"The Candy House" by Jennifer Egan

The Candy House is a sequel of sorts to Egan's massively-successful A Visit From the Goon Squad. It follows the same structure--multi-genre, interwoven narratives--and even returns to characters from the first novel, though only on rereading my review of Goon did I realize just how many characters and stories reappear. I found this book to be far more forgettable than Goon, perhaps because the interlocking narrative is so common now (eg the recent Cloud Cuckoo Land). At far too many points did the book seem an exercise in connecting the disparate narratives, but I found it far too hard to keep the various characters straight in my head and eventually gave up. 

Even more disappointing, the novel centers around a social media invention called "Own Your Unconscious," where users upload all their memories and share them online. Weirdly, there's no questioning of the product itself. In the book memories are apparently akin to video recordings, rather than a product of individual experience and bias; two people witnessing the same event would have different memories, particularly if those memories were recalled years later, but the book accepts without question that the memory uploads reflect accurate recall. But this is ultimately a minor quibble because the sci-fi element is mostly ignored to explore general relationship issues. In fact, I'd argue Own Your Unconscious could have been dropped entirely without changing the book, so why include it at all? It feels like a red herring.

The individual stories are largely well-written, and Egan is good at capturing a variety of voices, even if (again) some--like the autistic counter--have been overdone at this point. A more patient reader, willing to connect the dots between stories and between this book and Goon, might have more fun.

"The Other Black Girl," "The Chosen and the Beautiful," "No One Is Talking About This," and "Remote Control"

I'm horribly behind in reviews. I suppose with school starting and feeling anxious about sort of everything, I haven't been able to muster the intellectual gumption necessary to write even a bland review. It's a shame because I've read a couple good ones recently! My last four books:

• The Other Black Girl by Zakiya Dalila Harris
• The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo
• No One Is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood
• Remote Control by Nnedi Okorafor

First, the less-than-thrilling:

The Chosen and the Beautiful was my second foray into Gatsby fanfic. It was far superior to Nick, mostly because it openly acknowledges The Great Gatsby as its source material, but it also didn't amount to much. Sure, it was neat to have Jordan as the narrator, and I liked the idea of complicating her identity by making her a bisexual Vietnamese adoptee, but in the end Vo's revisionist take didn't seem to have anything new to say. And the demon blood and magic felt like unnecessary distractions.

Nnedi's Remote Control had some promise, but its brevity--at somewhere around 150 pages, short even for a regular novel--really felt a deficit in a science-fiction book. There was too much unanswered and undeveloped in the world building and character building.

The quite good:

The Other Black Girl takes on the traditional mystery genre, but wraps it up in some sharp commentary about race. It follows Nella, the only Black employee at Wagner book publishing. When Hazel, another Black woman, is hired, Nella is excited to have a comrade in her wearying attempts to challenge entrenched racism and microaggressions at the publisher. However, soon after she gets a threatening note to "Leave Wagner"... and everything spirals from there. The novel captures the paranoia of a good thriller, enhanced by Nella's feelings of isolation from her white co-workers. Her struggle to be heard and believed is not just a convention of the genre but a reflection of the challenge of Black employees in white-dominated spaces. I've read complaints about the sci-fi twist at the end, but I found it fitting within the larger commentary.

Most recently I read Patricia Lockwood's No One is Talking About This. Apparently Lockwood is somewhat famous as a poet/social media presence, but I'd never heard of her, which let me go into the book a clean slate. The first half of the book follows the thoughts of a social media influencer, made famous for the absurdist Tweet "can a dog be twins?" She's ambivalent about her attachment to "the portal," as she calls it, aware of its pull and the ephemeral nature of internet fame. Even though my social media presence is light--I scroll Facebook more than I should but almost never post--I was constantly chuckling at moments of recognition, at how astutely Lockwood understands the absurdity of our attachment. Half way through, the narrator is confronted by a family tragedy, and the real world invades her focus on the internet. It could easily have been an "internet-crazed young person learns the importance of family" kind of novel, but Lockwood avoids such easy answers. The narrator is moved by the physicality of her experience, but the internet also remains a place of solace. The book is sharp and definitely has me wanting to read more from Lockwood.

"Parable of the Talents" by Octavia Butler

I was ambivalent about Parable of the Sower, though I found it compelling despite myself. In many ways, Parable of the Talents is a better book, despite some the rush at the end. While both Sower and Talents are comprised of Olamina's journal entries, the entries in Talents are interspersed with reflections from Olamina's adult daughter, Larkin, who was born in the Earthseed community Olamina founds at the end of Sower. Larkin's perspective gives some needed balance to Olamina's single-minded devotion to Earthseed. Larkin rightly calls her mother a cult leader and is aware of the collateral damage of her mother's cause. Larkin's perspective doesn't make Olamina a villain--and she certainly shouldn't be viewed as such--but she does raise needed questions. Olamina's choice to build a self-sustaining community based on respect and loyalty is inherently good, but she insists on that community existing to promote her religion of Earthseed. It's that leap that's hard to swallow, even for people (and readers) sympathetic to her cause. Plenty of religions embrace change--the Christian "Serenity Prayer" comes to mind--but Olamina adds to her religion a goal of achieving the "Destiny": humankind's future belongs (literally) in the stars through space travel and human population of other planets.

There's an argument to be made (though it's not made convincingly in the novel) for such travel, but framing a religion around that travel seems doomed. Heaven, as a concept, works because it can't be proven/disproven and can't be achieved while alive. It's never-ending. Space travel, on the other hand, is finite and fallible. Olamina believes in the Destiny because she believes humankind needs a grand purpose--if not eternity in heaven, then a genealogical eternity on other planets. But what happens when they reach and populate another planet? Does Earthseed end? We don't find out, though Parable (improbably, given the apocalypse in Sower) ends with the first humans heading out to the stars.

But I'm quibbling with points that aren't particularly important to the novel. Instead, the bulk of the novel follows Olamina as Acorn, her Earthseed community, is founded and then later destroyed and turned into a Christian Reeducation Camp. The camp is run by fanatical followers of President Jarrett (who really does have the slogan "Make American Great Again"). The camp guards steal Larkin, kill Olamina's husband Bankole, and enslave the remaining community members. Olamina's time in the camp, filled with brutal violence and rape, is the hardest to read. The violence is important to establish the regime they're living under, though the didactic criticisms of fundamental Christianity are tedious, even if wholly deserved.

Given the detail given to Acorn's founding and later destruction, the ending of the novel rushes by, with Olamina almost immediately finding success and financial support for Earthseed. Again, given the apocalypse in Sower, it's hard to believe so many people are well-off and eager to support a single-woman cause. If nothing else, it speaks to the strength of Olamina's character, something that was clearly established in Sower. She's a young Black woman, but no one doubts her leadership or competence. There's enough strength of will to almost make the reader want to believe in Earthseed.

I've mentioned two of the novel's perspectives--Olamina and Larkin. The third comes from Marc, Olamina's younger brother who was sold as a sex slave. After being freed by Olamina, he becomes a preacher in the Christian church that enslaved Olamina, and he chooses to hide Larkin's existence from Olamina for years. Marc should be a villain, but he never quite goes there, a testament to Butler's writing. Like Olamina, he finds certainty and solace in a belief system that provides him with purpose.

Talents probably should have been two books (perhaps would be two books today), but it's no less forgettable than Sower and definitely more thoughtful.

Miscellany:

• In my review of Sower, I noted my confusion with Olamina's hyper-empathy syndrome, which seemed unimportant to the novel and inconsistent. It's even less important in Talents, and no additional information is provided, so I'm fully flummoxed by its use in the books.

"Ready Player Two" by Ernest Cline

It's embarrassing to admit now, but I loved Ready Player One. I even ranked it my favorite book of 2011! I acknowledged some of its weaknesses in my review, but overall I found it entertaining. In the following years, after reading some thoughtful critiques, I came to have a more balanced perspective toward the novel, particularly Wade's egotistic behavior (especially towards his crush) and the novel's narrow, white-centric view of culture. Still, I wanted to read Ready Player Two. I'd read some of the harsh critiques of Cline's sequel before picking up the book, so I felt prepared going in.

Ultimately, all the critiques are appropriate and justified. RP2 is not a great book. And I'm still embarrassed to say I enjoyed it anyway. 

In my review for RP1, I argued that one of the reasons I liked the book was because it was fun, a contrast to the Deep and Meaningful literature I'd like to think I typically read. That's undoubtedly true of RP2 as well. I wanted a silly romp with dumb characters and expected endings. And I got it!

So what to say about RP2? RP1 ends with its hero--Parzival/Wade-- winning Halliday's contest and gaining control of the OASIS, the virtual-reality world most of the world spends their days in. RP2 begins shortly after, but Cline thoughtfully realized that his book-one underdog hero is not nearly as fun when he's the richest and most powerful man on the planet. Wade was a whiner in book one, but at least he was a poor whiner. Now he's just an entitled brat who spies on his friends and uses his unlimited power to destroy people who oppose him. To address that, Cline almost immediately hits "reset." Rather than explore his hero's newfound power and the complicated issues around what it means to be human in a digital space, Cline has crafted a plot almost identical to RP1: there's a new puzzle challenge with a new series of obstacles that Wade and his band of friends must solve by relying on their encyclopedic knowledge of '80s culture! And this time, Wade will literally be saving the world!

Now, this challenge should be nonsense. Did I say that Wade is the richest and most powerful man on the planet? That he has a giant corporate team at his beck and call? That it makes no sense whatsoever that he and his three friends would essentially go it alone to solve a puzzle necessary to save the lives of half a billion people? But, of course, reading about a CEO navigating personnel is boring. It's more fun if Wade and his merry band have to use their pluck, courage, and friendship to save the world.

Like in RP1, Wade, Shoto, Aech, and Art3mis must pass through '80s nostalgia to solve the puzzle. And, like before, this premise is easier to accept if you hand wave... a lot. Because the reader now knows Aech is a Black woman (she concealed her identity, playing as a white male avatar in RP1), she can occasionally pipe in on the fact that all of this nostalgia is white (and every other normative). But beyond Aech's comments, RP1 rarely acknowledges any culture beyond the white suburban "mainstream." Instead, RP1 and RP2 exist in a world where everyone has dedicated their lives to '80s pop culture. Which, again, makes no sense, even if you accept the insane popularity of Halliday. Sure, plenty of people are John Hughes fans (I guess? Are there still huge John Hughes fans?). But enough to painstakingly recreate every detail of his movies into a virtual world?

In fact, the whole RP1/2 universe suggests that everyone devotes their lives and days to recreating nostalgia from the past. I can understand why the OASIS is insanely popular. But why wouldn't people create new worlds? New adventure? New game forms? Why, instead, make intricate versions of Middle-earth or Prince-worship planets? Aren't there new forms of entertainment? Why do people spend their days completing insanely difficult quests in these worlds? Plenty of people don't do that in video games today!

But I'm getting sidetracked. Wade's quest is made all the more challenging because Art3mis/Samantha, the "love of his life" from book one, broke up with him a week after the first book's end. She's worried about the OASIS' stranglehold on people's lives. Wade's super mopey about this. But, don't worry, in comes Quest to Save Humanity and, uh, their relationship is fixed? I've written about a lot of nonsense, but Wade and Sam's relationship takes the cake. She's furious at him and has legitimate concerns about the power of the OASIS and their new neural hardware (the ONI), but once the quest starts, she appears to forgive him immediately. At the end of the book, they're back together, despite nothing changing. In my review of RP1, I noted that "the problematic nature of most of the world spending all their time online is only slightly addressed." In RP2, the problematic nature is addressed via Sam's concerns. And then completely dropped. 

I'm not even going to go into the bizarre "let's live forever" ending. 

Still, though I've wasted far too much of my and my imaginary audience's time complaining, I liked it. I know! I read it quickly. It was stupid and fun and the jokes were bad and the relationships terrible and the world underdeveloped and real issues unaddressed and still whatever. I liked it.

Side notes:

• Is Cline planning a book about L0hengrin, the woman who comes to Wade's assistance twice in the book? She's set up as an important character only to disappear and then deus ex machina the end. She has an entire side quest we hear nothing about! Is there a companion novel?
• Cline implies that everyone is pansexual now because the ONI allows people to experience sex in various forms and with different partners. It could be a cool idea... if actually explored.

"Parable of the Sower" by Octavia Butler

While I read Parable of the Sower, I was teaching Cormac McCarthy's The Road to my junior students. Of course, both share many similarities: the post-apocalyptic setting; a lack of resources; humanity turning on each other; and, of course, the long road journey in hopes of something better. Despite the grotesque horrors Butler depicts, though, Sower is much more hopeful than The Road. In Butler's world, Lauren's small group of survivors band together, sharing resources. They welcome worn strangers, who in turn defend them, rather than steal or attack. The group buys into and supports Lauren's new religion--Earthseed. Perhaps Butler is more optimistic than McCarthy or perhaps their books simply exist at different points on the apocalyptic spectrum. At the end of the novel, Lauren and her lover, Bankole, discuss whether there's any hope for their community. Lauren thinks there is, but Bankole wonders if society simply hasn't hit rock bottom yet. After all, money is still worth something. Were food as scarce as it is in The Road, perhaps there would be no community to form. 

Thus The Road exists at apocalyptic rock-bottom while Sower exists in apocalypse-in-the-making. In The Road, humanity is doomed, but individual human lives may have meaning. In Sower, there's still potential for humanity to be resurrected, particularly if Lauren realizes her dream of creating and reaching "Heaven": a settlement in space.  

That serves as good a transition as any into Lauren and Earthseed. Like many apocalyptic protagonists, Lauren is young--15 when the book starts and 18 by the book's end. Unlike other novels, though, Butler doesn't try too hard to make Lauren a realistic teenager. She's preternaturally wise and composed, acting as the de facto leader of her group from the beginning. Before the fires that ravage the community in which her family lives, she's the only one to see the real danger. She never panics or despairs; never doubts or lashes out. When she meets the much older Bankole, she recognizes their attraction, and they calmly and assuredly begin a physical and emotional relationship. Her distance from recognizable teenagers would normally be a criticism, but it somehow works for Butler's purpose. We accept that Lauren is not a real teenager--she's the mouthpiece for Earthseed.

Earthseed is Lauren's self-created religion, dedicated to embracing Change as God. The central tenets of Earthseed frame each journal entry (chapter) of the book. Lauren insists on her religion's importance, and the other characters buy into it, but I couldn't wrap my head around it. I understand the importance of accepting the inevitability of change (and also our ability to shape change), but as a religion? Or how that abstract idea ties into building an actual colony in space?

It didn't move me the way it did Lauren, but ultimately, I was moved by Lauren herself--despite not seeming like a real teenager, despite a bizarre disease (see below), and despite her desire to be a cult leader. In fact, the book flourishes once Lauren leaves her community and family and sets out to achieve her goal. She's a compelling and powerful leader, and she's a young Black woman in a world where racism is very much alive. We need to read more of those in literature, and recognize more of those who exist in the real world.

Miscellany:

• Lauren suffers from hyper-empathy syndrome, caused by drugs her mother abused while pregnant. We're told that this is not a magical ability or superpower but rather a mental delusion, albeit a delusion that is apparently untreatable (there's no references or attempts to manage or mitigate its impact on her life). This doesn't quite make sense. A hyper-empath must be aware of an injury to share pain (which makes sense if it's a mental illness), but if that's the case, wouldn't distraction or mindfulness exercises be a straightforward way of "treating" the delusion? Towards the end of the book, Lauren experiences, in rapid succession, the shootings and deaths of multiple people (i.e. she feels their pain of being shot, which only dissipates once they're dead) during a fight. However, given the chaos of the moment, how is it possible she's aware of who's been shot and exactly when they're dying, even subconsciously? We also learn the syndrome is inheritable, which makes no sense if it's a reaction to invitro drug abuse. Ultimately the syndrome has only fleeting and minor impact on the novel, so its presence is a little unclear. In most dystopian works an unusual "disability" would be what makes the protagonist the chosen one, but that's not the case in Sower. We learn at the end of the book that a number of other people suffer from the disease and that others exploit it, so perhaps it has greater impact in the second book. And perhaps we'll learn it's not a psychological delusion after all.
• I've been torn recently over depictions of horrific violence, particularly rape and child abuse, in literature. Perhaps it's because I also began Homegoing, about the African slave trade, at the same time as I was reading Sower. On the one hand, I don't think literature needs to or should be "nice" or easy to read. Horrors exist in real life, and those horrors will be reflected on the written page. At the same time, such depictions can, at times, serve as lazy shorthand for "look how bad the situation is!", thus becoming gratuitous rather than essential to the book's meaning. I think to The Road, which has horrors in spades that mostly go unsaid and undescribed, without sacrificing any of the setting. I think Sower could have done at least some situations similarly.  

"Slaughterhouse-Five," a graphic novel adaptation, by Kurt Vonnegut with Ryan North and Albert Monteys

I taught Slaughterhouse-Five for several years, and it remains a favorite novel. There's the dark humor, Vonnegut's deceptively simple prose style, the uncertain chronology, the war between cynicism and hopefulness. I often quote Vonnegut's admonition, at the end, to appreciate the nice moments (it's a sentiment he repeated in various mediums, though I always think of SH5). I couldn't resist trying the new graphic novel adaptation (it does have a pretty cool cover), even though I've been resistant to the genre as a whole. After all, Vonnegut's book is full of vivid images, from the fantastic Tralfamarodians to Edgar Derby's "climactic" execution for stealing a teapot.

I enjoyed seeing how North and Monteys brought some of the key elements of the novel to life. Shown in adjacent panels, the parallels between Billy's present and his "time traveling" flash backs to the war are made even clearer. Some of the more stunning images--the arrival in beautiful Dresden and its subsequent bombing--are made even more impactful through full-page spreads. Despite those and other arresting images, however, the book very much feels like a lesser adaptation. Something that might be fun as a parallel text in a classroom but which offers little as a standalone. 

Part of that is that a graphic novel must rely heavily on dialogue, which is the least interesting part of Slaghterhouse-Five, whose strength instead is in the deadpan narration. The oft-repeated "so it goes" is present in the adaptation, but it feels more forgotten, rather than the essential refrain it becomes in the novel. North and Monteys also explicitly take on the role of creators, so the first-person Vonnegut-as-narrator who frames the first and last chapters of the novel becomes a third person character too. That diminishes the way the novel challenges understandings of fiction and nonfiction.

The illustrations are fantastic, even if maybe it's better if the Tralfamarodians remain imagined. North and Monteys have worked hard to capture the spirit of the novel, even if it's not fully possible in this form. So I'm glad to have read it, even if it can't live up to the original.

"Little Eyes" by Samanta Schweblin

Most people of my generation remember Furbies, though I never had one and honestly can't remember having friends who did. Little Eyes plays off the basic premise of Furbies with an essential twist: what if a real human was controlling the Furby--or, in the novel's case, a kentucki? What if one could pay to own a kentucki or could pay to be the one controlling the kentucki? The reader is immediately made to ask the question--which would you choose?

At first, it seems like it would be far better to be a controller operating the kentucki, as they can act anonymously and without real-world consequences. After all, a keeper (one who owns the kentucki) opens him/herself open to all sorts of invasions of privacy as well as safety risks. Who would want some unknown person watching them anonymously any hour of the day?

Though there are obvious risks associated with being a keeper, they're also fairly ordinary risks (theft, burglary, pornographic material), and Schweblin mostly avoids focusing on them. Instead, her primary target seems to be what happens when we reduce one human being to another human being's pet.

Keepers continue to act as ordinary humans, reacting with their new "pet" as much or as little as they want. Controllers are at their keepers' mercy for physical and human access while operating the kentucki. Keepers can speak and interact with the world, whereas kentuckis are given only indiscriminate animal squeaks and motorized wheels. Kentuckis can be physically and emotionally abused with little recourse beyond squeaking angrily and ramming against objects.

By their very nature, kentuckis encourage the dehumanization of another, and Schweblin depicts the insidious results, even among relationships that at first appear benign. There's elderly Emilia, enamored and protective of her younger keeper, Eva. There's Alina, bored while on residence with her artist boyfriend, who at first appears friendly to her mole kentucki. Or the father who initially rejects the kentucki bought by his ex-wife for their son but eventually warms to the "friendship."

The book is organized not as a single narrative, but rather a collection of short stories, with some individual stories broken up into "chapters" throughout the book. Schweblin, an Argentine writer, situates her keepers and controllers throughout the world, for a variety of perspectives.

Ultimately the novel was far more harrowing than I expected (particularly the conclusion to Alina's story) but also fascinating.

"The Power" by Naomi Alderman

Naomi Alderman’s The Power came at just the right moment. As #metoo is heard everywhere, Alderman’s novel posits a world where women’s physical strength suddenly surpasses--greatly surpasses--that of men. Her novel explores what would happen to our understanding of men and women if women could physically dominate.

The crux is, of course, whether men and women are biologically different, or if any difference stems from men’s greater physical strength and sexist socialization. Alderman’s answer appears to be simple: if women had the physical advantage, women would become “men,” and men would become “women.” It’s the simplicity of her response that both bothers me and is somewhat intriguing. In her speculation, absolute power does corrupt absolutely, and once women are given that opportunity, they dominate and destroy men as savagely as the worst male oppressors and tyrants.

Now, presumably there are some women who wouldn’t act this way (just as there are many men in history and modern times who treat women with respect). And in fact, the female protagonists of the story aren’t real villains. But, as the novel doesn’t follow any “ordinary” women who gain power, we don’t see typical married couples, for example, trying to navigate a relationship anew once one person’s position has changed.

Instead, the novel follows only the people with the most outsized influence on the changing world. There’s Allie, who becomes the spiritual cult leader Mother Eve; Roxy, a gangster’s daughter who takes on the family business; Margot, a politician with increasing aspirations; and Tunde, a journalist covering the uprisings in less developed areas of the world and the only male narrator.

The the three female narrators have largely negative relationships with men, so it’s not surprising when they use their power to take control from men. But, again, I wanted to also learn what would happen to women who had power but had had largely positive relationships with men.

Allie, who of anyone has the most influence on the changing world, felt undeveloped as a character. She’d had a rough upbringing, but becoming a cult leader overnight? Roxy made the most sense in terms of her character arc, and her end-of-the-novel connection with Tunde worked more for me than I would have thought.

One of the most interesting elements of the novel was Alderman’s take on physical strength and its connection to sex. Women’s newfound power almost immediately takes a role in sexual relationships, both as a tool for pleasure and torture. The graphic scenes of women raping men were grotesque and difficult to read.

The book was surprisingly violent and gory, perhaps done so to emphasize that any depiction of women as docile, sweet, or passive is socially structured rather than innate.

Ultimately The Power wasn’t quite what I was hoping to read, but in defying my expectations, it perhaps gave me more to think about.

"Dark Matter" by Blake Crouch

After finishing The Woman in Cabin 10, it's a little interesting that I went next to another immensely readable (but ultimately somewhat forgettable) novel. With Dark Matter, I took a sci-fi turn, devouring the modern-day Sliders (with a slight twist) in a single day.

What ultimately, for me, places Dark Matter into pleasurable "fluff" sci-fi rather than what I consider compelling science-fiction is that it treads little new ground in its technology, view of the world, or analysis of human behavior. The novel centers around Jason Dessen, a brilliant scientist who gave up the academic pursuit for a stable home life with his wife Daniela and teenage son. On the way home one night, he's kidnapped by a masked man and transported to a parallel universe--one in which he gave up the family life to pursue an academic career. He's determined to return to his home universe, particularly once he realizes the parallel universe's Jason (whom he calls Jason2) has taken up the original Jason's place with his family.

The first part of the novel follows the familiar "disoriented protagonist" line as Jason attempts to figure out where he is and what's going on--and then escape the clutches of Jason2's lab. I was a little surprised how easily Jason2's lab becomes textbook villainous, even murdering several people in an attempt to capture Jason. I mean, I get that they've invested a lot of time and energy into their parallel universe machine and are desperate to preserve their work (and get information from the new Jason), but casually arranging outsiders' murders? It also immediately implies Jason2 is straightforwardly evil, erasing any chance of nuance with his character.

Once Jason escapes and re-enters the machine, we kick into the Sliders zone as he attempts to find his home world. We're told that the parallel universes he visits are close off-shoots of his own world, yet he manages to visit the most extreme scenarios: an infectious disease apocalypse; a weather apocalypse; a lot of apocalyptic scenarios. I mean, how likely is a zombie-esque apocalypse in any of our futures? The fact that he seems to mostly explore these highly treacherous parallel universes rather than a universe where he chose tan curtains over brown is partially explained by the fact that his mental state (highly agitated, obviously) is supposedly "choosing" worst-fear scenarios, but I still don't totally buy it.

Though the rest is plenty fun, it's only once Jason reaches his home world that the book takes its most interesting turn. All of Jason's time in the parallel universe box has resulted in many parallel Jasons, meaning that he's not the only "Jason" from his home world to return home. Instead, dozens of Jasons, identical to the narrator Jason except for differing Slider experiences, all reach the home world, and they're all seeking to depose Jason2 and retake their place with Daniela and Charlie. So which one "deserves" the family life? Finally, an intriguing question (albeit one that's somewhat glossed over at the end).

[an aside: Jason2 also traveled inside the box seeking the parallel universe he eventually kidnapped Jason from. Wouldn't his travels also have resulted in dozens of Jason2s being created? So shouldn't there be tons of Jasons and tons of Jasons2 all fighting it out?]

Ultimately, Dark Matter is fun but not exceptional, good for someone seeking a fairly fast-paced and action-filled--but not especially complicated--sci-fi adventure.

"Company Town" by Madeline Ashby

Company Town is the kind of novel I should like--a sci-fi dystopian, an independent female protagonist.

The novel follows Hwa, who lives on rigs (of some sort--truthfully the setting itself was confusing for me) now owned by the Lynch corporation. She's a body guard for the legalized and unionized prostitutes who work there. When Lynch officially moves in, she's hired as bodyguard/trainer for Lynch's son and heir, Joel. But then many of her old prostitute friends are dying, and someone's after Joel, and also she's feeling all squishy for Daniel, her boss at Lynch.

As may already be apparent, somehow the novel never came together for me. First, there's Hwa herself, who had too many past traumas for any of them to feel real. She has a large (port-wine-type?) stain over her body, and thus is "ugly" in a society where most people are medically augmented. Her mother, a famous singer/prostitute, hates her and didn't want to have her. Her idolized older brother died in a rig accident several years back. Oh, and she also has a weird seizure disorder! But all of these traumas weave in and out without a clear trajectory or purpose, and I couldn't even really see what her mother, brother, and seizures had to do with the book.

Then there's the love interest, Daniel, whom I was supposed to swoon for but instead hated on the spot. Because he is: the most perfect man alive. The most caring, most thoughtful, most in-tune, most whatever idealized romantic figure you can imagine. Never angry, mean, or selfish. Totally in love with Hwa. But why? I couldn't understand how their relationship developed--he was just suddenly completely committed. Also, he has some weird backstory--he only has 10 years of memory because Lynch sort of "recreated" him after some accident (?). But apparently that doesn't really matter because we never learn about his past.

And let's not forget the serial murders of Hwa's prostitute friends, described in graphic, grisly detail. Apparently they couldn't just be killed--they had to be butchered in Saw 16 fashion. For no reason! I mean, at the end we're given a reason why they were killed, but no reason why it needed to be so grotesque.

Truthfully, I felt like I was in a fog most of the novel, always feeling like I was missing some key point/characterization. But even once everything was "revealed" in the end, and I had no further plot-comprehension questions, I still felt lost.

In the end, it's probably the characterization that most did Company Town in for me. An over-loaded hodgepodge protagonist and  Ken-doll love interest just aren't my thing.

"Underground Airlines" by Ben H. Winters

Occasionally I read a book that terrifies me. And often that terror doesn’t come from a real (for me) place. I suppose I don’t read books about suburban moms or English teachers much. Instead, the terror comes from books that speak to my greatest fear: a lack of control, an inability to have agency in my life. So that’s perhaps why, despite my incredibly privileged upbringing as a white, middle-class woman, I find books about slavery scarier than most horror movies.

I found Ben H. Winter’s Underground Airlines absolutely terrifying and thought provoking; Winters has combined a tension-filled “adventure” story with sardonic commentary on race relations in America. Underground Airlines exists in an alternative history of the U.S., one in which slavery was not eradicated but rather continues in the “Hard Four”: the Southern states of Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, and the Carolinas (combined as one state). The main character, “Victor” (we don’t learn his real name), is an escaped slave turned fugitive-slave hunter. He does his job with brutal efficiency, avoiding thinking about the number of fellow slaves (209, he repeats quietly, as a self-reproaching aside) he has returned to slavery, all in the name of keeping himself free. The novel follows Victor on the trail of Jackdaw, as escaped slave with an odd file, and whose case goes deeper than originally appears.

The novel straddles the worlds of thriller and social commentary so that, even though both elements are well-done, you’re often wanting more. In fact, I think I could have read an entire book purely on speculation of what our country would look like today without the abolition of slavery. There are hints to our position within the world stage (a country sanctioned for human rights violations) or the way in which our economy would suffer and thrive from continued slave labor. More significantly, Winters explores how our American psyche would have to adjust to continue to allow such an atrocity into the modern era. The answer is widespread, tacit hypocrisy: I disapprove of slavery, so I’ll ignore it and pretend I’m not quietly benefiting from it. All characters, from Victor to the abolitionist priest Father Barton, get such psychological scrutiny, suggesting that while slavery is evil, people are ambiguous. And in that ambiguity, people are able to justify most any action.

There are some parts that feel somewhat underserved, particularly the convenient character of Martha. She’s described as a hot mess at the beginning of the novel, but she then becomes incredibly assertive and put-together, capable of pulling off a high-stakes heist of sorts with Ocean’s Eleven-level efficiency. Her relationship with Victor also felt too broad even though they ultimately put complete trust in each other.

But the flaws are relatively minor and don’t detract from the book’s effectiveness. It’s the kind of book that calls out for discussion for its reflection on our past and observations about our present.

"The Martian" by Andy Weir

Obviously this book exploded this year with the release of the Matt Damon movie (which I haven't seen). After hearing NPR gush about it for ages, I got around to reading the novel on the Kindle. It was an enjoyable read, but one I think you need to be clear about going in.

What it is:

The Martian is a fun puzzle-solving adventure. It's almost like a detailed, scientific video game being played before you. Watney is an astronaut stranded on Mars. He has no food! How will he grow some? He needs more water! How will he make it? Though the science went over my head a number of times (I wasn't going to take the time to reread carefully to try to "get" it all), you can skim those parts and still enjoy the story. You root for Watney and for the power of ingenuity and human determination. As is obvious, he's safely rescued from Mars in the end (as you always knew he would be), but it's a triumphant moment anyway.

What it isn't:

Finely crafted prose. This annoyed me the most in the beginning. Weir has a talent with science, but not with the English language. The sentences are clear, straightforward, and utilitarian. There's no beauty in syntax, no arresting imagery. It's appropriate given that the reader is supposedly reading astronaut Watney's logs (and Watney is nothing if not clear, straightforward, and utilitarian), but the English teacher in me wanted a little more craft.

Similarly, there's no philosophical approach to Watney's experiences on Mars. A friend of mine mentioned she wanted to read The Martian, saying she imagined it to be like Life of Pi. I could do nothing but laugh. While Life of Pi is a philosophical meditation on faith and relationships, The Martian is textbook problem solving. Sure, Watney is stranded on Mars, likely to die of starvation (or any of a million other things), but he almost never thinks about it in the grand sense. He doesn't wonder about the meaning of life, about his relationships, about his purpose. He does math problems to figure out how to create fuel. For example, he spends a huge portion of his time growing potatoes, only to have most of his crop die when his living area explodes. He barely seems upset. Again, from a realistic perspective, such an attitude probably makes sense. A person most likely to survive in that scenario is a person who can dedicate him or herself completely to practicalities; a person who can remain optimistic and focused even when things look their worst. But, from a reader's perspective, you sometimes want a little more thought about our place in the universe.

My last quibble with the book is not directly related to the other two, though it does tie in. Towards the end, NASA is trying to decide how to save Watney. Choice one is to try to send him more food, a plan with a somewhat low chance of success. Plan two is to send his Mars crewmates back to get him (they were enroute back to Earth)--the plan has a higher chance of success, but would endanger the five crewmates' lives too (rather than just Watney's). The unlikable NASA member insists on choice one because it would endanger the fewest lives. He's repeatedly called a coward, and a bunch of employees go behind his back to ensure they do the "brave" "right" choice--choice two. Though the debate is worthwhile, the lack of subtlety bothered me. Is it really cowardly to not want to risk more astronauts' lives? And, furthermore, how do we decide the "value" of one individual's life? NASA and many others go to extraordinary lengths and spend billions to save one man. Watney's a good guy, but we probably could have cured a disease with that kind of money. I'm not saying Watney didn't deserve to be saved, but I wish there had been more insight into the way we place value.

In the end...

A worthwhile read if you're realistic about what you're getting. And I'd like to check out the movie!

"The Infinite Sea" by Rick Yancey

Though I rarely read YA anymore, I'd enjoyed Yancey's The 5th Wave, a violent alien-invasion dystopian. Like all genre YA these days, The 5th Wave was only the first in a series, so I felt obliged to try The Infinite Sea.

When we finish The 5th Wave, Cassie has rescued her younger brother Sam, who was being trained by the alien invaders (disguised in human bodies) to kill other humans. She was able to execute the rescue only with the help of dreamy Evan Walker, one of the aforementioned alien-invader-in-human-body types who, of course, fell in love with Cassie. When The Infinite Sea begins, Cassie is holed up in a dilapidated motel with Sam and his fellow soldiers: Ben (aka Zombie, aka Cassie's high school crush), Ringer, Dumbo, Teacup, and Poundcake. Cassie's waiting for Evan, and since they're all recent escapees, everyone's pretty tense.

My problems with The Infinite Sea began pretty early. To start, there's not much going on. After a daring escape, they're sitting around, waiting and arguing. And Cassie, who narrates the first section, is just a boring narrator this time around. She's still a bit conflicted about Evan, but all this ground was covered in the last book. Evan's narration (which is thankfully short) is equally annoying. His Edward Cullen attachment to Cassie comes off creepy, not romantic.

The story gets better when Ringer picks up the narration, and fortunately her section is the longest of the novel. There's new characterization to be had here, and she has a little more to do.

Nevertheless, Ringer's narration doesn't make up for a lot of the novel's issues. For one, the outlandish injuries just keep piling on and on. Nearly all the characters are mortally wounded--in multiple places--at some point, yet they all heroically trudge and fight on. One minor character's mortally wounded stand is so absurd that it comes off as comical rather than brave. The hyper-violence even started to bother me; it's gratuitous and occurs toward children as young as six.

Yancey also tries to address some of the criticisms of the first novel, namely the question of why the aliens would bother with a complicated multi-step extermination scheme of humankind when there's easy ways to wipe the whole population out at once. Over and over the characters wonder about this issue (it's as if Yancey's saying, "SEE--I meant for it to make no sense! It was all part of the plot plan!"), but an answer's never given (saved for the third book, I'm sure). The twist "reveal" that does occur at the end of the novel is pretty unexciting.

I was bored through the first half, and though the second half improved, I'm not sure I'm too eager to finish the series.

"The Girl With All the Gifts" by M.R. Carey

I've been hesitant to describe Gifts as a zombie novel because I think that term can turn certain readers off. And, of course, on a basic level, Gifts is a zombie novel. It takes place in a post-apocalyptic near future where "hungries" have destroyed much of the human population. A small enclave of non-infected live on a base, doing research on a group of children with a strange abnormality: they're infected but not mindless killers. Sure, they'll eat and destroy you if they get a whiff of your natural smell and aren't restrained, but otherwise they're normal children. Besides that, like other zombie novels, Gifts includes plenty of violence and gore.

But where Gifts diverges is in its protagonist, 10-year-old Melanie, who's one of the base's research subjects. What makes the novel so chilling at first is that Melanie has no idea she's a hungry and has known no life where she's not restrained with guns at her during all human contact. The highlight of her life is Miss Justineau, one of the teachers assigned to the children. Because Miss Justineau is the only adult to show the children warmth and kindness, Melanie idolizes and adores her.

Other novels have certainly used sympathetic zombies as their protagonists, but Melanie's age and innocence make her feel somewhat different. I noted in recent reviews that, for some reason, I keep reading books about child abuse (a cruel trick of the universe as I glance over at my sweet 8-week-old daughter, asleep beside me). Reading about the cruelty inflicted on Melanie was almost impossibly hard, but Carey does work to show the perspective of others whose world has been destroyed.

To do so, though Melanie is the focus of most of the novel, Carey also switches perspectives to Miss Justineau, Sergeant Parks (in charge of security at the base), and Dr. Caldwell (the lead researcher). The changes in viewpoints keep Parks and Caldwell from being utter villains, though their redemption (well, maybe partial redemption in Caldwell's case) comes slowly.

The pace is fast with cliffhangers ending most of the relatively short chapters. The mystery around the truth of who Melanie is soon gives way to an on-the-run adventure. Enough of the zombie world building is different to keep things fresh.

If I have any quibble, it's that Melanie is extremely intelligent and mature for her age (though that's acknowledged in the book), and she's perhaps too perfect. However, the adults are much more messy, and the whole novel is so engrossing, that I didn't really mind.

"Black Moon" by Kenneth Calhoun

Gotta love a disaster dystopian, and even if Black Moon doesn't cover especially new ground, it's still an engaging "what if" look into human nature and the structure of society.

In Calhoun's dystopia, humanity has suddenly become unable to sleep. People still live, but without the rest and restoration that sleep provides, they devolve into violent and incoherent beings consumed by hallucinations. Yet, not unexpectedly, there are a few individuals who, for reasons never explored, still possess the capacity to sleep. Their lives are in equal danger, as the sight of any sleeper quickly turns a non-sleeper murderous.

Through this world the reader follows several individuals: Biggs, a sleeper who's looking to finding his afflicted wife; Chase, a young man desperate to get back his girlfriend; Felicia, a researcher at a sleep institute and Chase's ex-girlfriend; and Lila, a high school student still able to sleep. Though the destruction of the world looms over each of them, Calhoun's novel highlights the ways in which people are unable to let go of personal issues even in the most dire of circumstances. For example, Chase is still obsessed over fixing his sexual impotence, and Biggs is still focused on his struggling marriage

The stories move quickly, and because the reader follows a range of viewpoints, he or she is given a decently broad perspective about what is happening. More time is spent on fallout than the science of the insomnia, which I appreciated--I prefer to just accept that this is the way the world works and then explore the consequences.

I think the ending strikes the right balance between utter despair and false hope, even if it's not as uplifting as we might want.

"MaddAddam" by Magaret Atwood

MaddAddam is the culmination of Atwood's trilogy that began with Oryx and Crake, a book I believe I read on my way to my first job interview nearly 10 years ago. MaddAddam culminates the story by following a small group of survivors living together after Crake wiped out most of humanity in the first novel. This third book picks up characters from the previous two, especially the second book--The Year of the Flood--and it also retraces events from the earlier novels from different perspectives.

Familiarity with the other novels is somewhat a two-edged sword. Though I've read both, I have very little memory of either, particularly the second (I appreciated that both novels were briefly recapped in summaries before the beginning of this book). So when events were retold or characters reappeared, I had a sense I should have been feeling "a-ha" moments of new understanding--instead, it was just a story. On the other hand, I could see where it might be dull to read a new book that is mostly a rehash of what already happened. In fact, most of the novel takes place in flashbacks as Zeb recalls his upbringing with his brother Adam.

In the present day setting of the novel, relatively little happens. Former God's Gardener Toby is living with the other human survivors. With them is Jimmy--Crake's friend from books 1 and 2--as well as the Crakers, simple-minded and pure human-like creations of Crake (also see books 1 and 2). The group is busy building up their compound and keeping themselves safe from things like the Pigoons (vicious pig hybrids) and Painballers (humans who had survived killing matches back in the day). But mostly the book follows the day-to-day, including Toby's burgeoning relationship with Zeb.

One area that particularly bothered me (spoiler alert): The book begins with Toby and others searching for Amanda, who has been captured and raped by the Painballers. They are reunited and discover themselves among the Crakers. The Crakers mate much like animals--they're aware when a female is in heat and they pursue (and are happily accepted by the females) accordingly. So, when the Crakers come upon Amanda and the other women, they (innocently) assume the women are open for procreation and have sex with them. We learn at the end of the novel that Amanda, Ren, and Lotis Blue were impregnated from that evening with the Crakers.

Okay, so these women are raped by the Crakers. Yes, the human-like beings had no malicious intent, but does that change what happened to the women? Yet the fact or implications of such rape are never mentioned. The women seem totally cool with it--yes, Amanda's emotionally troubled, but it's made clear that solely because of what the Painballers did. The women would have been fighting and protesting--something else that seems rather hurried over since everything appears to happen in seconds, and I really don't know how that could work--and (not to be crude) the Crakers have huge penises, yet it's dismissed as a simple misunderstanding. The women seem equally and inexplicably cool with having the children as well. I'm not saying the Crakers should have been punished or anything, but for such events to be glossed over seemed problematic.

Otherwise, I thought the most interesting part of the novel was the Crakers and their growing understanding of the world they've been created in to. The book wasn't nearly as interesting as Oryx and Crake, but it concludes the trilogy appropriately.

"On Such a Full Sea" by Chang-rae Lee

I think reading some reviews of On Such a Full Sea prior to reading the novel itself helped me appreciate the book more. Several reviews talked about the epic, myth-like quality of the story, and understanding it--and protagonist Fan's journey--through that lens avoids pesky and ultimately irrelevant objections of "that's not realistic!" For though the book is fiction, it's certainly not realistic fiction, nor even realistic dystopian fiction (though that would probably be closest to its genre). Instead, it's part futuristic dystopian and part Odyssey, with Fan's journey being best understood as a series of encounters and challenges (cannibals! Sirens!) with obstacles on her path.

And while the central narrative is Fan's (little "o") odyssey to find her boyfriend Reg after he is taken from B-Mor, the regimented colony in which Fan and others live and work to provide fish for the wealthy Charters, unlike in the Odyssey, Fan's journey is only half the story. The other half of the story is that of those left behind in B-Mor, told through an anonymous first person plural narrator. In this way On Such a Full Sea is really a combination of ancient Greek styles: half epic hero's journey and half chorus in a Greek tragedy. And though at times I felt a little frustrated to be brought back to B-Mor (where little happens) when I wanted to keep following Fan (where much was happening), I do think there's something worthwhile in exploring what happens to those left behind in an epic journey. As Fan becomes myth and legend, the residents of B-Mor use her as a catalyst to question their own lives, and what results is fully realistic: some resistance, some acceptance.

Though structurally Fan is our epic hero, she's not a traditional hero (something the choral narrator reminds us of). She's brave, determined, and good, but she's also not entirely purposeful, often reacting to what happens to her rather than initiating. And she's also less fleshed out than you might think such a character would be, her presence often more a symbol than actual person.

So the book is a little different, but I liked it thoroughly, even though it leaves a rather ambiguous ending.

*Minor quibble in a book a quite I enjoyed is that it, like so many others, uses the trope of "woman getting pregnant the first time she has sex." Though obviously such a thing is possible, I have no doubt it's also very rare, so it irks me to no end to be used constantly to artificially create drama. I'm going to start creating a list:
- On Such a Full Sea
- My Real Children
- Life After Life
- The Natural
- A Thousand Splendid Suns
- Water for Elephants
- Twilight series
- Downton Abbey (TV) -- more than once too!
- Glee (TV)
- Juno (movie)

"The Long Earth" by Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter

Like all good sci-fi, The Long Earth begins with a compelling premise. One day, in the near-ish future, a design for a device simple enough for kids to put together appears on the internet. Soon, thousands of people have built the device and immediately "step" into a parallel Earth. In the time that follows, people discover an infinite number of parallel Earths going in two directions from what is now called "Datum Earth." There are oddities of course--most people experience severe nausea from stepping, and though the stepper takes whatever he or she is touching along for the step, no iron can be passed between worlds. Each of the parallel worlds retains the same underlying geography--if you step from New York, you step into the New York of the parallel word--but none of the parallel worlds have people or modern development. Instead, each world appears to represent a "potential" world that our physical world could have evolved into a some point in its history.

What I liked most about this premise was that it allows for a lot of exploration into how such technology would affect our current world. Early on, many people begin to settle the parallel Earths, but it's mostly the middle class--the rich have too much to lose in leaving Datum Earth, and the poor have insufficient resources to make such a trip feasible. It's also noted early on that a small portion of the population is unable to step, creating hostilities. I thought both of these issues were interesting, but unfortunately they make up a small portion of the novel.

I also thought the psychology of why people would leave Datum Earth was interesting. At first, I thought there's no way I'd leave the modern conveniences--not just cell phones and the Internet but toilets and modern medicine--to start over in a new world. But, the more I read, the more I could see the appeal of leaving behind the burdening details and concerns of the modern world (buying insurance, investing in retirement properly, paying taxes, etc.) and focusing just on subsistence and survival. Such an idea certainly excessively romanticizes "pioneer" living, but I could understand the desire for such a life.

But, again, a lot of those issues are pushed aside to focus instead on the story of Joshua, a bit of a hero stepper who can step naturally and without getting sick, and Lobsang, the first artificial intelligence to be recognized as a person by the courts. Lobsang hires Joshua to travel with him millions of Earths beyond Datum Earth. Unfortunately, their story--traveling through world after world--and their relationship--Joshua getting accustomed to Lobsang's quirks--are pretty dull. Neither person is especially exciting as a character, and I found myself more engaged when the story strayed to other people or places.

I still liked the book and will read the sequel. There's enough interesting worldbuilding and lots of potential exciting storylines to bring me back, even though I hope Pratchett and Baxter find a new way to use Joshua and Lobsang in the future.

A side note: My husband went into The Long Earth expecting the humor and absurdity associated with Pratchett. He kept laughing--trying too hard I think--at things that weren't especially funny, and he had a hard time believing me when I said it's not a funny book. It's not--there's some humor, but it's fairly serious sci-fi. That's not a criticism in and of itself, just something to be aware of.

"The 5th Wave" by Rick Yancey

I think I've discovered the formula that is The 5th Wave:

Hunger Games' Katniss + male version of Prim + a Gale who doesn't know Katniss + Twilight's Edward Cullen = new hit YA dystopian

But, though I think The 5th Wave is certainly derivative from the boom in the YA dystopian genre and thus the books that came before it, it's also engaging, action-packed, and a lot of fun.

The book takes place in the time period following the Others' attack on earth. In the 1st Wave, they knocked out all the power (ala the TV show Revolution); in the 2nd Wave, they flooded anywhere near the coast; in the 3rd Wave, they used birds to carry a deadly virus; and in the 4th Wave, they revealed themselves living inside human bodies (ala Stephenie Meyers' The Host, a book which also has significant similarities with the novel). Now, few humans remain, among them Cassie, who's alone and on the run.

Cassie's narration makes up the first hundred pages (nearly a quarter of the novel), and it's through her flashbacks that we learn about the Others' invasion and the first through fourth waves. Cassie's an easy protagonist to root for, and the worldbuilding is interesting without being overwhelming.

After those first hundred pages, the book begins alternating points of view, and also--I thought--got somewhat weaker. It's jarring to go from Cassie to include her high school crush, Ben Parrish; her little brother, Sammy; and mysterious hunk Evan Walker. Their viewpoints give necessary insight into the larger picture, but their views are also more predictable.

The romance (?) between Cassie and Evan was also rough. Edward--um, sorry, I mean Evan--is gorgeous and understanding and perfect and, oh, gorgeous. And he smells like chocolate. But fortunately Cassie isn't Bella, and she maintains a healthy distrust of him and a healthy reaction to his annoyingly perfect persona. Yancey is also smart enough to portray stalking as creepy, not romantic. Nonetheless, their scenes together were always a bit too much for me.

But, like I said earlier, the actions comes quick, and there's tons of violence and gore for those needing the post-Hunger Games fix. Interesting that we've definitely reached a point where kids as young as seven killing other people is normal stuff.

Ultimately, what separated The 5th Wave from Hunger Games is that it's about the fact that humanity will always come together--even when it's most dangerous for us to do so--while Hunger Games continually isolates its protagonist. It's a more hopeful message, maybe, even amongst the carnage.

"Insurgent" by Veronica Roth

Insurgent is the sequel to Divergent, a YA book that, while not making up for the post-Hunger Games lack of compelling YA, did give me some glimpses into what exciting dystopian YA could be. The sequel isn't bad, but it also suffers from some of the same problems as Mockingjay, the third book in the Hunger Games trilogy.

In Insurgent, we follow Dauntless faction member and divergent Tris in her fight against the faction Erudite, which has developed technology for remotely controlling other people. Tris is still with Tobias (aka Four), though each of them are keeping secrets from each other--namely, for Tris, that she killed Will (a friend and fellow Dauntless) while Will was being controlled under a simulation.

As a character, Tris is frustrating in many of the ways that YA protagonists are, though some of her more annoying qualities are, at least, explainable. Namely, she has the tendency to brood incessantly over her guilt and make rash sacrificial decisions. Both make sense in context of her being divergent: both Dauntless and Abnegation. She grew up being taught to value others over herself, so clearly killing Will in self-defense would weigh heavily on her. It also explains her suicide mission to Erudite later in the novel, even though the Erudite part of her should have weighed in enough to show that it was pointless.

Even more frustrating, though, was the descent in character. In my review of Mockingjay, I complained that I felt betrayed by Katniss' change of character in the last book: she loses all agency and spends most of the time locked up and crying. The same is true of Tris. In Divergent, Tris had insecurities and doubts, but she also had confidence in herself and made important decisions. She and Tobias supported one another, each helping the other through his or her fears. However, in Insurgent, the capable part of Tris is largely gone. She relies on Tobias constantly for assurance, without him needing reciprocation. She often sits around, waiting to be rescued, or is injured and out of commission. Her big mission at the end (again, eerily reminiscent of Katniss' useless mission at the end of Mockingjay) seems unnecessary, its need explained into reality rather than being organic to the situation.

At the same time, a lack of clear direction for the novel also gums up the storyline. We learn early on that there's a big secret that Jeanine, the leader of Erudite, is killing to protect. This "huge" secret is bandied about the entire book, and finally revealed in the end. However, the "truth" makes little sense (spoiler: it's much like the big reveal of The Maze Runner) and doesn't really seem to support the characters' actions.

I listened to the audiobook version of Insurgent, so perhaps I missed details that would have enhanced my enjoyment. I didn't dislike the book, but it also wasn't especially compelling.

Stray thoughts:
- I'm continually annoyed by YA in which characters who obviously would have sex in real life don't (in Insurgent, there's lots of kissing and grasping at t-shirt hems). I know sex is still fairly taboo in the genre, but c'mon: the characters are alone, without any adult supervision, and their world is more or less ending. I'm gonna sleep with my hot boyfriend.
- Tobias makes a big speech about how he won't stay with Tris if she recklessly risks her life again. And then she does. And he doesn't even mention it. So, I guess that was a pointless conversation?
- There was a really annoying alliterative nickname Tris and other Dauntless had for one of the places at which they stayed, and I can't remember what it is. It's driving me crazy.