To kick off 2026, I finished yet another Clifford D. Simak classic sci-fi novel, Ring Around the Sun, and this one is full of big ideas: pristine parallel earths; mutant humans--who may or may not know they are mutants; telepathy with alien races; corporeal temporal stasis; consciousness transfers-- it's too much for one book (from 1952!) but it is mainly a story of scarcity and abundance and how to break our capitalist, materialist consumer society with "forever" products engineered by mutant humans and imported from various parallel earths, to break the supply-and-demand system and allow humans to progress to something transcendent-- but at what cost, at what cost?
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Best For Last . . .
I am assuming Chris Pavone's The Doorman will be the last book I finish in 2025, and it was my favorite-- a thriller with plenty of social, racial, and class commentary; the novel's center is a working-class doorman (Chicky) with working-class problems, and his interactions with the very, very rich residents of the fancy Upper East Side apartment where he works-- and they have very, very rich problems-- and all the problems collide into a wonderfully stressful mess: this book feels like a tightly plotted modern version of Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities, with some Richard Price NYC tone thrown in for good measure-- definitely worth reading.
Even With Some Help, I Don't Think Our Brains Will Ever Work This Well
Time and Again is more profound and serious than most of the Clifford Simak books I've read (Mastodonia, They Walked Like Men, The Goblin Reservation, City) and while the book has some fun sci-fi tropes-- a war throughout time, androids that can chemically reproduce vying for human rights-- it also has that 1950s transcendent evolutionary vibe that seems naive today . . . the idea that humans will eventually, possibly with the help of alien intelligence, become something mentally more, something psionic and telepathic and revolutionary . . . and maybe I'm being pessimistic and thispsychological transcendence is possible, but I'm more of the feeling that the huan race is going to be perpetually stupid until we exterminate ourselves.
Ardnakelty: Things Behind Things Behind Things
In Tana French's thriller, The Hunter, the rural Irish mountain town of Ardnakelty reminds me of the newish Bon Iver tune "Things Behind Things Behind Things"-- and retired Chicago cop Cal Hooper is pulled farther and farther into these rings within rings (this is the second book in the series, the first is The Searcher) and you know what happens once you get pulled in, it's tough to reach escape velocity; an evocative, slow-burn about how gossip and history and small-town mores can sometimes fuel animosity, violence, and worse (and I believe I have now read the complete of ouvre of French, who many conisder our greatest living mystery writer . . . I think I am one of them).
Broken Harbor Breaks Bad
Tana French's novel, Broken Harbor, is a crime procedural wrapped inside a portrait of insanity balanced atop a real estate crisis —and it's hard to remember when the real estate bubble popped, because it has reinflated, but it was less than two decades ago.
Tana French is The Bomb
I just finished The Trespasser by Irish-American mystery writer Tana French-- this is the sixth book in her "Dublin Murder Squad" series-- but each book is from the perspective of a different detective, so she does away with that whole "Sherlock Holmes genius detective trope" and instead focuses on how each case affects (and is affected by) the particular detective working the murder . . . and while I've read her books in no particular order (I also read Faithful Place and In the Woods in the Murder Squad series and her stand-alone novels The Wych Elm and The Searcher and I just started Broken Harbor) I am realizing that she is perhaps the best living mystery writer-- she is definitely a cut above Ruth Ware, although I love a Ruth Ware thriller-- so if you haven't read a Tana French novel, pick one at random and give it a shot, I doubt you'll be disappointed.
Let's Move It Along
Yesterday, I finished my first (and perhaps last) P.D. James mystery novel, A Taste for Death, and while I enjoyed the central mystery and grisly murder, the book became a bit of a bombastic slog in the middle-- too much furniture and interior description, too many interviews, too many characters-- I guess I enjoy my crime fiction a little less realistic, a little more meta, and much faster paced . . . because I am certainly not going to crack the case, so I don't want to spend forever reading about it.
Il Gattopardo
The Leopard is the best novel by a Sicilian I have ever read . . . it is also the only novel by a Sicilian that I have ever read, I think-- which is shameful because my grandfather was from Sicily . . . anyway, it's never to late to start learning-- and this novel by Sicilian writer Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa detail the social and political changes in Sicily during the Risorgimento, and Garabaldi's expedition to unify Sicily with the rest of Italy-- and it really gets into what living in a hot, desolate, drought-ridden, volcanic, craggy and isolated place like Sicily does to the character of one's citizens and it certainly makes me want to visit (but I know not to go in against any Sicilians, especially when death is on the line).
This Novel Has Got It All!
If you're a sucker for dinosaurs and charismatic megafauna, and you are curious about the legal and political ramifications of time travel, then Clifford D. Simak's sci-fi novel Mastodonia is the book for you.
No Way, El Rey
If you're looking for some wild, hard-boiled crime fiction, where regular old psychopaths figure out how to navigate this lonely planet as best they know how, then check out Jim Thompson-- otherwise known as "The Dime-Store Dostoevsky"-- I read my first two Jim Thompson novels a few weeks ago: Pop. 1280 and The Getaway and I am a changed man, ready to do whatever is necessary to survive and thrive-- just like Nick Corey, the shaper-than-he-seems sherriff of Pottsville-- and if my schemes and ruses don't work out, then I'm ready to go on the lam, like Doc McCoy and Carol . . . although I hope I don't end up bankrupt and betrayed in the kingdom of El Rey (this mythical criminal sanctuary is also alluded to in the film Dusk to Dawn).
Dry Bones (Longmire #11) by Craig johnson
The only thing better than a Craig Johnson Longmire mystery with all the usual fixin's-- the vast and desolate landscape of Wyoming, a well-plotted police procedural, some emotional stuff about Longmire's family, some Native American lore and legend, a moment of deus ex Henry Standing Bear, and some mystical Native American visions-- is a Craig Johnson Longmire mystery with all the usual fixin's plus not one but TWO prehistoric creatures . . . one species that qualifies as a living fossil, with 90 million years of staying power, and the other that is legendary in the fossil record; Danny Long Elk is found floating face down in a farm pond filled with snapping turtles, who have done some damage to the dead body AND a paleontologist discovers a complete tyrannasaurus rex skeleton on his property-- which is a very valuable find-- and also a legal conundrum because the find is on land that belongs to the Cheyenne nation . . . and if the plot of Dry Bones plot sounds enticing, then you should also read Michael Connelly's City of Bones, which features the La Brea Tar Pits and perhaps the first human murder on record (I'm a sucker for mysteries with some forensic paleontology thrown in for good measure).
Identity and Alcoholism, Sci-fi Style
If I were to choose one genre-- and only one-- that I would have to read and watch for the rest of my life, I think it would be science-fiction . . . while I love a good mystery/crime thriller, you can could inject that element into a sci-fi plot-- but I just love seeing how writers and directors explore our modern problems (and problems that we can barely dream of) in a story where the setting, the technology, and the alternative reality is the main character . . . so here are the two most recent sci-fi stories I ingested, sauce and all:
1) The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis-- the author of The Queen's Gambit, Tevis struggled with alcoholism most of his life, and this beautiful, sad novel uses a single humanoid alien on a mission to find food and water and resources for his advanced but dying race to explore loneliness and addiction-- Jerome Newton, the industrious, resilient, and polite alien slowly builds an empire by introducing advanced technology to earthlings, but along the way he experiences futility, ennui, and profound disconnection-- and alcohol seems to assuage this;
2) Bong Joon Ho's new film Mickey 17 is a fun and satirical journey into space and the ends of identity-- we go to the far reaches of the galaxy, where a hysterically Trumpy Mark Ruffalo is leading a band of colonists to settle on the ice planet Niflheim and one of the members of the expedition is an "expendable"-- which means they can send him to die over and over and then reprint him with most of his memories intact . . . Mickey Barnes becomes an expendable because of money issues-- and this criminal/mystery subplot is underdeveloped and a bit silly, but that is no matter-- because it gets us out into space and exploring what it means to be a unique person . . . or what philosopher's call the "Ship pf Theseus"dilemma-- because (spoiler!) not only is there a 17th version of Mickey at the heart of this movie, but also Mickey 18-- and so the usual "multiple" hijinks ensue, with Pattinson doing a great job face-acting the subtle differences between the two Mickeys and his girlfriend Nasha showing true love for both her soulmates . . . because they really are both versions of Mickey-- but which one deserves to live . . . and the aliens of Niflheim kind of steal the show at the end, an added bonus that makes this epic satirical sci-fi not only a philosophical conundrum but also an entertaining and snowy visual maelstrom.
Unintentionally Dry January (But Not Sand Island Dry)
I was determined NOT to do "Dry January" for two very good reasons—
1)I’m already a moderate drinker
2) January is so dark, cold, and dreary that a little alcohol helps me get through without going full Jack Torrance
but this January wasn’t fated to be a wet one for me-- two weeks ago I came down with a stomach virus, then my wife caught the flu, and just as she recovered I got a mild case of COVID, so aside from a couple of parties and our outing to see Louie C.K., I barely touched beer, wine, or spirits-- but I'm not complaining because I just read Matthew Pearl’s new book, Save Our Souls: The True Story of a Castaway Family, Treachery, and Murder, and my January—despite its lack of alcohol and abundance of sickness—was a walk in the park compared to what the Walker family endured after their sharking boat shipwrecked on a spit of sand in the North Pacific (Midway Atoll), where they survived for eighteen months on seabirds, seabird eggs, the occasional fish, a bag of moldy rice that washed ashore, and an unlucky turtle—but no beer or tobacco; Pearl’s book is a gripping account of the shipwreck and the surrounding murder and mystery, including the presence of a nutjob named Hans, who was already living in a hut on Sand Island when the Walkers and their crew washed ashore-- and the book gets quite complicated with intrigue, it's not a tale like Swiss Family Robinson or Gilligan's Island, mainly because of the sinister first mate and his past crimes and new alliances, and honestly, after reading this, I'm astounded that anyone in the 19th century would willingly board an ocean-going vessel, given the abundant threats of shipwrecks, piracy, opium smuggling, scurvy, sharks, insurance fraud, blackbirding, and mutiny-- Pearl’s book is an astounding tale of survival, persistence, and malevolent maritime machinations and if you're looking to feel better about your landlocked piece of property, read it.
Which Wych Elm?
The answer to the titular question is: the wych elm in the garden of Ivy house, the one keeping a sordid secret-- but it's going to take some preliminary reading to learn this, and some of it isn't going to be pretty: brain damage, brain cancer, and a lucky, privileged young man brought to his knees by events from his past-- events that had consequences that he was oblivious to then but are horribly apparent now . . . I'll say no more, aside from the fact that The Wych Elm is another masterful mystery from Irish-American author Tana French.
Lord of the Flies is Lame (No Tanks)
If you think Lord of the Flies is a bit tame and you want a book where the kids really go bonkers then check out Cixin Liu's Supernova Era . . . a supernova eight light-years away unleashes a pulse of radiation that hits the Earth with delayed but deadly consequence-- leaving only children under thirteen immune to the eventual (9 months or so) chromosomal decay and death-- so as adults face imminent death, they race against time to train the kids to take over the planet-- and then the adults die and the kids act just like kids and utilize none of the wisdom passed to down to them and instead squander time and resources and engage in insane war games in a globally warmed Antarctica and then things get really batshit wild and the book addresses one of the truly unfair things about human life on planet earth-- the fact that where we are born very likely determines our destiny.
If You Don't Think Everything Sucks, You are the Victim of an Illusion
The Age of Illusions: How America Squandered Its Cold War Victory by Andrew Bacevich addresses the question asked by Rabbit Angstrom in John Updike's 1990 novel Rabbit at Rest: "Without the Cold War, what's the point in being an American?" and the answer may be an exercise in dark futility because the tenets that we thought were bulletproof and led to us vanquishing Communism haven't turned out to be made of Kevlar:
1) capitalism and globalization come with corruption, inequity, and environmental and social costs;
2) same with the military-industrial complex and all the "forever wars" we are fighting;
3) the rest of the world doesn't think American autonomy and freedom are the bee's knees
and so Bacevich whips through the recent presidents-- Clinton, Bush, Obama, and Trump-- and explains how they were all deficient to varying degrees . . . but he also points out how the first Trump term wasn't nearly as impactful and catastrophic as the pundits predicted . . . and so the book concludes with the question from the start: "What does it mean to be an American?" and we wonder if being an American has to be different than being a Canadian (or a Belgian or a Malaysian or any other country that doesn't profess to be a shining example of exceptionalism, a City on a Hill) and this may not be a question that is answered in my lifetime . . we shall see.
Go To Hell (Novelistically)
If you want to read a totally fucked up book about a disgraced knight trying to protect a sanctified child in the bleakest of settings-- plague-ravaged France in the 14th century-- but that's not enough fucked-uppededness for you, and you also need Book of Revelations style monsters and a war between earth and heaven (plus some historical corruption . . . the Avignon papacy scandal) then Between Two Fires, by Christopher Buehlman, is the novel for you . . . I enjoyed much of it, but parts of it were beyond my comprehension and the story did get a bit tedious towards the end-- I had to skim some until the action picked up again-- but this is an incredibly visceral, incredibly researched, and fantastically conceived literary project, and worthy of a better, more patient reader than me.
A Head Full of Choices (and Ghosts)
A Head Full of Ghosts, by Paul Tremblay, is a genuinely scary (and very transparent) pastiche of Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle, The Exorcist, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman's short story "The Yellow Wallpaper" . . . with some modern touches (including a very entertaining blog, written by the lone survivor from the family, Merry-- who mistakenly poisoned her family, while being manipulated by her possibly possessed or possibly mentally ill sister . . . or was the poisoning a mistake? or was Merry possessed? or was the whole family possessed? or was it all a stunt for reality TV? you'll have to read it-- if you dare-- and then decide for yourself).
Spenser Being Spenser
Robert B. Parker's fourth Spenser novel, Promised Land, is more about relationships than crime, and I should warn you: there's quite a bit of romance between Spenser and Susan Silverman (blech) which makes me think something terrible is going to happen to her later in the series, and-- far more fun-- we learn about Spenser's complicated connection to Hawk, a gangster adjacent black dude who Spenser knows from back in his boxing days . . . anyway, this isn't my favorite Spenser book, but it still has its moments; here are some highlights from my Kindle notes:
Spenser on radical feminism . . .
“No,” I said. “Annoyed, maybe, if you push me. But not at her, at all the silliness in the world. I’m sick of movements. I’m sick of people who think that a new system will take care of everything. I’m sick of people who put the cause ahead of the person. And I am sick of people, whatever sex, who dump the kids and run off: to work, to booze, to sex, to success. It’s irresponsible.”
Susan Silverman on Spenser . . .
“More than maybe,” Susan said. “It’s autonomy. You are the most autonomous person I’ve ever seen and you don’t let anything into that. Sometimes I think the muscle you’ve built is like a shield, like armor, and you keep yourself private and alone inside there. The integrity complete, unviolated, impervious, safe even from love.”
Spenser on human nature and belief . . .Everyone gets contemptuous after a while of his clients. Teachers get scornful of students, doctors of patients, bartenders of drinkers, salesmen of buyers, clerks of customers. But, Jesus, they were saps. The Promised Land. Holy Christ.
Spenser and Pam on the city in the distance . . .
“What is it,” Pam Shepard said, “about a cluster of skyscrapers in the distance that makes you feel… What?… Romantic? Melancholy? Excited? Excited probably.”
“Promise,” I said.
“Of what?”
“Of everything,” I said. “From a distance they promise everything, whatever you’re after. They look clean and permanent against the sky like that. Up close you notice dog litter around the foundations.”
“Are you saying it’s not real? The look of the skyscrapers from a distance."
“No. It’s real enough, I think. But so is the dog litter and if you spend all your time looking at the spires you’re going to step in it.”
“Into each life some shit must fall?”
“Ah,” I said, “you put it so much more gracefully than I.”
Outside I bought two hot dogs and a bottle of cream soda from a street vendor and ate sitting by the fountain in City Hall Plaza. A lot of women employed in the Government Center buildings were lunching also on the plaza and I ranked them in the order of general desirability. I was down to sixteenth when my lunch was finished and I had to go to work. I’d have ranked the top twenty-five in that time normally, but there was a three-way tie for seventh and I lost a great deal of time trying to resolve it.
The restaurant wasn’t very busy, more empty than full, and I glanced around to see if anyone was casing me. Or looked suspicious. No one was polishing a machine gun, no one was picking his teeth with a switchblade, no one was paying me any attention at all.
“Why did you warn that black man?” Pam Shepard said, putting cream cheese on her bagel. She had skipped the hash and eggs, which showed you what she knew about breakfasts. The waitress came and poured more coffee in both our cups. “I don’t know. I’ve known him a long time. He was a fighter when I was. We used to train together sometimes.”
“But isn’t he one of them? I mean isn’t he the, what, the muscle man, the enforcer, for those people?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t that make a difference? I mean you just let him go.”
“I’ve known him a long time,” I said.
Hawk on Spenser . . .
Hawk shrugged. “Me and your old man there are a lot alike. I told you that already. There ain’t all that many of us left, guys like old Spenser and me. He was gone there’d be one less. I’d have missed him. And I owed him one from this morning.”
A Mystery with a Curveball
Mortal Stakes-- the third book in Robert B. Parker's Spenser series-- is about things I love: athletics, the ethics of sports, a conflict between ethical systems, the seedy underworld of 1970s prostitution and pornography, and-- of course-- ingenious blackmailing schemes.
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