steveatwaywords's reviews
1212 reviews

It's hard to be incisive about popular culture, and it's harder to do and stay relevant years later. Greif is challenged here at both levels (hence his <i>n+1</i> publication which tries to keep up with the trends). As a white man explaining culture in academic prose to contemporary readers living it, he also paints a fairly large target on himself, a position he seems either oblivious to or doesn't care about--either way, a bit problematic.

So I didn't go into this anthology expecting the hip approaches of a Klosterman or the academic rigor of a [insert your favorite sociology PhD here].  Instead, I recommend reading Greif as a man willing to raise questions and challenges about our obsessions and fetishes, many of them truly (and rightly) diagnosing some deeper malaise that is worth our while to reflect upon.

Yes, the Radiohead and Kardashian essays don't play well, and the hip-hop claims have some powerful regions of deafness. But his discussions of our performative natures around exercise, about the clean parallels between our current military and Classical Age hero narratives, or--for me most powerfully--his redefinition of experience and its consequences for a more fulfilling life purpose, all resonate disturbingly for those willing to overlook the earlier issues. 

And how may we discover ourselves unless we--all of us, whoever we are--aren't willing to ask the questions? The alternative seems to be an oblivious purchase into a culture sold to us by tradition and trend, by popular acclaim and appropriating profiteers. For those who blithely reject Greif out of hand, excuse me, your, um, obsession is showing . . . . 

There is a lot which could have been right about Drezner's book:  ironic positions or tones he might have adopted, true digging into the theories the book purports to examine, or even potential case studies into the synthesis which, on the surface is an idea which fits two of my passions: international politics and the absurdity of zombies.

Instead, what we have is a cute and self-effacing introduction to the basic of international political theory along with a middle-of-the-road overview of how zombies might/could/possibly/ifyoudon'tmind/should/perhaps/potentially/supposed to be addressed by such a theory. In brief, neither the zombie enthusiast or student of theory will leave enlightened or satisfied, since neither is fed what they came for.

Drezner doesn't even adopt a tone which suggests his narrator is invested, instead peppering the text with cartoons from Reader's Digest days.  It's too bad, because the "research" that went into this book created a bibliography dozens of pages long. So what did you do with all that?

Mostly, I was disappointed in the omission of what seemed to me an obvious direction: case studies, simulations, and recommended policy directions. Let's see the theory become practice!

As it is, if you want the politics of zombies, try World War Z. If you want the political theory, try just about any basic text. Each will give you more. 

What a magnificent read. A lyrical and subtle exploration of dozens of vital questions, woven by its conclusion into some moments of wonder.

But wait. Let's get those nay-sayers out of the way first. If you are seeking a tightly-written, action-directed, straight-to-streaming IP that doubles as beach read fantasy and tear-jerking melodrama, go somewhere else. Choices for you are being churned out by writing teams and AI by the thousands.

So, despite that warning (and the several warnings the novel's narrator also provides along the way), let me say that this is an absolutely compelling page-turner and every scene felt immaculately directed to its effect. Those effects are explicitly not conventional plotting, though this exists, as well, almost (but definitely not) incidental to the larger text. How does one sustain a book that takes over 100 pages for its octogenarian grandmother to rise from her bed? How when it takes over 50 pages for her to go from a standing position to one fallen? And then, when something momentous truly does occur, it is sometimes whisked through in a page or brief patch of sentences.
Why are we reading?

For Shree's reflections, her reveries on life at all ages, her satirical digs at social mores and conservative proprieties, our posturing and political priorities, our entrenchments and blindness to the compassion and humanity requisite to gender, to disability, and to infantilizing of the aged. About the graphic and unsettling challenges to senior care--from smells and sounds in bed-sharing to bathroom routines and crises. Shree's lens is at once a marvelous and uncomfortable macro look at a single family's c0lliding myopias and also a despairing but affirming diatribe on the fundamental brokenness of South Asian social-political history and . . . everyone's.

So slow down. Don't try this book "skipping over the asides" as so many reviewers attempted. You miss not only the idea of the novel, but also its wonderful word play and turns of thought made all the more resonant by gifted translator Daisy Rockwell. Seeing what she produced here for remarkable and poetic moments made me marvel at what she must have been working with in the original Hindi. What she has given us from Shree is an English translation both subtle and beautiful.

I want very much to talk about how the book comes together at its end, but I will not spoil it. It is full worth the journey for its dazzling and significant close. But I will add this: this has been marked as a work of experimental fiction, and contrasted to mainstream Hindi literature, it certainly is that.  But I would note that this is, too, a work of magical realism. We know it almost as quickly as a Buddha statue waits its moment in the grandmother's room or she inexplicably raises her cane into the air. Our mysterious, partly-connected narrator weighs in frequently in relating the story, and this too can seem an odd structural choice--but it, too, becomes a powerful idea. Slowly, over time, reverie to reflection, subtle moment to memory of substance, Shree's novel draws together difference and opens outward and outward.  Readers skipping this story, missing it or glossing over it, failing to give it their attention, are indeed part of its very subject. 

This is my first novel of Piercy's after many years of loving her poetry. And for many reasons, I was rewarded for this sustained immersion into her thinking.

While this book falls into the category of science fiction, it is better understood as speculative fiction (and social commentary). A woman who is forced into mental institutions (in the early 1970s) is able to time travel to a future utopic society. To be sure, the utopia has come about only following the worst practices of apocalyptic consumption-capitalism: it struggles in the aftermath; but its people have learned an ethic (and matched morality) about sustainability and life which--for its time, especially--is hugely forward-looking, especially in terms of gender, sexuality, and child development. These sections, coupled with a future language which is at once as familiar as it is paradigm-shifting, make the book a valuable experience.

Where Piercy has more trouble is in sustaining the story and its significance across past and future. There are some tempting discussions about the malleability of time, of the power of "responders" like our protagonist Connie, and of the responsibility we have to ourselves. Implementing these future-thinking ideas into the 1970s, however, was often forced and at times neglected or forgotten. The resolution to the novel feels equally . . . irresolute in this way. Yes, our Connie grows into her moment, but its nature is quickly narrated and left unexamined. One wonders if she needed "the future" at all to enact it and what might we have said had she done so. (And this is not because the novel is brief; its nearly 400 pages with long asides into the descriptions of meals, bandages, and the biographies of minor characters.)

It is, in part, the nature of a lot of science fiction from this era to offer its themes through "heady" trips into other-spaces; and readers are often left to make of the experiences what they will. I'm thinking of almost all of Huxley, a lot of Heinlein, Daniel Keyes, Harlan Ellison, and even some of LeGuin. In this sense, Piercy's novel has like company. But I could not help thinking that its resolution fell somewhat short of the author's future vision.

See has her fans; she is undoubtedly quite popular for this particular brand of storytelling: sad stories of old China. And true enough, if you have not read anything of the world of "privileged" women in pre-modern East Asia, this will offer some fairly graphic insights. Equally, the author's own learning of an historical secret writing for women makes for an interesting premise for storytelling.

But I'm afraid that neither of these historical premises (foot-binding and other suffering by Chinese and Japanese women for the sake of beauty nor the language of nu shu) are nearly sufficient to sustain a good novel. I found myself frustrated at two levels:

First, the characters and their own growth itself: we might hope to see the development of their ideas, of their relationship, of their understanding of their own condition, etc. But these fundamentals to storytelling take a far backseat to outside events (many beyond their experience or understanding) which impact their fortunes. What political drama which exists within the female community itself is also resolved through time and death, not through the actions or understandings of our protagonists. In other words, our characters are long-suffering from start to finish. And yes, this might be "historically accurate," but this is not a history; it's a novel. The final conflict/complication around the secret language (the sustained conceit for the story) arises from such a simply elementary misunderstanding as to be unreasonably ignorant even from this white male reader's immediate response. Is <i>this</i> really what we have been building towards?

My second concern is a bit different, and I admit that I believe reading writers like James Clavell (Shogun) and Arthur Golden (Memoirs of a Geisha) is problematic. I kept asking myself not just why I was reading this (it came recommended), but why it was written.  It's a bit like writing about an idealistic sheriff in the mythological American Old West and saying, "I wrote a story of the United States!" Truly, are there no other stories to write of China than of this world of silks and tea? If we want to stay with historical fiction of China, are there no other eras of classes from which to draw across its thousands of years of history? Reading this felt oddly voyeuristic, so focused through this single misaligned peephole into a vast and complex culture.  

It's true that I have also been recently reading contemporary writers from China, and so perhaps the comparison isn't entirely fair. But there it is, a comparison. There are far better choices into literary China, and I don't see what this book in that light has to offer.

This is an exceptional collection of work, written part as balm against the wounds of 9/11, part as assemblage of pastoral ethic against the self-serving amoral politics of our time. As such, much of it resonates as powerfully now as it did nearly 20 years ago.

Kingsolver covers a wide range of topics--more than one might think relevant to a post-Twin Tower memoir--but they have a coherence at once intensely personal (letters to her daughter and mother are particularly moving) and philosophically articulate. True, Kingsolver is quite traditional, even unapologetically folksy, in her beliefs. And for any enviro-conscious readers, her naturalist lifestyle feels by now quite old-hat and even out of date with the political assertiveness of our times. After all, absenting one's self from the debate hardly makes for an ethic of responsibility. 

But Kingsolver demonstrates in many ways that her writing is very much that engagement. At moments heavy-handed and even quaintly preachy (as she speaks of the perils of television, for instance), she nonetheless forwards a way of thinking about what peaceful virtues--with a little reflection and privilege of choice--our lives might instead discover. Don't believe she is unprepared for the violence around us (far from it), but she finds no value in our unending machinations and political rhetoric which excuses it. Fundamentally feminist, politically left, and domestically conservative, Kingsolver walks a line which itself is somewhat bygone, though in her beautiful prose feels necessary. 

Wisely, Kingsolver largely speaks for herself, recognizing that not everyone's experiences can ever be hers. Nonetheless, I felt myself nodding far more frequently than smirking, reading an argument for living I might envy though never fully embrace.

We don't read Aeschylus today for dramatic depth or nuance. In Prometheus Bound, for instance, there is nothing like subtlety or character growth.  Instead, like most of classical drama, the works are exercises in mythology and pedagogical theme. Even so, digging a bit into these remains far more enlightening than any Wikipedia article or contemporary blogger is likely to offer.

Prometheus, for instance, is portrayed as the noble victim (a role Milton will later grant Lucifer) against a cruel tyrant whose justice is absolute and arbitrary. Zeus's loyal subjects are devoted through fear alone; their morality is purely transactional. The idea that one could hold principles above one's own life is--in Aeschylus's time (and ours)--a quaint and impotent virtue of a past era. Thus the Titans have fallen or gone into hiding with only Prometheus publicly displayed as immortal pariah, not spared even the mercy of death for his suffering. Along the way, near kin, sympathetic family, and fellow cursed victims visit him. 

Prometheus has much to say, of course, about his devotion to mankind, and we can also see him as proud, defiant, and devoted to a justice which may return generations later after still more have cruelly suffered. His arguments are straightforward and oft-repeated; the strategies offered by his visitors are also simple and poorly-reasoned, but we aren't looking for nuance. In the classical theater, the message feels hammered, the tragedy wrought in extremes. 

Even so, reading it today still feels oddly apropos as morality and principle seem harder to come by, as transactional values seem more prevalent. Prometheus gave mankind fire, but with it the entirety of art and craft, of learning and culture. What must be done with it?

I wanted very much to read this collection of poetry, as I have admired the single doses of Ashbery I had received up to this point. So first, if you are seeking more traditional verse that opens itself to understanding, run away now.

This accounts for many of the reviews of Ashbery: his simple language nonetheless yields little comprehension. Half-utterances collide with others in non sequiturs which occasionally make reference to popular culture, more often to what appear inside jokes or private talks, all from the seeming musings of an elderly speaker gamely spry and moderately hip. This poetry was not "above my head"--I leave such claims for Blake or parts of Eliot. No, Ashbery here is just difficult: and that "difficult" is in his opacity to readers. His poetry isn't hard; the author is, and not for any reason that I can account for. The occasional nugget of wry insight (a promise of meaning, perhaps?) is quickly buried in the bizarre.

If the answer is that his poetry reveals a flippancy and irreverence to culture, events, and relationships, my response is that each of his works carries essentially this same unchanging message. Why read more than one? My fear is that, as this is one of his later collections, old John may be phoning it in.

But I admit to not having read near enough to make such a general claim. Instead, I will say that this is not a good entry point for Ashbery. Surely--surely--there is a better one. 

There are lovers and haters of Ghost World, and I have to say that I understand both of them.  This is an intensely off-putting book of whining nasty teen girls who punch down on a world which is often very nearly as terrible as they are. We keep seeking something to redeem somebody, anywhere, and we come up short. They use and shame their friends with an utter lack of empathy for their discomfort. They abuse strangers in cruel ways. And then they lament that no one will love them. If this is comedy (as it is billed), what is its nature? Satire? Nonsense: there is nothing here that looks like a statement of purpose. Mere parody? If so, our author Clowes shows no irony and so is as guilty. I can't fathom it.

But . . . (and it's a little qualifier, absolutely), we have a few frames that also show that our two girls are themselves vulnerable, frail, victims of a world which alienates from its absurdity. There are quiet moments of exposure: a shame-faced late-night visit, a minor act of restitution, a connection to someone more remote than even themselves. . . .

For me, I think this is almost--but not nearly--enough to redeem the story. The problem is that these moments are too few, unattached to anything significant, and lead nowhere important in the plotting. There is a crisis of friendship, but what it is based upon is difficult to follow. One could argue that such emptiness and unraveling of tidy plot is itself the point, but even here readers deserve some clarity of purpose. It's not like we've had no writers of an absurd world as models prior to Clowes. This has been done, frequently--and far better.

It's true that I unconsciously compared this to Tamaki's Skim which I recently read and is a far-better conception of two nay-saying teen girls. I highly recommend it.

But it's also true that I rewatched the film version of Ghost World, and this is a far better story. I relate it here only as a contrast to what the graphic novel does. First, the actors are in fine form and do a far better job of revealing that vulnerability and brokenness consistently. More, though, Clowes had a large hand in writing the screenplay and made significant changes and expansions: he tightened up the storytelling by combining major characters and events; then he expanded on the relationships with those characters. Suddenly (lo and behold!), we have much of what the graphic novel lacks: empathy and interest. The final choice of the book is suddenly much more powerful and justifiable. The film even has--what would you call it?--oh, theme.

So, I'm appreciative that I read the book first, if only because I could witness the author re-envisioning--revising--what he wanted to accomplish. Perhaps had he done such revision before publishing the graphic novel, this would have been far more successful. He's hardly the first in this club: Peter Benchley, Thomas Harris, Lauren Weisberger, Nicholas Sparks, Gregory Maguire--but at least Clowes took the chance to make it better himself. And I appreciate it!

There's a lot that's just "thriller-level" fun along with Soule's too-long story of a man given the power of prophecy. Turns out, everyone wants a political piece of that action (no surprise) and, no surprise, the prophecies wreak their own kind of action on the endless chase scenes which follow.

Soule spends no real time on crafting anything but a page-turning story (true to his superhero action-comic background), and his lauded satire here is fairly predictable--no prophecy needed: what? a televangelist is more corrupt than pious? What? a US President is more self-serving to his own re-election than to the good of the country? Do go on!  So, outside of a few clever scenes and strategizing about preserving celebrity anonymity in a digital world, the book seems designed (please please please, says its author) to be optioned for a television mini-series.

Now, it's clear I'm not a big fan of the read, but this is largely because it sprawls across hundreds of pages of similar action sequences and slower unwrapping of new revelations. The story is fun, absolutely. And it would have been real fun and even provocative at about 120 pages rather than 400.  Yup, fairly culturally and gender-stereotyped, heroically under-dogged, and reservedly satirical, fun.