REVIEW: Bob - Wendy Mass and Rebecca Stead

• Year first released:  2018
• ISBN of the edition I read:  1250166624
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Feiwel & Friends
• My rating (out of 5):  4

First and foremost, I have to say: I find this book's name to be deeply unfortunate. Just try to search online for Bob and see what comes up. On Amazon, the book is the 15th result. On Barnes & Noble, it's the 19th result...on page 2 (so 39th overall, basically). And on Google...forget it. I didn't have the patience to scroll enough to figure it out.

So, despite the fact that it's only a few months old, Bob isn't the most findable book out there. It's worth finding, though. (Luckily for you, I've made it easy by giving you not only the authors' names, but also that B&N link at the top. You're welcome.)

Bob is a rather adorable book about some sort of little critter named Bob who's been hiding in Gran's closet for the past five years waiting for Livy to return. Luckily for him, the book begins with Livy's return. (Gran is Livy's grandmother who lives in Australia - whereas Livy lives in Massachusetts - hence why it's taken now-11-year-old Livy so long to return.)

Unluckily for Bob, though, it turns out that Livy completely forgot about Bob in the time since her last visit.

So begins Livy and Bob's quest to figure out what precisely Bob even is (is he a zombie? a chicken? - of course he's not either, but the two ideas are woven into the book in fun ways), where he comes from, and why Livy forgot everything about him over the course of the past five years.

At only about 200 pages - and with smaller-than-normal paper size and larger-than-normal font - Bob is a quick read. (I read it in less than a day.) This quickness is mostly to its credit, but it also hides Bob's biggest flaw:

There isn't a whole lot of note that happens in the book. It certainly doesn't feel slow, but once the adventure really kicks off, I suddenly felt as though I'd just finished reading a rather lengthy prelude. And since the adventure kicks off about three-quarters of the way into the book, that's a lot of prelude. Again, it wasn't in any way a bore to read - it was cute in the meantime, and passed by quickly enough - but I still had to ask: shouldn't the heart of this adventure have started a bit sooner?

Instead we have a nice, simple, but somewhat featureless story for about 150 pages, then a fun, energetic adventure for about 50. It's not overly jarring, but it feels unbalanced.

Having dual authors as it does - and added to the fact that I've not read any other books by either author - I can't identify which author is responsible for what parts of the book. It's told in alternating voices - the odd chapters are from Livy's perspective, the even from Bob's - so perhaps one author wrote all of Livy, and the other all of Bob(?) I couldn't tell you. Either way, though, regardless of who wrote what in the book, the entire package comes off with a sweet, consistent tone that was warming to read. Even if the first 150 pages felt a bit flat compared to the final 50, they were still pleasing to spend time in.

I don't know that I see Bob becoming a classic, nor "standard" reading for children. (And it is very much a children's book - there isn't necessarily a lot for adults to be captivated by here.) Regardless, it was still a pleasant, endearing read that I was glad to have experienced.

REVIEW: What I Leave Behind - Alison McGhee

• Year first released:  2018
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9781481476560
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Atheneum/Caitlyn Dlouhy Books
• My rating (out of 5):  5

After last year's phenomenal Turtles All the Way Down (which I reviewed for you here), What I Leave Behind is the book I've been most excited about getting into. Though I've not yet reviewed any of McGhee's other books for you, two of her previous novels - All Rivers Flow to the Sea and Shadow Baby - are both incredible, five-star books that sit in a special place on my shelf. I'd even go so far as to say that Shadow Baby is one of the most well-written books I've ever read. Alison McGhee - more than other writers writing in her genre - has a downright magical way with words that somehow make them rise above their static, everyday meanings. Perhaps the best word to describe her writing is transcendent.

All of that said, What I Leave Behind certainly had big shoes to fill. The question is: did it succeed?

It did and it didn't.

Rather, it did, but in a unique way, and much differently than McGhee has done before.

The first thing to note about the writing in What I Leave Behind is that it follows a very particular pattern: all of the text only appears on the right-hand pages, and each of those pages has exactly 100 words. (And, considering that there are exactly 100 pages with writing, the math comes out to only 10,000 words - technically a short story wrapped up in novel form. But that's neither here nor there.)

I knew this fact going in to the book; it's been touted a bit in the marketing, pre-release interviews, etc. The idea appealed to me; I was interested to see how it would actually play out once I had the book in front of me.

For the first dozen or so pages, I was a bit put off by this style. It was a bit hard to separate this knowledge from the way the actual words and sentences came together. Why does Will [the protagonist] say "you know" so much? Why are there so many sentence fragments all throughout? For those first handful of pages, in all honesty, it felt like a gimmick, like McGhee was just forcefully throwing in these extra little tidbits to make sure she hit her 100-word mark for the page.

Somewhere along the way, though (thankfully not too far in to the book), something about this entire setup fell into place. There was a tempo to the book. All of those "you know's" sprinkled throughout gave Will a personality, a rhythm to his thoughts and speech. (Importantly, the book is written in the first-person point of view.) Those sentence fragments, half-thoughts, catchphrases, and repeated descriptions all came together to create a flow to Will's story.

After a couple things in Will's life suddenly spiraled out of control, he became a walker. He walks everywhere - to school, to work at the dollar store, to his friend Playa's house, around the neighborhood, to the Chinese goods market. By this walking, he develops a pattern to his life (a very common, human response to tragedy, if you've read any books on psychology). And, as we realize throughout the book, this pattern is his cadence, the normality which keeps his life grounded and together. In this way, Will is certainly one of the stronger, more realistic (and yet still optimistic) characters I've come across in young adult fiction.

It turns out the rhythm to McGhee's writing in What I Leave Behind mirrors the rhythm Will is attempting to bring into his life - a phenomenal marriage of content and form. It is exceedingly rare we find a book that pulls off this feat so well. Even without the strong characters and optimistic overtone, this marriage alone would make the book well worth reading.

Despite my hesitation in the first handful of pages, McGhee has once again proven that she is still a master wordsmith. This time around, she chose a different approach - a different way of tying all of the words and pieces together - than she's done previously, but with no less lyrical, transcendent results. I'll be just as excited to read her next work of art.

REVIEW: The Housekeeper and the Professor - Yoko Ogawa

• Year first released:  2003 (Japanese), 2009 (English)
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780312427801
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Picador
• My rating (out of 5):  5

I'm sure you've heard it said before - or perhaps even said it yourself - that "either you're good at English, or you're good at math." I've never felt this way - I've always enjoyed both quite a bit. In fact, in those rare occasions when I come across a combination of the two - say, a novel which uses mathematics as an important motif - chances are quite decent that I'm going to be spellbound by the book.

This was certainly the case with PopCo by Scarlett Thomas, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, and Momo by Michael Ende.

This is also exactly what happened with The Housekeeper and the Professor. With it, Ogawa creates what is easily one of the most charming novels I've come across (in a very long time, if not ever), using a simple story peppered with complicated (but well-explained) mathematics, to show us the relationship between the two nameless main characters: an elderly, retired professor of mathematics who suffers from a unique form of dementia, and his newest housekeeper.

The professor's dementia plays a key role in how the plot and the characters develop. After a traumatic car accident over thirty years ago, he can no longer create new memories. Instead, every eighty minutes his short-term memory "resets," so to speak. (You might be reminded of the movie 50 First Dates. Yes, Housekeeper employs a similar trope, but in a significantly more mature, wonderful manner.)

To the professor, everything is mathematical. Upon first meeting his new housekeeper, one of the first questions he asks is her shoe size. Later it's her birthday. Another time it's her height at birth. And all of these, he twists into formulas, explains to her why the numbers are each elegant in their own way, and how everything in life connects more than we realize.

It's a word that Ogawa uses often all throughout the book - "elegant" - which is a perfect description of mathematics, and a perfect description of the book. There's a thread of beauty which courses all throughout the book, whether it's in the professor's mathematical explanations, his metaphors, even the way the narrator (the housekeeper) weaves in and out of chronology to tell her story.

Housekeeper pulses with a profound sense of wonder, but perhaps the most miraculous element of all is that this wonder never dips into the surreal or the otherworldly. Ogawa shows the beauty in coincidence, in numbers, in baseball games and birthday parties and post-it notes. Much like I said in my review of Good Morning, Midnight almost a year ago, Housekeeper doesn't trouble itself with focusing on the negative side of reality. Though of course the book has its tension and conflicts, it is more about the wonder, the beauty, the positivity - without ever overstepping its bounds, sugar-coating its hardships, or dipping its toes into the too-good-to-be-true. It is, instead, a real, earthy novel which knows what it wants to tell us, and tells us in the most graceful way possible.

Throughout the book, we realize that the professor is exactly right: everything in life is mathematical - we just aren't as consistently, acutely aware of it as is the professor. And, if everything is mathematical, then by extension, everything is full of beauty and wonder as well.

Elegant, indeed.

REVIEW: Foundation - Isaac Asimov

• Year first released:  1951
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780380009145 (Mine is a particularly old edition. You can get the more current, "common" edition here.)
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Avon
• My rating (out of 5):  4

I know I'm late to the ball game on this one. Now sixty-seven years old, Foundation has been one of the most highly-regarded novels in all of science fiction. Better late than never, I suppose.

It's a bit of a stretch to call Foundation a novel, though. It is actually a series of five novellas, placed in chronological order, each of which takes place at least thirty years after the previous. Character names and points in the universe's history are referenced as the novellas progress, but they don't, per se, tell one cohesive plot. They are, rather, fragments from the history of the decline of the Galactic Empire, snapshots of events which ultimately add up to the empire's fall.

Though I have nothing against this sort of arrangement, there is a bit of a problem built in to it by default: each of the five stories is quite compelling, but needlessly brief. Overall, Foundation almost reads like an encyclopedia with only five entries. Sure, each novellas has a plot, characters, twists, etc., but all of these things are merely used to illustrate the encyclopedia-like entries, each of which effectively says, "Here are the events and key players around this moment in time, which play a part in the inevitable decline of the Galactic Empire." (A decline, by the way, which is not fully realized by the end of the book - not really a spoiler, so don't be concerned.)

That said, now that I've finished reading the book, I'm left feeling as though I haven't even scratched the surface of Foundation's universe. The characters stay only long enough to amplify their place in the historical timeline. There is virtually no backstory to any of the places, technologies, cultures, or ideals that come together to create the Galactic Empire, and precious little of these elements to indicate the empire's unavoidable decline. Foundation gives us these fragments, and very little else. In this way, we might even say that it reads like a scripture.

All of that sounds like a complaint, I'm sure, but I'm not certain if it actually is.

It's true that the fragmentary nature of the book as a whole left me feeling incomplete. The reason I felt this way, though, is because I knew there must be so much more to the story. And though I wish on the one hand that Asimov gave us this "more;" on the other hand, it says something profound about the writing and the universe-building that I can have such a longing for all of the missing pieces.*

This approach actually gives the story much more credibility than a book which seems as though it was built from the ground up. Foundation feels as though it was, instead, simply pulled out of a much larger, greater story that was already out there, waiting to be told, like Asimov is simply the one who happened to notice it and write it down for us. Certainly this is a powerful way to craft a story, one which is quite rare in literature.

Overall, the complaint is its own antidote, I think. Do I wish there was more backstory and development? Partially, yes. I was especially fond of the first of the five novellas - The Psychohistorians - and would love to read an entire novel based solely on that epoch of the Empire's history. And the wit of Salvor Hardin (the main character of the third novella, The Mayors) was so enjoyable that I'd like to read more of his antics.

Then again, Michael Angelo once said, "Lord, grant that I may always desire more than I can accomplish.” Sometimes the longing is better than the completion. Sometimes knowing that there's more to be known is more profound than knowing everything. Foundation is a great example of this ideal.




(*Of course Foundation is only the first in a series. And though some parts of this nebulous "more" are bound to appear in other volumes, I believe that the point still stands - particularly if the other entries are told in the same fragmentary, encyclopedic fashion.)

On Madeleine L'Engle's Time Quartet

I can't recall when I first read A Wrinkle in Time anymore - I'm pretty sure I was in middle school at the time. I had to read it for a class assignment, I believe. And if I recall, I didn't necessarily love it, but I enjoyed how smart it made me feel. I mean, after reading it, I became someone who knew what a tesseract was. So. There.

(Mind you, a tesseract is actually a real thing, but it's nothing like what it is in Wrinkle. But of course I didn't know that at the time. Oh well.)

I read it again some years ago (I think about 10 years ago), and liked it quite a bit more than the first time around. That's when I decided - finally - to give the rest of the series a go.

Now, with the Wrinkle in Time movie (finally!) upon us, I have to say: yes, I'm excited for the movie. Based on what I've seen and read about it so far, it seems like the creators might be on to something special with it. But the rest of the books (after Wrinkle) were...well, underwhelming, to put it kindly.

This happens often with sequels/series, of course. (Especially, for some reason, movie sequels. It's not quite as bad with book sequels, but still too often.) Sometimes it's hard to say exactly what goes wrong with subsequent titles. They just don't have quite the same magic as the first entry, I suppose.

It's sadly, painfully clear what went wrong with Wrinkle's sequels, though. So let's explore that.

A Wrinkle in Time was an incredibly visionary book that took place throughout several corners of space and time. And, importantly, as the plot goes on, its scope increases exponentially - in fact, compared to other books, the rate of increase is much faster and larger than average. What begins as a search for a missing father quickly snowballs into an enormous spiritual war spanning space and time. Books just don't explode like this very often; it's to L'Engle's credit that she handled it so deftly.

Then we get to the second book, A Wind in the Door.

Well then. Let's begin with a synopsis of the plot from Wikipedia (accessed 1.29.18):

Main character Meg Murry is worried about her brother Charles Wallace, a 6-year-old genius bullied at school by the other children. The new principal of the elementary school is the former high school principal, Mr. Jenkins, who often disciplined Meg, and who Meg is sure has a grudge against her whole family. Meg tries to enlist Jenkins's help in protecting her brother, but is unsuccessful. Later, Meg discovers that Charles Wallace has a progressive disease that is leaving him short of breath. Their mother, a microbiologist, suspects it may be a disorder of his mitochondria and his mitochondria's farandolae, (fictional) micro-organelles inside mitochondria.

One afternoon, Charles Wallace tells Meg of a "drive of dragons" in their back yard, where he and Meg thereupon discover a pile of unusual feathers. Later, Meg has a frightening encounter with a monstrous facsimile of Mr. Jenkins. That night, Meg, Charles Wallace, and their friend Calvin O'Keefe discover that Charles Wallace's "drive of dragons" is an extraterrestrial "cherubim" named Proginoskes (nicknamed 'Progo' by Meg), under the tutelage of the immense humanoid Blajeny, who recruits the three children to counteract the Echthroi.

Meg's first task, on the next day, is to distinguish the real Mr. Jenkins from two Echthroi doubles, by identification of the (potential) goodness in him despite her personal grudge. The protagonists then learn that Echthroi are destroying Charles Wallace's farandolae, and travel inside one of his mitochondria, to persuade a larval farandola, named Sporos, to accept its role as a mature fara, against the urgings of an Echthros. 

...because all of that makes perfect sense, and sounds like one cohesive book, doesn't it?

False. The book is a jumbled mess which begins with a down-to-earth-bullying situation and ends in a veritable Magic School Bus episode in which they shrink and travel through Charles' blood. Oh, and there are dragons and angels and some sort of immature amoeba along the way...or something.

All of the space and time mysteries from Wrinkle have disappeared. The deeply unsettling social commentary from the cookie-cutter-esque planet, the majesty and wisdom of the Mrs W's, the intricate workings of the tesseract - all gone the way of the dinosaurs. Now we have...well, that.^^^

The third book in the series - A Swiftly-Tilting Planet - plays out in a nominally more interesting way...at least until you stop and think about the synopsis, which is, basically:

Nuclear war is imminent. Luckily Charles Wallace (now 16 years old) is given a magical...you know, incantation/recital/abra-kadabra thingy which he chants outside one night until a unicorn comes to take him back in time, where he telepathically links up with various people in the past in order to change the present and prevent the war. (Which is, of course, clearly the most effective way to head off a nuclear war. Props to him.)

No really. That about sums it up. I wish I was kidding.

I mean, Swiftly was cohesive, at least.

Oh, and the fourth book - Many Waters - you ask? That's the one in which two of the minor characters from the other books finally get their turn at an adventure, by going back in time to the age of Noah (of the ark-builder variety) to...well, who knows why they're there, actually. Help herd the animals, I guess. Oh, and they help fight off the evil shape-shifting demons - here called Nephilim - who like to disguise themselves as animals, and occasionally try to seduce teenage boys.

(At this point, I'd insert an emoji for a a dry, sarcastic sniff, if only there was one.)

Really, though: what on earth went wrong? How could L'Engle have started with something so brilliant and moving and bigger than space with Wrinkle, then turn it into a Magic School Bus episode, then a time-travelling unicorn, and finally a replay of Noah's Ark with pedophilic demons?

It's a mystery, to be sure.

If you're scratching your head and thinking WTF? - well, friend, so am I.

Hopefully they won't bother making the sequels into movies. My wish that that they'll nail Wrinkle, then quit while they're ahead.

REVIEW: The City & The City - China Miéville

• Year first released:  2009
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780345497512
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Ballantine Books
• My rating (out of 5):  3

The City & The City is one of those books that tries very hard to defy classification. I borrowed it from the library, where it was labelled as a fantasy. I can't agree with this genre, though. I've also seen it referred to as a sci-fi in several places - definitely also a fallacy. I suppose that, primarily, we could call it a mystery - the plot, at least, is a crime drama - but the setting of the book is unlike anything else you've come across in a mystery - enough so, that somehow calling the book a mystery feels misleading. Rather, the setting would fall squarely into the realm of magic realism...except that there's nothing actually magical or supernatural about it.

Confusing, I know.

Now then. Since the main conceit of the book revolves around this setting, I'll attempt to describe it for you:

There's really no easy way to explain it - and Miéville takes almost the entirety of the book to slowly work through the intricacies of this setup - but The City & The City takes place in two cities: the average, everyday, European city of Besźel; and the higher-class, cleaner (and also European) city of Ul Qoma.

The catch to all of this, you ask?

Besźel and Ul Qoma occupy the same space geographically. They have most of the same streets, parks, even buildings. A person walking on the sidewalk might be in one city, or he might be in the other. There is no separating wall, no change in climate, no distance between them.

The only separation between the two cities are psychological and legal. The citizens of each city are taught to completely ignore all of the facets of the other city - the other citizens, the other buildings, the other trees. They must, by law, "unsee" (or "unhear," "unsmell," etc.) every single aspect of the other city. And "breaching" this ignorance is a crime that comes with severe penalties.

Travelling into the other city is an intricate, time-consuming affair. A passport must be secured and an intense orientation process completed. The irony is that, in order to "travel" to the other city, one must drive all the way to and through a border checkpoint and, for all intents and purposes, make a u-turn. Now that you've "entered" the other city, though - even though you're literally still driving on the same street you were before the border crossing - all of your "unseeing" must be done in reverse: you must ignore all of the people and buildings and landmarks you're used to, and instead focus only on these elements of the other city.

A small example: partway through the book, the main character, Tyador (who is a police officer in Besźel), must cross into Ul Qoma. There, he begins working with an Ul Qoman detective. At dinner one night, the two discover that they live just down the street from each other. Having "unseen" each other all their lives, though, they were never aware of the other's existence - nor even the existence of the other person's house.

Weird.

Of course there's nothing even remotely similar to this in our world to which we might compare the cities. As a reader, the concept takes some getting used to. It is certainly one that requires you to activate your suspension of disbelief. And if for no reason other than exploring this fascinating idea - seeing all the explanations for it, all the little details and ways in which it plays out - it's worth suspending it.

This is the world of The City & The City. After all that description, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how deeply imaginative the entire thing is; it is, without a doubt, the best part of the book.

This statement, though, is actually good and bad. Miéville clearly went to incredible lengths to create such a phenomenal world, only to populate it with average characters and a mildly above average murder mystery. It almost feels as though the twin-city setting of City is too good to have been spent on all of the other elements that go into the book.

To be fair, the parts of the murder mystery which directly tie into the twin cities are certainly unique and interesting. The way the investigation has to proceed, the limits of the detective's authority, the legal loopholes that are exploited by various characters - these items are fascinating, and show just how much thought and care Miéville put into the book. They're just not quite enough to make up for the other elements of the book as a whole.

I hope I'm not making the book sound like a complete loss. The twin-city concept alone made it worth reading. If Miéville were to write another book that takes place in Besźel/Ul Qoma, I would absolutely check it out. I just hope that, in such a case, the plot would be more up to speed with the phenomenal setting.

What's in a Name?

There’s really no denying that names have a lot of power. How many times have you picked up a book for no reason other than it had an interesting title? How many times has the name of a book actually impacted how you feel about the book as a whole? How many times has just hearing a powerful name inspired you?

Rather than discuss why this is, I’d actually rather just talk about a few of the best book titles out there, as well as what makes them so meaningful.

Tell me, friends: What are some of your favorite book titles? What makes them so interesting/powerful/meaningful to you?

So then, for a very short list of only a few of the best names I've encountered:

If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor

This is absolutely the most amazing name ever conceivable for a book. (Okay, maybe that’s a bit hyperbolic, but still…) Really, though: this is the very very most amazingest book title I’ve ever come across. I read the book once some years back, and remember feeling that the book itself didn't quite live up to how wonderful the title is. That said, though, I'd like to give the book another shot in the near future and see if my feelings on it have changed.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safron Foer
Not only is this one of the greatest book titles I've seen, it's also one of the greatest books I've read. I read it too long ago to be able to write up a fair review for you now (unless I read it again, which is likely), but trust me when I tell you: the book is extremely great and incredibly beautiful.

Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis
This is a great example of a book that I read largely because of the title. Sure, I'd already been a fan of C.S. Lewis before reading Faces. But reading the back cover, this book really didn't appeal to me that much - it truly was the title that sold me on it. What exactly the title means though - and where it appears in the text - makes it even more powerful. What a profound phrasing, which you'll only fully understand once you read the book. (And you definitely should read it.) (Oh, and though it's not a full review, you can read a couple of my thoughts on the book here, if you'd like.)

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver
I haven't even read this book (yet). I just think it's a truly fantastic title, which is practically a story on its own. Really, the implications of this one phrase are mind-bending. (When we talk about love, we're not really talking about love? - cosmic.) In fact, I'm not the only one who's noticed how great of a title this is - it's been blatantly repurposed at least twice so far that I know of: once by Haruki Murakami for his book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, and then later by Rob Bell for his book What We Talk About When We Talk About God.

If You Feel Too Much by Jamie Tworkowski
First of all, if you're not familiar with the works of To Write Love On Her Arms, you should get familiar with them, because they're wonderful. Aside from this, If You Feel Too Much is a lovely name that perfectly addresses Tworkowski's audience and exemplifies the overall mood and heart of the book. I might even go so far as to say that, of all the books on this list, it's the most intimately connected to the content of the book itself - which is certainly to Tworkowski's credit.

(I see now that apparently I like book titles that start with "If..." I hadn't noticed before. Interesting...)


Now it's your turn!