywords's reviews
1212 reviews

This art book is beautifully rendered and offers a marvelous introductory tour to the history of image, written by an incisive and celebrated/denigrated author. Think of it as 20 or  30 5-page essays on selected works through the centuries, most in the last 150 years. 

I was expecting a lot from it, I admit, since I have enjoyed/debated/wrestled with/hated upon Paglia's various interviews and essays in the past. But, much like her book on poetry, <i>Break, Blow, Burn </i>, I was, to be honest, underwhelmed. 

Outside of a few choice side passages and ironic asides, most of the book is fairly straightforward presentation of art history and brief biographies of the artists she has selected. Less time is spent on the works and the interpretations themselves. This was odd and frustrating to me since her stated premise for the book was to teach us how to "resee."  So, then, shouldn't we be looking harder rather than wandering into the various cities Picasso lived?  The occasional teasing comments throughout the book, such as "Penises have proved troublesome in Western art," tell us there is so much more to see, if only she'd let us.

That discussion about the eras and periods of art, their premises, and their consequences, was far more interesting when it happened. But again, since she built the book around works of art rather than periods or movements, these passages often felt like side trails to the subject at hand rather than real illuminations. Had she built the book around the idea of movements as they relate to image, we might have fared better, perhaps.

As a result, what we have are brief essays which never quite connect with one another to form what I imagined was the promise of the text: what is humanity about in its construction of image? This broader, theoretical question might have been where Paglia could really step out and offer her take on what we're up to, but she, far more safely, remains tucked into the background. In that case, what we have is a solid introductory art book, but little more. 

There is a lot to like about Yu's take on his own country. Having grown up on the tale end of Mao's China, he has witnessed incredible changes across his life (and some which remain stubbornly unmovable).  As the title suggests, he approaches the broader topic through ten key words that partly power Chinese thinking, not all easily translatable to English.

This book is as much memoir as cultural examination, and for me this was a real strength of the work. Rather than drier historical claims, Yu offers dozens of anecdotes and illustrations of the consequences for the Chinese framing of disparity, revolution, writing and reading, copycatting and bamboozling, etc. Most are from his own life and are nearly confessions of behavior (youthful cruelty to those suffering in the name of revolution, for instance). In this way, Yu offers a portrait of China across the last 40 years or so, from its collective impoverishment to its imbalanced abundance, and from its mythologizing politics to its despairing imitations and swindling. While reading it, I often wondered who this often-critical examination was intended for.

Personal, funny, revealing, but too short to be called thorough, perhaps the only disappointment for me in the book was that its structure around ten concepts, while tidy and helpful, also neglected many other aspects of this enormous topic as well as missing a larger framing of how they intersect. Even so, for a late-2oth-century look at China as a background to where it is today, I highly recommend it.

A lot of folks are disappointed in this work because it doesn't form a coherent story, and--like many reviewers--I tend to take a book on for what it is more than what I want it to be. A precursor to later works by Lovecraft and Tolkien in its lushness in forming a mythology with authentic tone, diction, and imagery, I can understand the poetic power of the reading. And, at times, I was enjoying the elusive riddles it offered in these pseudo-tales that introduced various gods and prophets across its fictional lands.

That said, my disappointment in the reading is more about its purpose. To what end do we create this mythology? If we shrug it off as merely an experiment, then the question follows: interesting as an idea, but what attraction to read it? A lot of writers experiment. So what of it?

What we have is a "pretty" collection of tales with pseudo-mysticism attached. The imagery is not entirely consistent, the riddles alternatively posed, but no emergent wisdom is found in these pages. Contrast this, for instance to the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (which offers real wisdom or consolation to its readers) or to the Silmarillion (which offers tales which echo classical themes). 

I keep using the prefix pseudo- because this brief work doesn't quite aspire to anything but these  sketches of interest to Dunsany. From what I know, he did nothing more with them. And, neither will I. 

One would do well to enter Murakami's comfortable talks about his writing life as more memoir than writing guide, a distinction he makes early on. While there are some general points he makes about the work life, about publishing, about balance, and focusing on character, these are largely not helpful (or uncommon) points that writers have made. So if you are looking for a strategies guide closer to King's On Writing, look elsewhere.

If, on the other hand, you are a fan of Murakami's works, you can find a number of interesting stories from behind the scenes on his earlier works, how he struggled into the career early on, what he imagines of readers and of critics, how he values (or does not) praise and awards, and the like. Reading this book is like sitting in a home office space with Murakami and chatting with him about his experiences. Revealing, confirming, and uncontroversial. 

As a fan of his works, I was completely content to be there, relaxing in a casual conversation. For aspiring writers or occasional readers of him, however, I suspect there might be some impatient shifting back and forth on the seat cushions in anticipating its end. 

Those who follow Rushdie's work and life have worried on his recovery from the 2022 knife attack which nearly claimed his life. In Knife, he writes of the murder attempt and the slow recovery process in enormous detail. The physicality of the account is excruciating at times, but with the power of his wife and family, he has found his way back and to writing.

What makes this brief memoir stand out for me, then, is not that I have long respected the sometimes captious Rushdie, or that the telling of his painful bodily journey is so honestly exposed. Along the way, Rushdie has to face again the narrative of The Satanic Verses he had long hoped to have set aside. The great weight of his career has fallen after the fatwa was declared against him in 1988 and compelled him to live under anonymous security for years afterwards. And though our attacker (who Rushdie only called "The A") does not seem to have been overtly motivated by that declaration, we all of us thought it. And hence it returns.

Rushdie does two things in this book, then, that I was awed by. The first is to underscore again his position on free speech and free thinking, of the responsibility writers have to their own integrity and to the word itself. Passing through such a grave trauma, Rushdie actively and thoughtfully chooses not to capitulate. The second fascinating strategy is in the confrontation with his attacker. Understanding that the resolution he seeks must be one for himself, he chooses not to rely on such an external meeting with an antagonist and would-be assassin to determine that recovery. Instead, Rushdie composes his own dialogue with "The A," and we discover what is important, after all, in confronting irrationality, terror, ignorance. 

As we all wrestle with our own environments of irrationality and uncertainty, that's a self-reflection which strikes me as most vital. And somehow, I came away from the book with gratitude.

Kundera's collection of essays and talks looks at the novel form as both a constructed object and as a threatened artifact in our cultural history. In both goals he is hugely insightful and panoramic in his views, though somewhat locked into the mid-20th century.

To begin there, Kundera demonstrates his deep scholarship into the history of the culture-building power of the novel across most of the book, though he seems to suggest that it has (in the hands of writers like Kafka and Broch, and perhaps himself) reached its pinnacle. Now it is a threatened art form which alone demonstrates the capacity of human thought. The novel as all art has always changed, but for Kundera, it must cease to do so at this point. In this sense, he remains the "grumpy old man" I have sensed in my other reviews of his non-fiction work. More importantly for many readers, Kundera is as likely to make a dramatic pronouncement about his subjects with no support or elaboration whatsoever, so unless we are readers of some academic breadth in his field, we are unlikely to follow how he assembles his points.

That said, I still found the book a wonderful and refreshing read. To demonstrate the fullness of the art form, Kundera examines several works at some length and with an eye that is too rare for critical theory: instead of merely naming themes, he examines their nuance at length and how they emerge from tone and structure, and then he goes further to place them in the larger social milieu to test their veracity. His lengthy look at Broch's The Sleepwalkers, a novel few have perhaps read, nevertheless reveals a structural pattern that opens up humanity's necessity to examine its moments of crisis. In other words, Kundera shows us how the artistic bones of fiction, when thoughtfully rendered, themselves support the finest ideas.

This discussion of structure in writing as necessity for its art powers the discussions on the craft of authors. So many writers talk about the worklife of composition (their daily schedules, their workloads, their idea creation) or--if we are lucky--the style points of writing (King's On Writing prominent here). Few look to structure, or if they do--from Aristotle to Wharton to Campbell--they do so from a readerly perspective of classification. Kundera is the first writer I have found who looks deeply at the "artistic act," the conception of form upon which the other elements are built. 

And this approach alone sets the novel as art apart from the novel as entertainment or distraction. So many writers are content to "tell a good yarn" and can conceive of nothing beyond the plot but a topical theme. Kundera is an academic, an elitist, a scholar somewhat trapped in 20th century Europe, but he is still right. 

I've been a fan of Gibson ever since Neuromancer (hasn't everyone?), so I was looking forward to this later novel of his.  And at several levels of Gibson-expectation, it does not disappoint: an array of characters spread across the layers of class, from corporate kingpins to struggling thieves; a global culture that is as fragmented and walled-off as it is ubiquitous in its technology; and--here more than many of his books--an uber-saturated dive into business branding, especially of luxury products and the status they convey. In fact, the entire novel and its characters are seemingly driven by little but the pursuit of this ever-changing vanity profiteering, in markets black and grey.

Sounds fun. So when the story opens with a mysterious "un-marketed" series of film clips which nonetheless are having an impact on the culture consciousness, the sharks circle. 

So, why didn't I love it more?  I think, basically because, without giving any spoilers here, I've still given you the entire story. And a premise does not a story make. Over the course of 400 long winding pages, you will eventually (and only very very late) discover the answers to who's making the film.  And this discovery doesn't have the pay-off of a good mystery, where the clues eventually show you a promised "recognition pattern," despite the teases along the way. Nope. So I can ask you now with just as much significance as I might after you finished reading: "What difference does that answer make for you?" 

If you answered, "Idle curiosity, I guess," you'd be right.

By now (2024), Mayer-Schonberger's argument is based upon some quite dated material about the internet and the social media panopticon. The first half of the book is largely read with horror as witless victims have their reputations ruined by long-forgotten media posts, and we see that the reach is growing, even spreading further than MySpace accounts.

So let's set all the dated stuff aside, and focus instead on, perhaps a vital two chapters of Mayer-Schonberger's six chapter book: the underlying paradigm changes from "perfect memory" and the possible solution he proposes. 

On the first, he suggests two dynamics that are still very much at work, and in even greater ways than he foresees back in 2008: power over information and time. He argues effectively that so long as information is held in imbalance of power (either in quantity of information or political power), privacy and social-economic integrity are not safe. We individuals will never "know" as much about Meta or Amazon or Google or The-Next-Great-MegaCorp-or-Gov't as they do about us. And they profit and grow in power from this imbalance. Today, we come to this issue far too late and only in the guise of weak anti-monopoly laws. He also says that since our concept of time is changed (having, in effect, perfect memory of our pasts), our ability to maintain relationships is altered. It's difficult to at first imagine why forgetfulness is essential to mental health, but then we have both arguments from biology and psychiatry to explain it easily enough. It's very nearly a survival strategy. But now our personal and social traumas are at beck-and-call (or not called).

Each of these issues should be cause for serious debate and discourse in our culture, but worse than our author supposes, we have instead dove headlong into the pool of ignorance, especially on this last point, apologizing with the most vapid of accusations: "Social media is a problem for our youth."  

And this leads to his own proposal, and it is simple enough: Have what is essentially an expiration tag on data, much as we might for spoiling food. Companies can only hold our data for so long, those terrible middle school poems will only stay with me for 10 years of embarrassing stories and then vanish utterly. This is an easily achievable goal and, while it will not solve all of the issues, Mayer-Schonberger offers plenty of other options that would work in tandem.

But here's the most important take-away from this book: the solutions proposed do exactly what has not been happening, opening a dialogue for what is happening to our mental and social health as technology inevitably continues to "perfect" our cultural memories, to inundate us with so much needlessness, that we can no longer sort what is vital from what is trivial, personally and politically.

This is a dry and dated read, but still vital for all of that.

True to form, King generates a fast-paced "race against time" story while our anything-but-fearless trio of investigators work to discover the cause of a group of suicides.  By now, we already know it is the near-vegetative villainous survivor of Book 1, but can they all figure out what the readers have spelled out for them in time?

And, true to genre, King sets a number of clocks ticking all at once to come together in a climactic scene. Our heroes fumble and stumble a bit often, but so does the villain, and the result would be almost comedic if it was not so deadly. Yes, it's a tried and true thriller.

And that's . . . all it is. King sets his sights higher in other novels, takes on bigger fish. But this is Indiana Jones 4, just another ride for characters we have come to love (in the first novel), appreciate in personal growth (in the second), and now complete the stories for (a yeoman's task here). Do I sound disappointed? Yeah, a bit. The plotline for our horror is overly convoluted and overly contrived; at times I found myself crying, "Oh, come on!" 

But then I remember what I asked for: I wanted a trilogy ending, wanted to see the return of Brady, wanted to feel more of that Stephen King acid detail and character grit. And he gave it. Case closed.

Jul Maroh (formerly Julie) offers a now-infamous story on queer love that has unfortunately been made merely titillating and salacious from the film reviews. 

Instead, what we have is a story of a young girl, Clementine, challenged to come to grips with the concept of loving freely. Predictably, we have the array of supporters and doubters. There are few close to her who are willing to talk about anything at length: we all have our private secrets and shames. As a consequence, a number of scenes are highly predictable: the reactions from parents, the miscues and misunderstandings between intimates, the various pressures from friends, etc.  As Maroh writes in their bio, "Intimacy is political."

Despite these too-wrought episodes, though, Maroh's pacing in the opening sections of the novel is terrific: they allow Clem the opportunity to languish anxiously. That said, something unusual occurs in the last 1/3 or so when we suddenly jump in Clem's journals across a dozen years or so. Suddenly enormous plots of distrust, betrayal, angst, and self-doubt are brought together in just a few frames, and I suddenly wondered that--since we so easily erased the opening conflicts that unfolded over the course of the book, why did they matter at all? And finally, though we know from the opening frames that Clem has passed away and the story is being told in retrospect, the circumstances of that death are treated with equal rapid speed. Why? In other words, the entire resolution to the relationship that we had so carefully nurtured was almost dismissed narratively.  

Nonetheless, the early story itself remains strong enough to be compelling and worth the read, and coupled with Maroh's lush artwork, this is a potent story.