This one really came out of nowhere for me. I added it to the to-read pile on the strength of its being part of the New York Times best books of 2024 list, but my expectations for the book were middling. Historical fiction, late 19th century, Brits being Brits (no need to scream: I am well aware that Wilde was Irish-born, but the focus of the book is very much British)... What could go wrong? But also, what could possibly catch me off-guard? Welp, consider me bowled over. The book strikes a fine balance between an indictment of Wilde's "deserting" his family and an empathetic account of the passionate affair that took over his life. Bayard does a phenomenal job of capturing the sparkling wit that we would all like to think permeated Wilde's life at all times. Everyone is so gosh-darned pithy, it's an all-you-can-read quip buffet. Realistic? I couldn't say, but who needs that, anyway? Constance Lloyd rises like so much rich cream to the top of the whole narrative. She's at once a martyr to her husband's dalliances and a strikingly modern female figure. Act five of this "Novel in Five Acts" is unexpectedly optimistic, like a splash of magical realism to exorcise the bleakness that precedes it. I'm sure you could criticize it for being too much of a Hollywood ending, but I'm on board with it anyway.
This was very reminiscent of Max Fischer's "The Chaos Machine", which I read in 2023. The biggest difference (other than this being more recent) is that DiResta is personally involved in the fight against disinformation (through her work at Stanford), whereas Fischer treated the subject with his New York Times hat firmly secured on his head. The result is both interesting, as firsthand accounts can be, and a bit less compelling because of the perceived victimization. The history of "influencing" as a means of spreading information was probably the most interesting part of the book for me. The Russian troll farms, Gamergate and the 2020 elections felt more cobbled together and/or already over-analyzed.
This is a fictionalized account of the future George Orwell's years in the British police in Burma in the early 20th century. I was this-book years old when I learned that Blair was actually born in India, of parents who had emigrated there from England (and who also moved back to said Blighty when Eric was still a young child). It stands to reason, then, that Blair/Orwell was raised on a steady diet of Kipling and tales of glory days. In fact, when he meets his cousins upon being stationed in Burma, he finds nothing but faded grandeur and the bottom of imperial decline. I was a sucker for this book, partly because I am sold on anything that casts a critical eye on British imperialism in the subcontinent. I enjoyed it also partly because we have been drinking from a "1984" firehose for a few years now. It was fascinating to read about the genesis of George Orwell as a writer who bit the hand that fed his family for several generations. There is foreshadowing of "1984", particularly of Julia. Scenes of Eric's Eton education are morbidly fascinating, but also speak to suffering from and enforcing order as part of a perverse logic.
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
3.0
I confess! It was the cover art for me.
But really, the premise is alluring, too. Inheriting an evil empire from a distant relative (in practice, if not in the family tree sense)? I'm down for that. Hasn't happened yet, but now that I've read this, I feel better equipped to deal when it does. Communicating with genetically enhanced animals, including cats? Oh, I'm there all right.
The execution had moments of The Incredibles meets Percival Everett's Dr. No (highest possible praise, there). Now, this book does not have quite the surgically scalding effectiveness of Everett's prose, but the spoof of the villain trope is still well done. Scalzi mobilizes a style that owes a lot to scriptwriting: much witty banter and laugh-out-loud verbal jousts. I'm not saying it's not a fun read, I'm saying it feels a little familiar, a little packaged-for-your-enjoyment. And enjoy it I did, though I wouldn't say it's book club material.
Oooookay, so. *knuckle-cracking* Upper-middle-class white dude goes on a voyage of self-discovery and returns aged all of... what, 32? to deliver his wisdom unto the world. Sign. Me. Up. (Please don't.) The tone was incredibly dogmatic and the research was shoddy at best. If you're going to supersede all of Western philosophy about a life well lived, you could at least put in the work to find out who's been down that exact friggin' path over the last couple of millenia. To be clear, I would have zero problem with the guy presenting his personal experience and the changes he's made as a result of it. What really rankles is the notion that it can all be whipped up into universalist advice. It's like: oh, existentialism, nihilism, ethics? here: I made it all simple and easily digested for you. Honestly, I think Philosophy for Dummies is a much more scholarly exercise than this book. I also firmly believe that it took off in large part thanks to its title (which is not unheard of in the self-help genre, I realize that). But I say, if you must have a book with the F-word in its title, read Go the Fuck to Sleep, as it is shorter, more pragmatic, and much more to the point.
Ah là là... ça s'essouffle ! Et pourtant, je suis ultra fan des 3 premiers (le 4e était déjà un tout petit poil moins bien). Mais là, le personnage récurrent de Marcel (fondateur de Marcel Mendicity) est beaucoup moins efficace, justement du fait de son retour au fil des pages. Ne boudons pas notre plaisir, il y a quand même des planches de génie, comme d'habitude, c'est juste que la totalité est un peu moins acérée qu'avant. Ou alors, la réalité est devenue tellement n'importe quoi que même Reuzé n'arrive plus à fournir.
I sort of need to read The Magic Mountain, y'all. First, it was Colm Tóibín's The Magician, now Olga Tokarczuk... Is the (literary) universe trying to tell me that Thomas Mann is relevant or something? Honestly, the blurb about a horror retelling was what really hooked me, but that's one thing on which the book didn't really deliver. I mean, without spoiling anything, horrific things do happen, but that's (very) far from the main drive of the novel. Now the unselfconscious woman-bashing throughout: that was a sight to behold, but the real final nail was the coda in the Author's Note at the end where she lists the (shockingly all male, what?!) authors from whom she lifted the sentiments expressed by the characters in the book. That was chef's-kiss savage.
So I would call this a slow read, but actually it's more of a repetitive read. I get the idea of trying to rep all 50 states, but man, some states just have very little to offer (In the way of cryptids, that is. I'm sure they're chock full of wonderful people.) So either you grit your teeth and smile tensely, or you turn it into a drinking game. For every cryptid that was sighted at night, take a shot. Every cryptid first sighted by teenagers, take a shot. Every cryptid that popped up between the '50s and '70s... you know what to do. You'll be smashed before you reach the South. I don't mean that there aren't any hidden gems in this book (looking at you, Fresno Nightcrawler, you absurd delight, you) but you have to dig kinda deep to find them.
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
4.0
This novella packs a nice little punch, though the blurbs had me hoping for rather more than what the twist ended up being. The first person pov is helpful in building up the suspense and ultimate horror, without a clunky final 'reveal'.
1. Who run the world? Girls. And women. Even if they have to plunge toilets, trade in black market goods, and do what it takes to get their kicks off-telescreen. 2. Winston Smith is cute, but a bit of a weenie, tbh. Change my mind. 3. Story drags on a bit in the last third or so. Otherwise, this would have been a contender for a 5.