"Queen of Scots" by John Guy

In traveling through Scotland this summer, I was often confronted with the complicated history between England and Scotland, particularly during the tumultuous reign of Mary, Queen of Scots. Despite many well-written plaques at Edinburgh Castle, I left the country mostly confused and set out to find a book that would do justice to the soap-opera tale, the showdown between Catholic Mary and Protestant Queen Elizabeth. Guy's Queen of Scots was well-reviewed, but ultimately I wished I'd just chosen a historical fiction version instead.

I get it--if you're a historical scholar, you do a lot of research. Especially if what you're writing about has already been researched and dissected for hundreds of years. And if you then write a book about that research, you want to include everything. For the fellow historical scholars who are reading the book, that kind of thoroughness is no doubt appreciated and necessary. But for an average reader who wants some insight on an important period in history, that level of thoroughness is simply tedious. There are so many names. There are so many complicated lineages and relationships. And a lot of them aren't that important to understanding the central conflict. A 200-page Reader's Digest condensed version might have been nice, but I found myself increasingly skimming as the book went on. It's a shame, too, because the story really is wild and deserving of a great, fact-based, narrative retelling.

Guy is also very clear in his allegiances. That's not necessarily bad, but it does come across a little oddly in a comprehensive biography. In Guy's view, Mary is a beautiful, charming, crafty strategist who makes only a few minor blunders. Queen Elizabeth also comes across well. But other people are dismissed out of hand as villains. 

I'm going to try the film adaptation and see if it's any better.

"Half-Life of a Stolen Sister" by Rachel Cantor

I've talked to friends about my belief in "literary karma," by which I mean that sometimes get the feeling that literature is coming together, without my knowledge, to say something to me. I know it's nothing more than awareness (eg, once you think about red cars, you see them everywhere), but I still choose to believe in a universe with meaning and intention.

Thus I've come to believe the universe has something to say to me about the Bronte sisters and their works. It began with the movie Emily, a romantic take on Emily Bronte's life, which led to me reading Wuthering Heights, which I hadn't read in years. Then, I did a hiking trip through the moors of Scotland, where I felt like I was living like a Bronte, and now I've read Half-Life of a Stolen Sister, a creative re-imagining of the sisters' (and the one brother's) lives.

What does it all add up to? I'm not sure, except for something about both solace and understanding; about the ferocity of passion even in the most mundane of circumstances. Maybe it says something to me that a quiet, ordinary life doesn't have to mean a quiet, ordinary person.

But back to Half-Life. One of the blurbs I read compares it to George Saunders' Lincoln in the Bardo. It's an apt description that would probably better prepare readers for the book than my vague description above of it as a "creative re-imagining of the Bronte sisters' lives." Cantor isn't particularly interested in writing historical fiction. Rather, her focus is on considering the interior of the sisters' lives, primarily Emily, Charlotte, and Anne, whose novels are now famous. The family was plagued by death--their mother would die and then all six siblings before the age of 40--and Cantor wonders what such grief would mean to the genius recluses. To probe those emotions, Cantor doesn't write a traditional narrative, but rather tells the story through diary entries and letters, among more unusual styles. In another move that will probably annoy a lot of people, she also doesn't confine herself to the 19th century, but rather weaves in an out of time periods (NPR and email play a role, for example) as suits her needs.

At first, I was a little frustrated with the novel, even though I enjoy post-modern stylistic techniques (I did abandon Lincoln in the Bardo, despite enjoying Saunders' other works immensely!). Still, as I settled down and read the book for longer periods, I appreciated the perspective Cantor's choices provided. There's plenty of Bronte biographies, and of course there are the Brontes' works, so it makes sense to offer something new.

The Brontes are fascinating character studies, even if we can only understand them in retrospect, putting our 21st-century perspective on lives that were very different than ours. Their lives may not actually have much in common with mine, but that doesn't mean I can't glean something about my own from theirs.

"The Constant Rabbit" by Jasper Fforde

I've enjoyed a number of Fforde's books--they're silly but in literary-minded way that still makes you feel smart. I've read most of the Thursday Next books as well as Shades of Grey. It's been awhile since I've read any of Fforde's works (2012, if this blog is correct), so The Constant Rabbit seemed an excellent choice for two long trans-Atlantic flights.

Previously the worst I could say about Fforde's books is that they didn't amount to much--a few goofy jokes without any lasting substance. In The Constant Rabbit, Fforde aims for substance but ends up with a lot of nothing, which may be even worse. The basic premise is that some fifty years ago, several rabbits suddenly became anthropomorphized--human-sized with human awareness to boot. What followed was years of prejudice, discrimination, and abuse couched in euphemistic terms. The book is obviously intended to be a satire of racism and xenophobia, as characters overtly and subtly project their fears on rabbits. 

When best used, satire highlights failings that the reader may be unaware of us, shedding new light on societal ills. The Constant Rabbit, on the other hand, just repeats standard racist lines, but about rabbits! I suppose it's supposed to be funny to hear discriminatory lines about rabbit habits rather than the habits of people from other cultures, but that humor isn't serving any greater good. Fforde acknowledges this in a conversation late in the book, where the rabbit Connie argues, "...maybe it's just satire for comedy's sake and nothing else... or even more useless, satire that provokes a few guffaws but only low to middling outrage--but it coupled with more talk and no action. A sort of... empty cleverness." Kudos to Fforde for being so explicit, but I still think of the Bo Burnham line "Self-awareness absolves you of nothing."

Overall I was disappointed with the novel. Sure, some of the lines have the "empty cleverness" that Fforde is so good at, but I couldn't help feeling he was using racism to further his book, rather than using his book to combat racism.

"Ishmael" by Daniel Quinn

I hadn't heard of Ishmael when a friend suggested reading it, but it turns many of my contemporaries had. My husband almost balked when he saw it on our counter. Turns out he'd read it in high school and many of his peers had treated it reverently. Naturally he was suspicious of anything that received that much adulation from teenage boys. When I asked another friend, he said he remembered it being part of the AP Environmental Science curriculum in high school, though he hadn't read it himself. While not a representative sample, these responses did make me wonder: what does an philosophical environmental treatise popular among high schoolers in the '90s have to offer today?

It's important to establish that Ishmael is a philosophical treatise. It proposes a new way of looking at the world and man's relationship with it, but it offers no practical solutions or concrete actions. It offers no solutions at all, in fact, beyond a exhortation to spread Ishmael's gospel further. On the whole, this approach made me skeptical. I'm all for changing hearts and minds, but the activism of the past few decades has suggested to me that raising "awareness" just doesn't mean a lot. We're all "aware" that bullying is bad, that racism is bad, that mental health needs to be attended to, that we need to conserve our planet. Yet problems in those arenas remain stubbornly high. It's too easy to agree that bullies should be stopped while excluding that annoying person; to toss a can in the recycling bin while buying a giant new SUV. 

To make his treatise, Quinn has set the book up as a Socratic dialogue between the wise gorilla Ishmael and a clueless unnamed narrator. On the one hand, such a structure allows Quinn to explain his ideology in a clear, didactic manner, working through misunderstandings and offering additional explanation as necessary. On the other hand, it means Quinn treats the narrator--obviously a proxy for the reader--as an utter buffoon, unable to do more than gawk at Ishmael's profound wisdom. I love being startled with new ideas, but I'm not sure I like being treated condescendingly for 200 pages.

I think both of theses are legitimate criticisms--there's issues with actionability and with tone--but neither of those issues reflect judgment about Quinn's ideology itself. And to be fair, there's plenty compelling about Quinn's approach. His premise is that there are two groups of humans--the Takers, which encompasses most modern humans; and the Leavers, which encompasses pre-agricultural humans and a few isolated groups today. The Leavers see themselves as part of the world, subject to the same laws as all other living things. The Takers see themselves as rulers of the world and thus seek to subjugate it. Our problems today, Quinn argues, are a result of this Taker ideology, which will eventually lead to complete destruction of our planet. It's not an entirely new philosophy, but Quinn frames it in a new package, emphasizing the way "Mother Culture" has led us to wrongly believe that a modern way of living is preferable.

Quinn's other original contribution is to explain how the Bible reinforces his philosophy through the stories of Adam's Fall and the conflict of Cain and Abel. It's a fascinating premise, primarily because it speaks to challenges many people have with the Bible: for example, why was it so bad that Adam ate of the Tree of Knowledge? 

Still, I'm all too aware that I am not an anthropologist, a biologist, an environmental scientist, a historian, or a biblical scholar--and neither is Quinn. I have no doubt that any of these specialists would take at least some objection to Quinn's overly-broad, un-nuanced claims about evolution and species behavior. Part of Quinn's appeal is that he makes his points simple and all-encompassing--a few sentences explain everything, everywhere, for all of time. But my experience has taught me that nothing, especially the entire history of our planet, is that straightforward.

So why did (and perhaps does) the book have appeal, particularly among young people? As Ishmael himself argues, many of us sense that something is wrong with human culture and the way we live. We may pinpoint specific targets--perhaps social media or polarized politics--but it's frustrating to not have a clear answer for our discomfort. Quinn offers a simple answer, and there's something reassuring in that. He also provides a privileged viewpoint, a sense that you, as a reader of Ishmael, are "in" on a secret the rest of the world is not privy to. It's ego-feeding at a time in life where people are trying to figure things out and form some sort of understanding of the world.

I'm left then wondering if Ishmael does have relevance and place today. I'm not sure. As an intellectual exercise, it was interesting and challenging. As a reminder of the harm our human-centric culture causes, it was clear and effective. But as an avenue for anything beyond? To that I think we need more concrete writers and thinkers. I kept thinking of Kentucky writer Wendell Berry, who writes primarily about farming in concert with the land. Though many of Berry's suggestions are extreme by the standards of modern culture, he also offers tangible paths forward for the individual, something Quinn lacks. So perhaps Ishmael does have value as an introduction, but not an end point.

"Desert Solitaire" by Edward Abbey

I finished Desert Solitaire before Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, but with some unexpected free time on my hands, I thought I'd take a stab at Abbey's most well-known work.

I recently borrowed a stack of books from a good friend who teaches environmental science at a local university. I forget sometimes that there are entire genres of books that I never touch, and environmental nonfiction is one of them. Actually, "never" isn't the right word, as one of the first English classes I took in college was Literature of the American Environment. I was a freshman amidst a small group of senior English majors, I was terrified, and I loved the class. I wrote a lot that semester, but my culminating assignment was (what I remember to be) a cool paper on the American West in Thelma and Louise. But that class was almost twenty years ago, so I've plenty of additional reading to do.

Desert Solitaire has a lot in common with Wendell Berry's essays (I wasn't surprised to learn later that they were friends), even though Abbey's focused on the wilderness and Berry with responsible farming. Still, both men are deeply concerned with man's relationship with the land, and in particular, the way capitalism demands destruction of and separation from the land. The Berry essays I read last fall were far more didactic overall than Abbey's, though the latter in no way buries or obscures his point of view and his scathing indictment of wilderness development. There's something unnerving about reading about his concerns with development in the National Parks (Arches specifically, where he spends two summers) in a book published in 1968. Fifty years later, and we're in even worse shape with our National Parks. The most popular sections are overrun with tourists (I'm not exempt, I've certainly been one) and are under constant danger because of it. By seeking to "appreciate" nature by visiting it, we're also destroying it.

Berry and Abbey also share a similar tone--that of grumpy curmudgeon. I found myself of two minds with the tone. On the on hand, Abbey's frustrations with naïve tourists are always funny. On the other hand, Abbey's indictments reflect both arrogance and privilege. Abbey was in a position to explore Arches and other wild locations in their primitive forms. He rails against others accessing them yes, to protect the environment, but also to protect the isolated experience he enjoys. He can enjoy them the right way; others (in his view) can't.

But ultimately Abbey is not concerned only with selfishly keeping others out and criticizing development. Instead, he seeks to evokes the wilderness' power, beauty, indifference, and fragility. That means plenty of the essays are stories of Abbey's experiences, whether his near-death hike in Havasupai or his time kayaking down the Colorado River. In such stories, Abbey is bold, sometimes a little foolish, and always ready to be awed. I had a student write recently about whether we're losing our sense of wonder, but that's something Abbey never lacks. It's infectious--and no doubt the reason so many people, including myself, have been taken with the book.

I started Desert Solitaire in Ohio but finished it while on spring break in Texas. Though not quite the land Abbey's describing, I still felt that I was imbibing some of that desert spirit as I looked out over gentle, vast hills. In some ways, his advice seems more doable than Berry's. I know I'm never going to start a farm, but I can choose to explore what wilderness remains by foot rather than by car; by the challenging path rather than the quick scenic overlook. I can appreciate that there's something to be gained by staring up at the star-filled sky while in the middle of nowhere--and it's something that I can't get inside an air-conditioned hotel.

"Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow" by Gabrielle Zevin

I'm not a writer for a lot of reasons, including all the obvious ones: talent, skill, ideas, practice, time. Still there's a minor issue that's haunted me for years and that perhaps has also interfered with any writerly aspirations. A fear that leads me to doubt the legitimacy of most anything I write. The fear of being sentimental.

Professionals have reinforced the idea that to be sentimental is an insult. Popular books are "sentimental." Serious books are "unsparing," which is apparently the opposite of "sentimental" and thus a compliment. Think of all the book blurbs claiming such-and-such novel is an "unsparing look at [insert important issue]." In truth, I'm not always completely sure what it means to be "unsparing"--self-deprecation, ungenerous observations, discussion of the taboo?

My fear of sentimentality has not only stalled my writing, but has also meant I'm always on guard for books or movies that are sentimental so that I can rebuff their advances and maintain ironic distance. This is sometimes hard. When I find myself enjoying a book veering into the land of sentimentality, I fear I'm losing credibility as a connoisseur of literature. What is that, a "Live Laugh Love" sign on my wall?! (I do not have one. One has to take some firm stances.)

All of this is a completely unnecessary introduction to Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, a shield on the fact that the book is maybe a little sentimental but I mostly liked it anyway. The novel follows the lives of Sam and Sadie, who are drawn together by video games as children and then go on to create video games together as adults. The novel follows the ups and downs of their relationship over several decades, through love and losses; disability and mental illness; trauma and the mundane. It felt very similar to Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay in its style and focus.

I suppose what leads me to call Tomorrow sentimental is that I have little to say about the book itself. It's a sweet story about the power of someone to "play" with--someone who gets the things you get, values the things you value, finds fun in the same activities. I think that's a good message. The novel begins in the '90s, so it has a lot of nostalgic video game callbacks for people from that era. I never gamed, but I still feel a little warmth for the original Donkey Kong. 

There are some elements that irked me. The way it dealt with unexpected death felt cliché and overdone. Zevin titled her book after Shakespeare's most well-known soliloquy, which feels like a bold move, but I'm not sure thematically it did Macbeth justice. 

Still, overall I was drawn to the affection between Sam and Sadie, their admiration for and understanding of each other. Maybe it's not possible to write about deeply loving relationships without being a bit sentimental. I guess that's okay too. I've reached a point in my life where I know I value those more than anything else, so I suppose it's only to be expected that my tastes in literature would reflect it.

Note: This echoes some ideas I brought up in my Verity review, but I chose to plow ahead nonetheless. 

"Sourdough" by Robin Sloan

I read this one at the recommendation of a friend, not realizing I had read Sloan's other novel, Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, ten years ago (rereading that review, it seems like Sloan has stuck with the same themes).

Sourdough is a little simple, and then... it's bafflingly weird. The first part of the novel passes breezily enough. Lois is an overworked tech programmer in San Francisco, but when the owners of her beloved takeout place are forced to leave the U.S.--and leave her with their special sourdough starter--Lois starts baking. She's even more busy than before, but suddenly, she's no longer depressed, tired, or even run-down looking. Sourdough has saved her! Already the novel is in murky territory. Why does baking renew and rejuvenate her? Certainly the reader understands the classic story of a run-down office-worker liberated by "real work," but Lois' office job is substantive, and she does produce tangible results. She gets praise for her bread from colleagues and acquaintances, but she has no real interest in making friendships, so it doesn't seem like that's the reason for her transformation. Given the end of the book, it could be we're supposed to believe there's "magic" in the bread that's causing the change, but if that's so then the book isn't really about a person growing (the point of all books?).

Soon after, Lois is recruited to join an underground (literally) farmer's market of sorts that's developing new products at the intersection of technology and food. To qualify, she uses one of her company's robot arms to mix the batter and sometimes crack eggs and... why? I have to believe stand mixers are already pretty good at mixing, and I suppose not having to hand crack eggs saves some time, but it hardly seems revolutionary. Lois also quits her high-paying, high-status job for which she's trained her whole life with nary a shudder (I did the math and there's NO WAY she can possibly make enough money to subsist in San Francisco doing this).

I'm not going to go into the ending which comes out of left field and makes almost no sense. We end on a note of personal growth and relationships that doesn't feel earned given what came before. 

This is a lot of criticism for an easy, pleasant-enough read, and I honestly did like some of the insight into sourdough bread and food history. I agree with Sloan that there's fascinating stuff about how tech and food might come together, but I'm not sure this book did it justice. Beo--the shop owner who gives Lois the sourdough starter--feels like he would have been a far more interesting character than Lois. Still, it was a book with too many holes and leaps to work for me.