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| 1481443364
| 9781481443364
| 1481443364
| 3.76
| 10,588
| Sep 23, 2015
| Sep 29, 2015
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liked it
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I’m not sure how much of a compliment this is, what with the low opinion I have of most CW shows (Supernatural notwithstanding), but Zeroes is one of
I’m not sure how much of a compliment this is, what with the low opinion I have of most CW shows (Supernatural notwithstanding), but Zeroes is one of the first superhero novels I’ve read that could be a CW show. It reminds me a lot of the well-intentioned but ill-fated attempts like Alphas (which I know wasn’t the CW, but that’s neither here nor there), in that it follows the standard formula: a group of people have powers, or abilities, and come together clandestinely to tackle your everyday grievances. But they are unsure of themselves, and sometimes each other, so they have those internal conflicts to sort out along the way. Oh, and here they’re only fifteen years old. I’ve only read books by Scott Westerfeld and not Margo Lanagan or Deborah Biancotti, so it’s hard to see the influence of individual authors here. But I have a suspicion that fans of any of these three authors will enjoy Zeroes, if only because the book has a unified voice despite being a product of three. I was sceptical about having six perspectives—this isn’t Game of Thrones—but it helps that the narration stays in third person. More importantly, the different perspectives help us understand that the real challenge the Zeroes face is not the world out there but their own conflicting emotions about their anomalous abilities. Westerfeld et al do a great job at balancing teenage angst and superhero angst. It’s this combination of angst that makes me think about CW shows. Here we have an ensemble cast balanced in gender and diverse in ethnicity, and each character has their own struggles at home in addition to (or because of) their power. Although Flickonymous steals the show for me, I am surprised how invested I became in all of the Zeroes—it’s hard to choose favourites. Even Nate, manipulative, scheming, Nate, is a great example of someone who is sympathetic even if he’s not likable. With his power to harness the charisma of crowds for his own uses, Nate has ambitions of a political bent. And he doesn’t hesitate to prod the Zeroes into going along with him on things. The way Chizara (and, occasionally, Flicker) butt heads with him is a nice reminder that he doesn’t always speak for the group. And I can see a future where Nate misuses his powers and ends up more on the supervillain side of things. Forget Chizara’s crash-induced highs: if any of the Zeroes go dark, my money would be on Nate. The tagline on this edition’s cover reads, “Every power has a price.” Too many superhero stories these days seem to focus on this facet of the superpower trope set. Simply put, a lot of stories about superpowers turn into downers; in the quest for gritty realism or conflict, authors end up making their superpowered characters cursed and burdened. Zeroes certainly explores this angle: Anonymous can’t stick in people’s heads, not even the other Zeroes’; Ethan’s voice, of course, always gets him into trouble. Nevertheless, the book takes a more proactive approach to this theme. The Zeroes see their powers develop as they use them more, and it becomes clear (as in the case of Flicker and Anonymous) that there are more dimensions to their powers. There are also subtle attempts to examine what it means to be a hero, which for me is always what superhero stories need to be about. (It’s for this reason that I’m loving Supergirl on CBS so much—small shout-out here!) Chizara’s credo of “do no harm” with her power leads to her breaking with the other Zeroes. As much as my “can’t we all just get along?” voice cringed at this moment, I was totally with Chizara and her tirade against Nate’s meddling. But it’s not black-and-white, and towards the climax of the book, Chizara learns that sometimes not doing something can in fact result in harm. To her credit, she realizes this pretty quickly. This is a young adult book in the sense that its characters are young. And they mess up like fifteen-year-olds might. Nate seems much too mature for his age—and that’s because he’s a little precocious, given his upbringing and charms—but the other Zeroes show the cracks in their adolescent facades. There are times when Westerfeld et al stretch credibility a little thinly—lots of underage driving here. Similarly, while I might believe a group of fifteen-year-olds getting mixed up with drug lords, the book tries too hard to walk the line between gritty and goofy. Superhero novels are so often a mixed bag, and Zeroes is no exception. But it’s probably a better mixed bag than I’ve read in a while. Its characters are diverse—not just in terms of their backgrounds, but also in their personalities. None of them are too dominant, in the sense that I never groaned when the book switched to a specific character’s perspective. And although the background plot involving drug gangs and mobsters and a bank robbery gone awry occasionally gets lost in the relationship drama, this feels all too appropriate for the Zeroes’ first outing. I’m very interested to see what happens in the next book. Oh, and I totally ship Flicker/Anonymous. Soooooo good. I wouldn’t be surprised if Chizara and Nate hit it off next, though it might be weird of the six Zeroes all start pairing off with each other. But Flicker is my fave, and I’m glad she was able to help her little lost Nothing boy. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 28, 2015
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Dec 30, 2015
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Dec 28, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 0316098108
| 9780316098106
| 0316098108
| 3.77
| 26,064
| Jul 07, 2015
| Jul 07, 2015
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liked it
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**spoiler alert** Art is one of humanity’s most constructive, creative impulses, yet we spend so much time chronicling our darker, more tragic moments
**spoiler alert** Art is one of humanity’s most constructive, creative impulses, yet we spend so much time chronicling our darker, more tragic moments. Science fiction in particular is fascinated by the paradox of our humanity: we strive for, and are capable of, great acts, but underneath it all we are still the product of millions of years of evolution and prone to acts of irrationality, tribalism, and prejudice. Kim Stanley Robinson continues this great tradition in Aurora, a story about a generational starship that crosses the vast gulf of interstellar space to reach its destination, only to find insurmountable barriers when they arrive. I’ve got mixed feelings about Aurora, which shouldn’t surprise you if you’ve read any of my other KSR reviews. Robinson’s vision and ability to use science fiction for thought experiments is unquestionable. He has a spark of creative genius that makes his books fascinating; moreover, he backs up that genius with an attention to scientific and technical details that others might be tempted to call “hard” SF. I find that term too loaded, myself, but there is something to be said for a novel that helps you appreciate the complex and challenging undertaking that travelling between the stars would be. Despite his vision, however, Robinson often seems to get bogged down in the story, at least more so than I prefer. His characters are almost always flat, their growth, if any, painted in broad strokes, with the narrator distant and unemotional. This was one of the reasons I struggled with Red Mars , which is otherwise an excellent book about colonizing Mars. In Aurora, the narrator is the AI (or collection of AIs) that control the generational ship, having been instructed by one of its occupants to create a narrative account of the ship’s journey. This provides Robinson with an excuse for the somewhat dispassionate prose. And that’s what it is: an excuse. It’s a crutch that lets Robinson get away with being somewhat lazy, especially with exposition. It’s OK for the ship to rattle off vital statistics and use more technobabble. Robinson is just being true to the voice of the ship! Now, there are some fascinating aspects of this choice of narrator. Explicitly, Robinson asks if a computer really can tell a story—which is to say, summarize events in a way that humans find interesting and compelling. It’s easy for a computer to keep track of everything that happens, but choosing which events to include—and the perspectives for those events—is a more difficult task. So, in between the story parts of the story, there are moments where the AI reflects on its attempts to create this narrative, and those are interesting. Still, the end result is the same for me: another story in which Robinson’s characters lack much in the way of dimension. Devi is a single-minded, somewhat pessimistic engineer who refuses to live in the moment. I identified a little more with Badim. Freya’s superpower is listening, I guess? Somehow she ends up being one of the most important people on the ship despite not actually doing any specific job; she’s more of a wanderer. Basically, Robinson gives me little reason to care for these people specifically. And I didn’t care too much for the crew in general, because, you know, generational ship. I was pretty sure it would end in tears. Hence my real ambivalence about Aurora beyond my usual complaints about style: we’ve seen this before. The generational starship story is a well-established trope of science fiction, and it has been done to death, both realistically and otherwise. Did we really need another one? Does this book really do anything different? Robinson attempts to introduce a twist in the form of the alien pathogen that so dramatically changes the crew’s focus in the second half of the book. And I’ll give him this: while I wasn’t surprised that something went wrong and everyone started being terrible to everyone else, the actual cause is pretty neat. I wish the book had spent more time analyzing this facet of the problem instead of moving on so quickly. Some of the ensuing unrest feels contrived—believable, sure, but I want to think there are probably protocols and procedures that could have been in place to prevent many of the initial problems. Robinson’s version of a generational ship is basically “the inmates are running the asylum.” Concepts like professionalism weren’t taught to this generation, apparently. My interest diminished with the third act, when the ship turns around and heads back to Earth. Robinson tries to enhance the tension by asking whether the ship’s ecosystem will be able to support the crew, even greatly reduced, during the voyage home. To some extent he is successful, but by this point I just didn’t have much emotional investment anymore. I wanted to know what happens, but I didn’t actually care one way or the other. This is what happens when someone is really eager to show that he did the research on how deceleration at relativistic speeds works. Aurora has some breathtaking moments of clarity, moments that make you sit in awe of the vastness of space and our own comparative smallness. I started playing Elite: Dangerous this week, because I have time off (yay) and, more importantly, a new computer that can actually handle games (yay). It’s an addictive, staggering, immersive experience. And there are times when this book comes close to that feeling. Like Red Mars, it’s a good example of its subgenre of science-fictional adventure. Unlike that book, though, I’m less convinced that Aurora refreshes the already-established paradigm. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 23, 2015
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Dec 24, 2015
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Dec 24, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 1632154382
| 9781632154385
| 1632154382
| 4.40
| 70,055
| Sep 09, 2015
| Sep 09, 2015
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it was amazing
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This isn't a review so much as a disjointed collection of thoughts about Saga, Volume 5. I mean, the problem with these reviews is that it always boil
This isn't a review so much as a disjointed collection of thoughts about Saga, Volume 5. I mean, the problem with these reviews is that it always boils down to more of the same. Buy Saga. Read it, in order. Do it! Whenever I read graphic novels, I try to talk about the art and artist, since these are obviously important parts of the medium. And it’s with great respect when I say that I don’t give the art of a graphic novel as much attention as I should; I prefer words, which is why I prefer regular novels. But Volume 5 has some very explicit scenes, so it provides a good opportunity to discuss Fiona Staples’ artwork. Saga is fairly conventional when it comes to its panel layout, so that helps. The panels are different on each page, and occasionally they’re skewed rather than perpendicular—but they are always generally quadrilateral and well-defined. Despite sticking to this conservative schema, Staples employs a great variety of panel dimensions and layouts to help tell the story. She can effortlessly convey a sense of motion, or give us a big hero shot to emphasize a particular moment. This has always been an adult comic, and its artwork reflects that. This volume is no different, and perhaps even a little more. I mean, that two-page spread with the dragon is just … uh … wow. Also, can we pause for a moment and reflect on the fact that Ghüs is amazing and possibly the best character in the entire series and I don’t want him to die please oh please don’t kill him? Let’s pause and do that. There is lots of dying in here. No spoilers, of course, just a reminder that Vaughan and Staples are GRRMing the shit out of this series: anyone and everyone can and will die, no guarantees, no warning. It’s a good thing, because like Game of Thrones they have a tremendous cast of characters, and no, and I can’t remember everyone’s name. That’s what wikis are for. This volume might be the most insane yet in turns of plot twists. Saga continues to ramp up, with the stories going in directions both predictable and unforeseen, providing a nice mixture of reward for invested readers and twists that will keep us invested. And Ghüs is the best! My reviews of Saga: ← Volume 4 | Volume 6 → [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 22, 2015
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Dec 22, 2015
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Dec 23, 2015
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 0590636758
| 9780590762564
| B006U1NLUO
| 4.00
| 3,861
| Jan 01, 1998
| Nov 1998
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liked it
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Back on the Animorphs re-read train with The Pretender, our first Tobias book in what feels like forever. Tobias leads the Animorphs in rescuing a cap
Back on the Animorphs re-read train with The Pretender, our first Tobias book in what feels like forever. Tobias leads the Animorphs in rescuing a captured free Hork-Bajir child; meanwhile, he has to deal with the usual teenage angst: some woman claiming to be his cousin wanting to take care of him, a letter from his departed father to be read on his birthday, and another red-tailed hawk muscling in on his prime feeding grounds. The usual. The B plot (or A plot? I don’t know which is which) is not great here. After The Hork-Bajir Chronicles we have a much better idea of Hork-Bajir life and culture. Applegate drops some references into this story, but for the most part this is your standard “Animorphs have to break into a Yeerk facility and sabotage it” plot. It just has some added Hork-Bajir muscle and some new punchlines from Marco. So in terms of the challenges the Animorphs face, there is nothing really new here, which is probably why Applegate spends surprisingly little time on this plot. Tobias’ arc totally steals the show here. I know this was a Nickelodeon show when it was a TV show (so I think it was on YTV here in Canada, if I remember correctly), but Tobias was an angsty CW boy before the CW existed or had angsty boys on it. He just drips with regret and self-loathing and self-pity. Don’t get me wrong: I feel a lot of sympathy for him. This is well-deserved angst, not “some other person likes the person I like” angst. (Which I guess is also legitimate angst, if you’re at the age where that’s your life. I was never that age.) I enjoy the way Applegate offers Tobias a legitimate, difficult dilemma. He can morph his human body and become Tobias the human again—but after two hours, that’s it. He can have a regular life, but he won’t be an Animorph any more. On the one hand, this would be a huge relief. He wouldn’t be under direct threat from the Yeerks. He could eat human food and sleep in a proper bed. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be in the fight any more. And his life as a human seemed pretty crappy, to be honest. This book also directly addresses Tobias/Rachel for the first time in a while. Rachel pretty much comes out and says that if Tobias were human she would date him. It’s heartbreaking, especially because I totally ship Tobias/Rachel. Her conversations with Tobias are the best part of this book, because she is all about keeping it real. She’s like, “This is what it is. You’re a hawk, but you’ll never be a hawk.” And Rachel—who, let’s not forget, is the most gung ho, warlike of the Animorphs—advocates for Tobias to drop out and become human again. Almost as if she is envious of that option. Almost. Tobias has an out. He doesn’t take it. Does that make him a hero? I don’t know. Even at this point in the series, I think Applegate has already come down pretty hard on the “in war, there are no heroes” theme: Tobias has done his share of questionable things, and he will go on to do more questionable things, as will the rest of the Animorphs. Speaking of questionable things, next time, You’ll Never Believe How Cassie Shrinks Her Waistline With This One Easy Trick! My reviews of Animorphs: ← The Hork-Bajir Chronicles [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 20, 2015
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Dec 21, 2015
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Dec 22, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 0356502422
| 9780356502427
| 0356502422
| 4.22
| 46,126
| Oct 06, 2015
| Oct 06, 2015
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really liked it
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It feels like just yesterday that Ann Leckie took the science fiction scene by storm with Ancillary Justice. I enjoyed her debut novel for what it was
It feels like just yesterday that Ann Leckie took the science fiction scene by storm with Ancillary Justice. I enjoyed her debut novel for what it was—a ripping good story set in a universe with just enough originality to make it fun and familiarity to make it conceivable. Now, suddenly, here we are at the conclusion of the trilogy with Ancillary Mercy. I'm all a-tingle! Breq has come a long way since she was just an ancillary of Justice of Toren. Now an independent entity in her own mind, she strives to establish her identity. But no one is making it easy. A part of Anaander Mianaai that really hates her (as opposed to just mildly hating her) has shown up at Athoek and wants to take over the joint. Breq has to think fast to save as many lives as possible, but it’s not easy to come up with a solution that will please everyone. Indeed, Ancillary Mercy underscores the difficulty of reaching any kind of stability in the midst of a larger conflict. Identity has been one of the longest-running motifs in this series, and it all comes to a head here. In the first book, Breq had to struggle with feeling like she was still Justice of Toren but greatly diminished. She finally comes to grips with that in Ancillary Sword, only to have to conceal her nature as an ancillary from everyone and pretend to be a human. Now in this book, everyone learns that Breq is an ancillary—just as she’s figuring out that she is more than an ancillary, or a fragment of a ship AI, but something different entirely. On a wider level, Leckie has Breq question the role that ships play in the Radch. It's not as simple as “ships are slaves” or “AIs are sentient and therefore need rights,” because the ships have been programmed to have certain desires (like wanting a crew and a captain). Breq is special in that she is the first to actually ask the ships what they want. Most of the main characters undergo similar transformations. Seivarden continues to deal with being so out of time. Tisarwat is trying to pick up the pieces of herself following Anaander's imposition of her personality. And then there's the lovely zaniness of Translator Zeiat (who is not, as she first thought, Translator Dlique). You could spend a lot of time just thinking about all the different ways Leckie signifies and symbolizes identity, from modes of dress to ethnic categories to language. There is a lot going on here, despite Ancillary Mercy being on the shorter end of novels. Leckie’s worldbuilding is tightly-packed, and that’s very rewarding. Of all the three books, this one also has the best pacing. I wasn’t a huge fan of the lengthy quest structure of the first book, and while I enjoyed the second book’s plot, there were points where it started to drag. None of the events in this book, in contrast, really overstay their welcome. I suspect what will draw the most attention, however, will be the ending. There is a lot of pressure for Leckie to wrap up loose ends—and she never pretends that she will be able to do so. Breq would be happy to take down Anaander and the entire Radch. But that would be too neat, too simple—and if Leckie has demonstrated anything over the course of this series, it’s that events are seldom simple. Ancillary Mercy's focus remains narrowly on the Athoek system, and this works for it. Breq’s problems are already big enough. Once again, Breq’s unique ability to perceive multiple perspectives concurrently allows for some slick narration. Instead of scene breaks to signal perspective changes, everything just flows smoothly together. This helps us understand Breq’s thought processes: for her, something happening elsewhere being relayed through Ship is just as real and present as something happening in front of her body. I find this fascinating, because we already practice this kind of split presence with the Internet. We can be online, in multiple chatrooms or forums at once, or having a video conference while also talking to people physically in the room with us. We might not be ancillaries, but sometimes we get close…. There’s so much to enjoy in this book, and I’m not sure what else I would highlight. If I have to make a sweeping statement about this book and this series—and I don’t, but I’m going to—it’s that Ancillary Mercy strikes a good balance between storytelling and theme. This is something that science fiction can easily get wrong—so much good SF overcompensates, privileging one or the other. Leckie manages to deliver novels that are complete, entertaining stories that also deal with important issues of identity, self-awareness, duty, and sacrifice. There is believable political intrigue. And there are characters who are unlikable but redeemable (like Seivarden) and likable but maybe not redeemable. My reviews of the Imperial Radch series: ← Ancillary Sword [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 10, 2015
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Dec 12, 2015
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Dec 06, 2015
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Paperback
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| 0385664222
| 9780385664226
| 0385664222
| 4.25
| 16,685
| Nov 13, 2012
| Aug 13, 2013
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it was amazing
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Just last week, CBC News announced it was closing comments on articles about indigenous peoples, because at the moment, it cannot guarantee sufficient
Just last week, CBC News announced it was closing comments on articles about indigenous peoples, because at the moment, it cannot guarantee sufficient moderation to sustain polite discourse. In addition to the usual trolls, some people were writing hate speech motivated by a misconception of the state of indigenous peoples in Canada. And while this is reprehensible, it probably shouldn’t be surprising. We white people are very good at ignoring indigenous people—until we want their land, that is. The Inconvenient Indian: A Curious Account of Native People in North America is Thomas King’s attempt to make some kind of sense of the conflicting narratives and myths created about the European occupation of North America. I approached this book as someone who is interested in gaining a deeper awareness of indigenous perspectives on indigenous issues. I’m already sympathetic to these ideas and have a surface-level understanding of some of the challenges Indigenous people face as a result of colonialism. I don’t think this book would work for someone who, say, is not so sympathetic or is actively labouring under the types of misconceptions that I hear all-too-often in Thunder Bay. Unlike Stephen Harper, I have no trouble admitting that Canada has a history of colonialism. As King demonstrates in the Chapter 7, “Forget About It,” that colonialism is ongoing. It has never stopped. And while I thought I understood this prior to reading The Inconvenient Indian, the implications of this continuum of colonialism only crystallized for me after reading this book. We don’t learn enough about our history of colonialism in schools. It’s convenient, for instance, for us to subscribe to the fiction that we aren’t responsible for anything that happened before 1867. That was Britain and France, we say—blame those European powers! (Strangely enough, we’re quite happy to claim we “won” the War of 1812 despite not being a country back then, either.) But for all the noise that provincial governments make about curricula, indigenous peoples were largely absent from my education. And while I understand now that the colonization and oppression of indigenous people is ongoing, it took King’s book to help me connect these two ideas—that is to say, our education system leaves us ignorant because colonialism is ongoing. I learned about the slavery and the triangle trade in history class, because these things are done and gone, and we can talk about them as “terrible tragedies” with the required distance of history. (N.B., I know that slavery is still a huge problem in Canada, and similarly, racism against black people is an ongoing issue we need to deal with as a society. But slavery is underground instead of legalized, and while racism against black people is endemic and systemic, it is not codified in our laws the way it is with indigenous people and the Indian Act.) But talking about our history with indigenous nations requires us to look at how things are “better” now … and as King points out, over and over in this book, things aren’t better; we’re just adept at discriminating in new and creative ways. It’s this cyclical view that was the gamechanger for me here. I knew we had been colonialist in the past, and I knew we were being colonialist now, but King lines everything up and connects the dots in a way that shows how our current attitudes emerged from past ones. And so I can see now that a statement I might have made previously, like, “The situation of indigenous peoples in Canada is still pretty bad, but it has gotten a lot better in recent years” is just woefully inaccurate. Although it’s true that some bands and nations have made great strides in some areas, others have seen setbacks; it’s so difficult to quantify whether things are getting better or worse, because overall our society remains hostile and racist. Disagree? I refer you to the CBC comments section. Naturally, being a teacher, I’m all for education. But King has a wet blanket for me, too; he puts it very elegantly in the final chapter: Ignorance has never been the problem. The problem was and continues to be unexamined confidence in western civilization and the unwarranted certainty of Christianity. And arrogance. Perhaps it is unfair to judge the past by the present, but it is also necessary. He does go on to say, “If nothing else, an examination of the past—and of the present, for that matter—can be instructive,” so education is helpful—just not enough on its own. Because when you get right down to it, our governments, past and present, have always known what they were doing. They want “inconvenient Indians” to disappear. They wish that indigenous peoples were relegated to history like they are so often portrayed in Hollywood. And if we truly are a democracy where governments reflect the will of the people—where governments refuse to take a stand about land rights or missing and murdered women or police brutality because it would mean upsetting affluent white voters—then the will of the people sucks, and we should be ashamed. I was reading a recent issue of National Geographic, and it had an article about a national park in Scandinavia. It mentioned the Sami people, indigenous peoples of that area. I did a doubletake. I didn’t know there were people indigenous to that area! (I knew there are plenty of indigenous cultures in various parts of the world, just not there.) Our society is not interested in highlighting the diversity of indigenous cultures anywhere, because it would mean admitting that we need to talk to the members of these cultures, to treat them like human beings, to deal with them fairly. And we can’t do that, because they have land we want. Land we deserve, I guess, because we’re better at exploiting it? I should note that the above tirade is my own and not King’s. Actually, despite his hefty cynicism, King is fairly conciliatory in tone. He’s not here to accuse or point fingers at white people in general; he’s not saying you are a bad person. But acknowledging our privilege and the way we interact with our racist society is important. As King mentions, this is all about the land. It’s not just a problem of racism; it’s a problem of capitalism. We live in a world that rewards a certain perspective, one in which property and people are both commodities valued only for what they can produce, not their intrinsic qualities. This is a noxious philosophy, but it has made many people rich, and so they defend it. And, unfortunately, attempts to improve or replace this system have sometimes backfired spectacularly. The Inconvenient Indian is an account of indigenous peoples in North America rather than a history. King explains this choice in the prologue, and I understand. He’s not here to be a scholar—others have done that. He’s here to make a point. He does so eloquently and exhaustively. Each chapter is full of facts (as much as he maligns them) and anecdotes and impressive lists of dates and events. At every turn, he confronts us with the reality that the Canadian and American governments have never dealt with indigenous peoples in good faith, have broken treaties and promises whenever it suited them, and have alternatively attempted to exterminate or legislate indigenous people out of existence. It’s a grim story. But it is our story. And King does, to his credit, try to end on a happy note. While he can’t point to things getting better, he highlights two “recent” massive land claims (in Alaska and in the creation of Nunavut) that have set some precedents. And he reminds us that whatever the past and present holds, the future is yet unwritten: indigenous cultures and people can change, just as the rest of society can change. If we will it. So educate yourself. Read this book. Get uncomfortable. Talk about racism. Challenge your behaviour and the behaviour of the friends. This won’t go away unless we do something about it. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 03, 2015
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Dec 06, 2015
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Dec 03, 2015
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Paperback
| ||||||||||||||
| 043999652X
| 9780439996525
| 043999652X
| 4.19
| 3,985
| Nov 1998
| Nov 17, 2000
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really liked it
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Instalments like this one make me sad that regular Animorphs novels were sandwiched into bite-sized morsels that … … wait, let me restart this with a m Instalments like this one make me sad that regular Animorphs novels were sandwiched into bite-sized morsels that … … wait, let me restart this with a metaphor less likely to make me hungry. Instalments like The Hork-Bajir Chronicles demonstrate what K.A. Applegate can do when she can write longer-form stories. The shorter Animorphs novels have their advantages—they are easy to read, almost episodic, and obviously we wouldn’t have as many of them if they were longer. Nevertheless, the Chronicles specials are always a welcome change of pace. Applegate always delves deeper into the mythology behind the Animorphs universe, and she also exposes readers to different perspectives that are otherwise impossible to consider. In The Andalite Chronicles we got to hear Elfangor tell his story in his own words. Now we get three unique perspectives: Aldrea, the daughter of the Andalite who “allowed” the Yeerks to become a galactic threat; Dak Hamee, a Hork-Bajir “seer” who quickly realizes that trying to save his people will still destroy them; and Esplin 9466—aka our friend, Visser Three, before he was Visser Three. I guess if you want to understand The Hork-Bajir Chronicles, we could look at it through the lens of dystopian YA. Aldrea is a teenage Andalite who is upset that male Andalites get to fight while she’s expected to learn physics and do art like a good little female. After watching her entire family get slaughtered by evil parasitic aliens, Aldrea has to join forces with a Hot Boy she likes in order to fight back against these jerks. I mean Yeerks. The Hot Boy is Hot but not that bright, at least not at first—Aldrea has to tutor him, but as she educates him, he gets suspicious that she’s manipulating him and using him for his body. Which she totally is. Dak Hamee is a hot Hork-Bajir teenager who wonders why all the adults around him are much dumber than he is. He is the only one in this small society who can figure things out, and he soon decides it’s up to him to help his people when the aliens come. Esplin 9466 is the bad guy. We get his perspective so we can see how twisted he is. He’s gross and grey and inside brains! And he captures Aldrea and Dak, but he spends too long gloating, so naturally they have the opportunity to escape. Then they get to plot a rebellion and lead guerilla units against the Yeerks in an attempt to overthrow their new overlords. See? Totally dystopian YA. Except for the part where everyone dies. Set almost forty years prior to the Animorphs novels, this book explains how the Yeerks spread from their homeworld through the galaxy, and in particular how they acquired Hork-Bajir as shock troops. Because it’s set in the past, however, the outcome is foregone and well known to your average reader of the series: the Hork-Bajir are goners. Applegate simply explains how it happens here … and it’s really depressing. Unlike your typical dystopian YA novel where the plucky teenage protagonist finds a way to nearly–single-handedly defeat the system that is both older and smarter than them, this book does not sugarcoat things. War is ugly; there is no such thing as “good guys” versus “bad guys,” and everyone gets confused and has major denial. I want to talk a bit more about this last idea. Everyone in this novel suffers from some kind of denial at some point. Aldrea allows cognitive dissonance to creep into how she deals with Dak: she wants his help because she needs it to survive, and she knows that if the Yeerks take the Hork-Bajir as hosts, the war is going to go much worse for the Andalites. She tries to tell herself she is doing this to save the Hork-Bajir, but Dak calls her on it time and again. He rightly accuses her of doing things because she wants to kill Yeerks, not save his people—something she claims is “the same.” In many ways Dak has the fewest illusions. Clear-headed for a Hork-Bajir, he recognizes immediately how turning his people into fighters will damage their simple culture, probably beyond repair. Nevertheless, he clings to the illusion that somehow he and Aldrea together can hang on long enough for the Andalites to show up and wipe out the Yeerks. The Arn are probably the best, albeit least subtle, example of this phenomenon. Aldrea and Dak try to persuade them to fight against the Yeerks, and the Arn just shrug and go, “We’ve modified ourselves so we self-destruct if the Yeerks try to infest us. NBD.” Yeah, you can guess how well that works out for them. Unfortunately, this kind of “stick your head in the sand” mentality is prevalent in situations like this. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend there is no problem when acknowledging the problem is so uncomfortable and depressing. This discomfort is so important to acknowledge and deal with. Stories like this can be depressing because they are so bleak—we are talking genocide here, of a society if not the physical bodies of the species. But as Applegate demonstrates with the epilogue, there is a reason that these stories are important. They are a part of our history, of our cultures, and need to be told so we know what we’re fighting for now. It reminds me of the stories of residential schools and other colonial atrocities perpetrated against Indigenous peoples in Canada, both in the past and currently. It’s hard to talk about these things, but they are important because they are part of the fabric of our society. But ignoring these stories does not make their effects go away. The Andalites have long been a symbol of power in this series. Their technology is impressive. Nevertheless, Applegate always portrays them as vulnerable too. They have not learned this lesson. They are not just arrogant: they are still unable to acknowledge their shame. As Elfangor reveals in The Andalite Chronicles, the Andalite High Command covers up Alloran’s actions on the Hork-Bajir world. For all their technological supremacy, the Andalites have much to learn. At its core, Animorphs is a very moralistic series. This isn’t surprising considering Applegate’s audience; she’s trying to make points. Fundamentally, then, this book serves as a contrast to the books of the main series. It’s as if she’s saying that a single individual, even a child, can make a decision to be more moral, more upstanding, than a being with so much more experience or technology. The Animorphs continually face decisions like the ones in this book, and they always struggle—but they almost always do the right thing. And that’s kind of amazing. My reviews of Animorphs: ← #22: The Solution | #23: The Pretender → [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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Dec 2015
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Dec 2015
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Dec 01, 2015
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Paperback
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| 1594206791
| 9781594206795
| 1594206791
| 4.49
| 90,321
| Sep 25, 2015
| Sep 29, 2015
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it was amazing
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In In Order to Live: A North Korean Girl’s Journey to Freedom, Yeonmi Park simply and starkly relates her struggle, and the struggles of her family, t
In In Order to Live: A North Korean Girl’s Journey to Freedom, Yeonmi Park simply and starkly relates her struggle, and the struggles of her family, to just survive under the brutal North Korean regime and in their subsequent escape to China. She does not sugarcoat or elide any part of her suffering—nor does she glorify it, use it as an excuse to discount or erase the suffering of others. Indeed, what strikes me so profoundly about this twenty-two-year-old, who has been through more in her life than I’ll probably ever experience in mine, is the depth of her empathy and her compassion for her fellow humans. Despite growing up in a culturally stagnant and deprived society only to escape into more hardship and oppression, Park has managed not just to survive but to blossom and flourish, to become a symbol for hope and a voice against oppression. And while she shares her ambivalence over this latter turn of events, she shows us how it’s possible—perhaps even necessary—to take on such a role while retaining one’s own goals and personal ambitions. This is a coming of age story like you’ve never seen, and you better buckle up your seatbelts, because this shit gets real. It’s a very emotional read, and I found myself on the verge of tears every couple of pages; I was crying as I finished it, and not just because of Park’s anguish—but from her incredible resilience as well. There is so much in this book to talk about, so many things I learned or want to remember. I’ll mention but a few. Let’s break it down. Life in North Korea I didn’t learn much about North Korea in school. I knew it as a distinct country from South Korea, communist where the South was democratic, and isolated. I knew there had been a war, one in which Canada was, to some extent, involved. More recently, of course, North Korea has been in the news for its nuclear arms program and its posturing. So most of us know of North Korea as a political entity, and maybe we have a vague notion of what life is like for North Koreans—most live in poverty, have no access to computers or the Internet, and are raised on propaganda where Kim Il Sung and his progeny are all-powerful benefactors. Park’s simple prose is eye-opening in describing how people in North Korea actually live (or, in some cases, fail to live). Her family, based in a town bordering China far from the more stable capital city, alternates between prosperity and poverty as their father’s criminal enterprises grow and then collapse. Park explains how, for all but the most privileged families, life in North Korea is like something from medieval Europe. Forget about computers and electricity—the former non-existent outside of a few places, the latter so unreliable and unpredictable that when it’s on everyone stops what they’re doing simply to enjoy using it briefly. This is a country fully committed to realizing the end state of a corrupt communist regime imploding on itself. Park explains how the government once provided everyone with a job, housing, and food—and now it doesn’t. It can’t. The infrastructure of the country is so broken that it can’t transport fertilizer properly, so schoolchildren and adults alike have to save their own poop to use as manure. Park explains this with no trace of humour, and I wanted to laugh at how absurd it seems to us. At least in other places that experience abject poverty, people know of and aspire to something better. Not so here. Although I was surprised to learn about the burgeoning trade of smuggling bootleg DVDs out of China—Park mentions how she watched South Korean and Chinese movies and soap operas—even this act of rebellion does little to counter the programming North Koreans receive in school and society at large. It’s one thing to know about the use of propaganda and another to hear it described and explained in the words of someone who experienced it from birth. From the way she was taught arithmetic—how many American bastards you’ve killed—to people’s cognitive dissonance regarding their own poverty despite the idea that the Kims are beneficent and omnipotent—Park helps us to understand how life in North Korea continues like this. Early on, Park gives a brief history of how North Korea came to be after World War II. And of course, it’s another story of a country suffering from the Russian and American superpowers staking out their territory. Let’s just draw a line down the middle: communists in the north, democrats in the south! What could possibly go wrong? It’s bizarre to think a country like North Korea could continue to exist as it does. And while I’m not one to advocate invading a foreign country to “liberate” its people, I think there are probably more proactive steps that we outsiders could be taking to end the North Korean regime and isolation more quickly—and less violently. But first we need to understand what makes North Korea unique, and why people like Yeonmi Park go through so much to escape. I recently made the not-entirely-facetious comparison between Soviet gulags of the 1940s with the American prison system of today. But when Park says that North Korea is like one big prison camp, I understand why she is not joking. Fight and Flight for Freedom In many ways, Park’s story of her harrowing escape from North Korea and secret migration through China and Mongolia to South Korea is the most conventional, least surprising part of this book. Sadly, it doesn’t shock me that there are people out there who take advantage of desperate refugees and traffic them, selling them as slaves into marriage, to brothels, etc. Nevertheless, I was fascinated by the entire process, and by the emotional toll it takes on Park and her mother. She reaches a point where she is determined to die rather than be raped or captured and returned to North Korea … and I believed her. When they decide to run from China and try for South Korea, their conduit is through missionaries who insist they study the Bible and profess Christianity. Park shares her mixed feelings about believing in a higher power that could let North Korea continue the way it does. And she talks about how some of the pastors make her feel so ashamed and “sinful” for working as a cam girl to subsist. It’s heartbreaking that her first exposures to ideas about sex and sexuality came in this way—and then that the very people so generous and kind to help her and her mother escape also condemn what they did to survive. When relating her life in North Korea, Park is sometimes dismissive of the hardships she and her family experienced. Compared to what other families were going through, she feels that her family was often better off—even when they didn’t have enough food to eat well, or when she and her sister nearly froze to death while her mother was in Pyongyang trying to get their father out of prison. Park displays incredible empathy and compassion even when reliving her own struggles. And she does this with the section on China as well. She does not mince words when describing Hongwei, the human trafficker who purchases Park and her mother and sells the latter while trying to get Park to live as his mistress. Yet she also displays a sympathy for Hongwei’s life and choices. While not apologizing for him, she says she can understand what drove him to this career. She is not obligated to say this; she could, and maybe in all rights should be angry at and disgusted by Hongwei. But even with all her negative experiences, Park is able to show the complex and contradictory nature of humanity. Learning How to Live Again If this were fiction, In Order to Live might end with Park and her mother arriving in South Korea, getting a hero’s welcome, and settling down to a new life of freedom, justice, and the South Korean way. Maybe she would meet a shy, unassuming boy. But the problem with real life is it doesn’t hand us those kind of tidy endings. Park and her mother finally make it to South Korea. First they face interrogation—to weed out spies, sure, fair enough. But adjusting to life in South Korea proves far more complicated than they expected. Park explains how they had trouble acclimating to living on their own after spending so long in a society where individuality was punished. She makes it clear that while South Korea officially welcomes North Korean refugees, the attitude of its people can sometimes be indifferent or hostile towards individual North Koreans. And the atmosphere of excellence that pushes South Korean students to succeed creates a supercilious view that North Korean defectors can seldom catch up. Park found herself in a new “home” that was wary of her, had no idea what she had been through, and had no confidence in her ability to learn or contribute to society. Once again, Park details the hard choices she made. She reluctantly agreed to join the cast of an entertainment series starring defectors, because she thought the exposure might help her find her sister. Although the show’s intentions were benign, Park found herself and her mother exaggerating their stories of their lives and saying what they thought would play well with audiences. I can imagine few things worse for an uncertain teenage girl trying to fit into a new society than being forced not only to relive her past but retell it in new, interesting ways for the entertainment of the masses. I also liked hearing about Park’s trip to the United States and Costa Rica, and her realization that other people in the world suffer as much as people in North Korea. She confesses her own self-centred and very narrow view of the world, reminding us in the process that we all have biases and blinders. And finally, she shares her evolving perspective on her fame and notoriety, and its role in galvanizing her to write this book. I can understand her ambivalence. On one side, she has North Korea denouncing her, targeting her, pressuring her family back in the country to make up lies or face the consequences. On the other side, she has people trying to take advantage of her, twist her message, or insist that she is lying or making things up. I admit that when I first started reading I felt a twinge of cynicism. What good sceptic wouldn’t? But that also speaks to the low standard in our mass media: so much of what we see is managed, staged, or massaged to present certain perspectives. While In Order to Live certainly evokes pathos for Yeomi Park, it does not strike me as having an agenda. The prose is simple and easy to follow. She talks about the good and the bad times in North Korea, acknowledging the human drive to find the light within the darkness. She shares a journey that is complex and perhaps incredible—because often the truth is stranger than fiction. Above all else, Park reminds us that refugees are people. Recently there has been much debate about plans to take in thousands of Syrian refugees, and media portrayals and discussions of these refugees often forget that simple fact. Park is a refugee, a defector, a victim, yes—but she is also a survivor, a young woman, a scholar, an advocate, and an activist. She is, like everyone else, so many different things; she defies a single, simple label. It behoves us to recognize this and remember it when considering others who have experienced comparable struggles surviving and escaping from untenable situations. I remain moved and inspired by In Order to Live. It is without question one of the best books, if not the best book, I have read this year. Yeomi Park teaches us about North Korea, makes us aware of the depths of its wrongness, and at the same time sheds light on the amazing lengths to which people will go to obtain freedom. That’s a word that many people like to use fairly liberally, and it’s worthwhile reflecting on what it actually means to us. Park cautions us that not only do some people lack freedom, but they might not even have a proper understanding of its meaning or its possibility. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 15, 2015
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Dec 18, 2015
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Dec 01, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 0670064742
| 9780670064748
| 0670064742
| 4.33
| 690
| Sep 25, 2012
| Sep 25, 2012
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really liked it
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I didn’t go to the Vinyl Cafe Christmas Concert this year, because I was feeling burnt out and wasn’t interested in going out that weekend. It turned
I didn’t go to the Vinyl Cafe Christmas Concert this year, because I was feeling burnt out and wasn’t interested in going out that weekend. It turned out to be the last concert of the year, because Stuart McLean announced a melanoma diagnosis and cancelled the other shows. He seems positive and upbeat so far. I thought I’d dig into this, one of the more recent Vinyl Cafe collections of Dave and Morley stories, and share some thoughts on why McLean is a celebrated Canadian author. I love the Vinyl Cafe and listen to it regularly, in podcast form. It was particularly important to me during the two years I lived in the UK, because it was like a link to Canada. I would walk through the Bury St Edmunds market every Saturday morning, listening to the show and enjoying that sense of connection. McLean introduced me to a lot of Canadian musicians I wouldn’t necessarily know about, particularly the more folksy ones who don’t get a lot of airplay. But, of course, the Dave and Morley stories are the highlight of every episode. It would be easy to claim to identify with Dave, who is always getting into incredible scrapes and situations based on a combination of hapless bad luck and awkward enthusiasm. That would be reductive, though. It’s more accurate to say that I identify with elements of Dave, Morley, Stephanie, Sam, and all the other characters in McLean’s world. That’s why these stories are so powerful and compelling: these characters are archetypes for a type of modern mythology. Sorry, was I getting too literary and CanLitty there? I’ll rein myself in. Let’s try that again. I had heard pretty much every story in this collection, some of them rather recently, and enjoyed them to varying degrees. Like any short story collection, this one has some favourites and some ones I’m not likely to revisit quite as much. If you don’t enjoy “Attack of the Treadmill” then you are weird, and if you don’t get a little teary-eyed at “Rosemary Honey” or “Annie’s Turn”—stories about boyhood and growing up—then I’ll shake my head in wonder. But some of the stories, like “The House Next Door” or “Curse of the Crayfish” are funny in their own way but can’t really compete on an emotional level with the other players. Then, of course, there are the really big guns, like “Le Morte d’Arthur,” probably one of the seminal Dave and Morley stories, for all that the title implies. I get more emotional with Vinyl Cafe stories than I do for many other, perhaps even objectively “better” stories. It’s easy to parody McLean’s laconic, expansive performance style, but when you get right down to it, his actual writing is simple, clear. It’s in the twists and turns, the way the characters act and react to each other, that he manages to grab hold of you and wring from you both smiles and tears. One sentence jumps out at me now as I’m writing this. It’s from “Rhoda’s Revenge,” a story that’s kind of middle-of-the-road for this collection: it’s a good story, and I totally get if you like it, but it’s not one of my favourites. Anyway, the sentence is this: “Ten years went by.” When I read that sentence, I was reminded of the power that a storyteller has. Mere moments can last pages; or, as McLean does here, entire decades can go by with the stroke of the pen. This kind of economy of storytelling is immensely important. I remember when Battlestar Galactica jumped ahead three years at the end of a season. My initial reaction was one of shock and betrayal—how could they do that to me? Then I realized it was crucial, because the writers wanted to advance the plot to a point where they were interested in telling the story again—and in order to do that, they needed to skip a bunch of things that were important but not necessarily relevant to their point. So it was here with “Rhoda’s Revenge.” After the set-up, McLean needed to jump ahead ten years. So he did. With a single sentence. That is power. You learn a lot about writing by reading—and by reading anything. But if you wanted to learn how to write, you could do a lot worse than reading a whole bunch of Dave and Morley stories. McLean has his formulas and his themes down pat, and he continually applies them in new and fun and touching ways. Ultimately, these stories are about close human connections, the connections between individuals. It doesn’t matter if they are separated by age or space or time; somehow, some way, we can form these connections—or re-form them if they have been broken. We have an incredible capacity, as a species, for making connections on a personal level. McLean reminds us that when we make these connections, we should do so with compassion, with a sense of levity, and with a smile. [image] ...more |
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Nov 30, 2015
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Dec 03, 2015
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Nov 30, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 0374534683
| 9780374534684
| 0374534683
| 3.98
| 117,387
| Nov 01, 1962
| Jul 29, 2014
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liked it
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It’s books like One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich that make me glad I don’t do video or podcast reviews, because I cannot pronounce Aleksandr Sol
It’s books like One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich that make me glad I don’t do video or podcast reviews, because I cannot pronounce Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s last name. Indeed, as is often the case with books originally written in a language one does not speak, names of people and places would be a huge problem in this review. I don’t know how difficult a translation this was for H.T. Willetts, but I can imagine. In addition to reconciling the censorship performed both before and after Solzhenitsyn submitted this manuscript, Willetts had to contend with a uniquely dull story. That might sound odd considering the positive rating I’m giving this, but stick with me. The conceit of this novel is that it is literally one day in Ivan Denisovich’s (or Shukhov as he’s called throughout the book) life as prisoner Shcha-184 in a Soviet prison camp. And, short though it is, the novel still covers Shukhov’s entire day in great detail. So as far as plot goes, it’s dull. That’s an accurate description. There are no dragons here, not even any fights. It is just a straightforward accounting of the drudgery Shukhov faces. And that is entirely Solzhenitsyn’s intention and why this book is so successful. Most novels work by amping up the drama, by exaggerating and exacerbating. Like a Hollywood movie, they often rely on gimmicks and scenes pitched and calibrated for maximum emotional impact. They are, after all, written by storytellers—those consummate and inveterate pathological liars whose only joy comes from repeating things that aren’t true. Solzhenitsyn takes it in the opposite direction. The point here is that this isn’t just one day; this is pretty much every day for Shukhov. He wakes up, rolls out of bed, has a meagre breakfast, is force-marched to work in some godforsaken, cold place outside of the camp, and then force-marched back in the evening for an even more meagre dinner. Don’t bother trying to count the days until your release, because they’ll just slap another sentence on you. Don’t hope for a better future or spend too much time dwelling on how you’ll make a living and support your family when you get out—those things are too far gone. Just keep your head down and focus on making it through the day. If that sounds bleak, that’s because this kind of is. It is a Russian novel, after all! But actually, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is not bleak or tragic in the sense of Tolstoy’s work. It isn’t reassuring either, of course, or upbeat. It’s more resigned, though, and it reminds us that when dealing with hardship, perspective is often vital to our survival. This is just one Iay in Shukov’s life—and while the form remains the same, the substance can vary. At the end of the book, he reflects upon how this was a good day. Some of his days are much worse. Just think about that for a moment. You’re sentenced to twenty-five years in prison, with every chance that you’ll be sent back to prison on another set of trumped-up charges. You get inadequate nutrition. You have to scheme for every extra scrap and be careful to keep yourself in good health, not to mention on the good side of your gangmates. And if you don’t get caught with a piece of metal that might have been a knife, if you get a little more to eat than normal, then that is your definition of a good day. That is your new normal. I’m sitting on a couch right now, in a house with electricity and WiFi, typing this on a brand new laptop that is frankly terrifyingly fast and light. There are people who live Shukhov’s life, or some variation thereof, in this world, at this present moment. None of us would want to do that, and few of us probably could. I probably couldn’t. So this novel is a stark, unvarnished, simple portrayal of life without a horizon. It’s Of Mice and Men for the Russian gulag: these guys are never going to have their cabin and pet their rabbits. It’s a reminder that for all the small, unfortunate things that happen throughout our day, our lives could be worse. I also want to talk about how it chronicles, as a kind of historical footnote these days, the perversity of the corrupt Soviet penal system. But considering how messed up the penal system is in so-called “civilized” Western states, I think that’s a bit … optimistic. These prison camps haven’t disappeared, just metamorphosed into newer, fresher hells. It’s in this sense that One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is still relevant. Solzhenitsyn’s observations are simple and to-the-point. There is little embroidery here, yet this starkness is in itself a kind of poetry. This is a book that is beautiful because of its simplicity. While it’s not interesting in the sense of providing excitement, it is still rewarding and fascinating. I don’t envy Shukhov, and I’m glad I happen to be lucky enough to have the privilege that I do. Reading books like this reminds me of that privilege, however, and why we need to keep fighting for democracy—even if we think we have it already on paper. [image] ...more |
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Nov 28, 2015
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Nov 29, 2015
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Nov 28, 2015
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Paperback
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| 1596436581
| 9781596436589
| 1596436581
| 3.81
| 38,925
| Oct 14, 2014
| Oct 14, 2014
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liked it
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What happens when you meet someone online and you’re struck by a sudden need to help them, but they live on the other side of the world and don’t spea
What happens when you meet someone online and you’re struck by a sudden need to help them, but they live on the other side of the world and don’t speak English? Jen Wang and Cory Doctorow ponder the intricacies that teenagers have to deal with, often on their own, in our globalized world. There’s a lot to like about In Real Life, so let’s get into it. Firstly, the obvious: this is a story about gamers and gaming, but as the title implies, it treats these things as serious aspects of “real life.” Much like The Guild shows how a group of people manage to forge some pretty strong—albeit strange—bonds through gaming together, Anda’s experience playing Coarsegold changes her perspective on many real-world issues. Doctorow and Wang remind us that games are not merely distractions or diversions. They can be educational, informative, and thought-provoking—often unintentionally. Doctorow says in the introduction that this is a story about economics. That’s true, in that Anda learns the basics of labour issues and trade unions, as well as the slightly newer economy involved in gold farming. Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention to those themes, though, because I never felt the economic message was all that overt—except perhaps at the very end, when Anda helps some of the other Chinese gold farmers to organize a little. Instead, what impressed me more was the way In Real Life charts Anda’s growth, particularly her self-confidence. I love the way Wang portrays Anda as a teenager who just happens to be overweight. There’s no big deal. The only time weight comes up is in the context of ice cream, and even then it’s Anda’s mother commenting about her father’s weight. Nevertheless, as you might expect, Anda’s physical appearance and nerdy interests mean she’s on the quiet side. It’s nice to see her grow and become more confident, and Wang very successfully uses visual storytelling to enhance this. For example, we see Anda peer down a supermarket aisle of haircare products—then cut to her dying her hair red to match her game avatar’s. In Real Life is body-positive, and it prominently features a variety of women and personalities. From aggressive, fiery Lucy/Sarge to the commanding, imposing Liza we get women with different attitudes and priorities. And then there’s Steph. When this skinny “prep” girl crashes the Sci-Fi club asking for help starting a “board game club,” she gets rebuffed. And I totally thought it would be a case of the nerds “taking down” the preppy girl for being mean—because that’s how we’re programmed to see the narrative. It’s so much more complex than that, and I really like the follow-up and payoff that happens near the end of the book. It’s an empowering reminder that people with different interests can work together. Similar to the no-big-deal portrayal of Anda’s body type, Wang and Doctorow also show her in a programming class, coding games, and in the Sci-Fi club, playing D&D like a boss. The message here is subtle but all-too-welcome: girls, you can be gamers; you can be coders; you can like D&D. It’s just something Anda does, and by making it background instead of foregrounding it as a “struggle,” they send the message that this is normal—as it should be. Other than Anda, most of the characters are not well-developed. Her parents in particular are pretty stock, with Anda’s mother stereotypically overreacting to Anda’s online activities. I understand the need, in some cases, for this kind of shorthand to advance the story. Still, it’s a noticeable shallow area in a graphic novel that otherwise reaches deeper than you might expect. In Real Life is a fun graphic novel that combines the best aspects of this form with Doctorow’s usual didactic flair. It’s a quick read—I read it in one sitting over lunch—but a worthwhile one. Despite this brevity, there is so much going on here. Adults like me can get a lot out of it, and I expect teenagers will also find it enjoyable and appealing. Above all else, while it shows challenges and onflict, its message is overwhelmingly positive and encouraging: you can do the thing. [image] ...more |
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Dec 19, 2015
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Dec 19, 2015
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Nov 27, 2015
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Paperback
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| 4.00
| 14
| unknown
| Apr 2012
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really liked it
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In my previous review I talked in broad terms about why I enjoy Supernormal Step, because I just wanted to outline why it’s worth spending your precio
In my previous review I talked in broad terms about why I enjoy Supernormal Step, because I just wanted to outline why it’s worth spending your precious time on a new webcomic/graphic novel. In Volume 2 (Chapters 4–6 of the webcomic), Michael Lee Lunsford broadens our understanding of Fiona and the main cast, but not before Fiona temporarily leaves them behind in search of solitude. (Hint: That does not work out well for her.) Despite this being a serious story in many respects, humour is replete in this comic, and the opening to Chapter 4 is a great example. Fiona is just coming to terms with her “hero status” in the small town she fled to in Chapter 3. So, of course, it's a major inconvenience when she gets waylaid on her way to work one morning and asked to fight an mad scientist’s robot creation. Britta’s polite, meek apologies for disturbing Fiona at an awkward time contrasted with her thirst for battle and desire to capture Fiona, per her orders, are truly hilarious. However, this volume is probably most notable for the amount of backstory Lunsford gives us. We learn more about Fiona’s relationship with her father, as well as the relationship between her father and Jim, who is also from her world. (I should point out that, while it’s easy to assume that Fiona comes from our Earth, Lunsford doesn’t come out and say that in the comics. It’s possible Fiona comes from an Earth that’s similar but also parallel to ours.) Van tells us about how he was raised in adolescence by a blood mage who wears a skull on his head (but hey, let’s not be prejudiced) until he fell in love with a vampire with a thick Scottish brogue. And then things come to a head with Henderson. It’s becoming clear that there are more pieces at play than anyone thought—Van and Jim did not pull Fiona here by accident, despite their believing it was a mistake. But who is really pulling the strings? We’re just as much in the dark as Fiona, even though we have the benefit of seeing some things she doesn’t. But I love the suspense, the knowledge that there are plots hatched in the dark, and the idea that Fiona will bring them to light one way or the other (but at what cost?). This volume ends on a downer for Van, in a way (and a wake-up call in others). But Fiona and troop as a whole now have a direction, a sense of purpose. Fiona’s working relationship with Henderson remains … tenuous at best; he hasn’t exactly threatened her so much as waggled his eyebrows gravely in her direction. Although we’ve seen the products of Henderson’s skill and power, i.e., the invincibility and irascibility of Hall and Eva, he has yet to demonstrate his own power “on screen.” (That being said, we are led to believe he took down a vampire and his goons single-handedly.) We know he’s not quite on the level though, what with Hall’s suspicions and now Fiona’s incentive to go digging. My reviews of Supernormal Step: ← Vol. 1: Runaway | Vol. 3: Power Struggle → [image] ...more |
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Nov 27, 2015
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Nov 27, 2015
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Nov 26, 2015
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| 4.06
| 17
| unknown
| Apr 2012
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really liked it
| Serial webcomics are hard. Pacing and scheduling are a must, and even we readers can have trouble keeping plotlines straight. I completely understand Serial webcomics are hard. Pacing and scheduling are a must, and even we readers can have trouble keeping plotlines straight. I completely understand why some people don't follow a comic regularly but instead binge every few weeks after a chapter has finished. Supernormal Step is one of my favourite webcomics and one of the few serial webcomics I read regularly. It's about Fiona Dae, a woman pulled into a strange parallel universe where magic exists and all sorts of non-human creatures co-exist … um … not so peacefully at times. Fiona finds herself with power of her own, but more importantly she becomes an object of interest to certain powerful people. So she quickly find herself on the run even while she tries to figure out how to get back to her world. Michael Lee Lunsford has created an impressive world here. The very first chapter starts in media res, with Fiona already having spent some time with Jim and Van (and already quick sick and tired of them, naturally). As comics are wont to do, we're right in the thick of it, with magic battles and larger-than-life characters dominating each page. It's confusing at first, sure. But it gets better once you understand that you really only need the basics: Hendersons, heroes, magic, curses, and portals, oh my! Once you accept that, hey, some people are penguins or robots, and yeah, that Mr. Kite is up to no good, then you’ve pretty much got the gist of what’s going down. The true pleasure then comes from seeing the hints of depth to Lunsford’s world. There is so much more story to Supernormal Step than meets the eye, and Lunsford does an excellent job implying it with every panel and speech bubble. And then there are the characters. Fiona is gutsy and opinionated, strongly influenced by her homeschooled upbringing by her father. She can hold her own in this world—but at times it’s very clear how close she is to just freaking out and shutting down. In this way, Lunsford portrays her as more than just “a badass girl”—she’s three dimensional, vulnerable as well as strong, sympathetic as well as sassy. It's tempting to describe her arc as kind of following the Hero’s Journey, but that wouldn’t be accurate—while Fiona is increasing in power and command of her abilities, her journey is much rougher than the straightforward progression the traditional Hero’s Journey implies. Van and Jim are excellent supporting characters. As with how he presents the world itself, Lunsford heavily implies that both have deeply checkered pasts we’ll hear about in the future. Jim, of course, is a superpowered badass levels above Fiona—when he isn’t forced into the form of a stuffed bunny by a temperamental, unseen judge who punishes him for bad deeds. Some of the almost overwhelming aspect of Supernormal Step might come from the sheer number of characters Lunsford introduces so he can populate this world; he makes it seem like every character, no matter how minor, has secondary motivations or is running games on the side. From Cecilia to Akela to Hall and Eva, there’s just so much going on here. This first volume isn’t so much, “Gee, whiz, look at that!” as “Gee, whiz, I can’t wait to learn more about this!” I don't talk much about the art when I review comics/graphic novels, because I'm not much of an artist or art critic (despite hanging around an art gallery for nigh-on ten years now in return for minimum wage). One of the pleasures of reading a long-running comic like this is seeing how the artist’s style evolves. Indeed, if you start from the beginning or pick up this volume, you’ll see that the first chapter has a very different style and feel to it from subsequent chapters. (Alternatively, Lunsford remade Chapter 1 and summarized the rest of Part 1 of the story at the end of Part 2, which might help new readers.) I love watching Lunsford do new things with his panels and character poses. Perhaps my favourite thing about the way he draws is his ability to convey so much emotion with his characters’ arms/stances. Even from a distance or in a silhouette, a character’s posture says everything about what they’re feeling. This talent allows him to save on text and use it to convey other information, and it results in some beautiful panels. My favourite example from this volume is this page, where Daisy throws up her arms, yelling, “Ah! Massive downer! We need to fix this ASAP!” and then continues to talk in a quick, clipped manner in the next panel as she practically forces Fiona to her hairdresser. Love it. The nice thing about a volume collecting a webcomic is that you don’t have to take my word for it; you can just read it all yourself, for free. I bought the hard copy version because I wanted to support the creator, I hate reading one page at a time on a screen on the website, and I can’t take an ereader into my bath with me. As far as the physical book goes, it looks and feels just like you’d expect any trade edition of a graphic novel to feel. (It’s also available as an ebook, though, if that’s your fancy.) Next up I’ll review Volume 2, and I’ll share my thoughts on Fiona’s arc, Henderson, and the backstories Lunsford reveals. My reviews of Supernormal Step: Vol. 2: A Fine Ado → [image] ...more |
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Nov 26, 2015
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Nov 26, 2015
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Nov 26, 2015
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| 0307359948
| 9780307359940
| 0307359948
| 3.74
| 1,466
| Aug 07, 2014
| Aug 12, 2014
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really liked it
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I'm always down for some historical/mythological fiction in a comedic style, so The Table of Less Valued Knights seemed like a good proposition. Marie
I'm always down for some historical/mythological fiction in a comedic style, so The Table of Less Valued Knights seemed like a good proposition. Marie Phillips delivers an Arthurian quest beset with archetypes, allusions, and anachronisms. Her characters quip like they're in a Christopher Moore novel (albeit slightly less self-aware) and her vision of Knights of Camelot is every bit as decadently absurd as Monty Python's. There. Have I name-dropped enough comparisons yet? Good. Let's get on with it. The story starts a little slow, actually, and for the first part I was somewhat skeptical as to how much I would end up enjoying it. This type of humour is easy to get wrong (as evidenced by how inconsistently I've enjoyed Moore's work). While there's nothing wrong with Sir Humphrey and the idea of a "Less Valued Table of Knights" who have been demoted from the Round Table over the years, none of it particularly grabbed my attention. Indeed, it isn't until Martha shows up and steals the show that this story gets going. Queen Martha of Tuft has a tough time of it, especially after she kinda-sorta becomes a man, in that classic "gender swap/mistaken identity" trope. Phillips creates an interesting character here: in many ways, Martha is naïve. She knows little of life outside a castle (has no idea of the value of money, for instance). Yet she also has many skills she once perceived as pointless, such as the ability to speak many foreign languages. Her observations of Humphrey and Conrad and attempts to fit in and emulate maleness are funny, sure, but they're also part of a larger commentary on gender that Phillips weaves throughout the book. Stories like this, stories that poke fun at the tropes and shorthand we've constructed of medieval worlds and legends like Arthuriana, are valuable. It's one thing to strive for "historically accurate" fiction and another to just take a can-opener to history and tear the top off to find out what lies beneath. The Table of Less Valued Knights starts as a light-hearted, humorous story. Yet the deeper I went, the more plot I found. Martha's a wonderful protagonist, and her reviled husband, Edwin, is an equally wonderful antagonist. He starts off as a stock, stereotypical villain type: a lascivious lout with no respect, for women or for men, and far too big an opinion of his own cunning. But Phillips soon lends substance to his pomp, showing that Edwin has some teeth. The moment he goes from comical thorn in the side to actual villain is pretty shocking, in the sense that I'm surprised the author lets him get away with it. This sense—that the characters are more two-dimensional actors in the author's drama—does run throughout the story, and it's possible this could be a bigger problem for you than it was for me. Phillips never quite breaks the fourth wall like other authors do (and I love me some fourth-wall breaking), but the narrative structure is both absurd and serendipitous at points. You kind of just have to go with it, and want to enjoy this type of book. Wishing it's something more complex is only going to get you disappointment. I was ambivalent about The Table of Less Valued Knights when I began, but by the end I had a smile on my face. Surprises like that are always welcome; here I was starting a book I thought I'd like at best, and I ended up having a much better time. It's not even the over-arching plot or the characters so much as all the little bits Phillips throws in—like the dwarf manning the customs post at the border of Tuft showing up again at the border of Grint, much to Edwin's irritation and surprise. It's these little things that show how much fun Phillips must have had inhabiting this universe, and when the fun an author has shines through, the experience is that much better for a reader. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 21, 2015
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Nov 25, 2015
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Nov 22, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 1594745269
| 9781594745263
| 1594745269
| 3.66
| 101,169
| Sep 23, 2014
| Sep 23, 2014
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it was ok
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So, this was bizarre. Horrorstör is a wacky horror novel. It's set in an American knock-off of Ikea called Orsk. This particular Orsk store is haunted, So, this was bizarre. Horrorstör is a wacky horror novel. It's set in an American knock-off of Ikea called Orsk. This particular Orsk store is haunted, however, and three employees stay overnight to get to the bottom of it. Grady Hendrix attempts to enhance the novel through a number of artistic gimmicks ranging from the chapter titles/descriptions to the entire design of the book. As far as the design goes, it's a nifty idea. It would get annoying fast if every book did this, and to some extent I started ignoring it towards the end. Just give me the story, damn it! However, it creates some nostalgia for kids' books. At some point along the way, my novels stopped trying. When I was younger they were shiny and glittery and full of bonus games and pop-out cardboard figures and holographic covers. Then gradually, the sheen faded and the glitter receded, leaving only the most minimalist and "professional" of designs. It says something interesting about our society's aesthetics around reading and books that what Hendrix attempts here is somewhat unusual. Of course a gimmick is usually a way to prop up a poor story. I don't think that's the case here. The story actually has everything it needs to be engaging: a diverse ensemble cast with clear motivations, a clearly-defined threat and conflict, and plenty of twists and turns to keep people guessing. Indeed, the characterization in particular impresses me. All the main characters get a fair amount of development. Amy, the protagonist, is not all that likable (but is still fairly sympathetic). And while Basil begins the story as your stereotypical "I drank the Kool-Aid" manager, we eventually see there are other sides to him. Where Horrorstör begins to lose me is the attempt to blend different tones of humour in with the horror. As the novel opens, Hendrix wants to satirize the emptiness of working day-in/day-out for a massive furniture retailer. Elements of this satire persist throughout the story. Meanwhile, we also see parodies of everything from ghost-hunting reality TV shows to the subversion of the "kindly, quiet middle-aged woman" trope. The book just puts so much on the shelf, to borrow an improv term, and it doesn't always come back for some pay-off. The ending in particular feels like a let-down (but then again, what ending to a horror story isn't?). After a lengthy, somewhat confusing, but definitely intense journey inside Orsk, the survivors emerge ... and then leave? And then some time passes before the novel implies a Horrorstör 2 is about to happen. Smash-cut to artsy credits while a rock song popular in the early 2000s plays. I would make this review longer (maybe), but I'm writing this in Windows and am seriously missing my Compose key for inserting these accented characters. Horrorstör brings it. I don't know exactly what "it" is, but it's at least brought. I'm not sure there's a clear audience for this--is it for horror fans? Horror parody fans? Parody fans? Furniture store fans? I shrug. It doesn't really achieve top marks in any category, but I stayed engaged, and I enjoyed the ride. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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Nov 15, 2015
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Nov 15, 2015
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Nov 15, 2015
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| 1770894411
| 9781770894419
| 1770894411
| 3.52
| 183
| Jan 01, 2014
| Nov 14, 2015
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liked it
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Lars Winkler is a detective’s detective: recently separated, semi-not-involved with a coworker, semi-involved with a nurse, and occasionally he solves
Lars Winkler is a detective’s detective: recently separated, semi-not-involved with a coworker, semi-involved with a nurse, and occasionally he solves mysteries on the side. Also he’s Danish. So there’s that. Full disclosure: I received this as an ARC from House of Anansi Press in exchange for a review. You too can send me free books, and I will review them (even if you don’t want me to). The Scream of the Butterfly is the second novel in the Lars Winkler series, but it’s easy to jump into this book with no prior knowledge. Jakob Melander builds out both Lars and the supporting cast even as he flashes back to events from 16 years previous. Lars must unravel the murder of the Mayor of Copenhagen, but his mother, the finance minister in the national government, is determined to cover up anything that could jeopardize her party’s standing in the upcoming election. Intense! Political! Drama! So this isn’t just a mystery or a crime thriller: it’s a political crime thriller! Normally I don’t read those (I’m not much for straight-up crime thrillers either), and I tend to approach them with a certain amount of scepticism. I want to be clear about this upfront, because some of my criticisms of this book might not be criticisms in your eyes if you’re a fan of this genre. I was impressed by the way Melander manages multiple plots, both developing them independently and tying them together in time for the climax. In addition to the murder of Mogens Winther-Sørenson, Lars has to figure out the story of Serafine, a trans woman and witness to the crime. This all seems to have something to do with a month in 1999 when Mogens took a leave of absence from being mayor—but every time Lars tries to find any information on this, he comes up empty. Meanwhile, Serafine is on the run, people are hunting her, and the murderer is still at large. To solve the case, Lars and his colleagues must investigate a refugee centre from a decade ago and deal with a traitor in their department. It’s worth spending some time talking about Serafine and Melander’s portrayal of a transgender person. In many ways, Serafine is as much of a main character in this book as Lars—she receives quite a bit of the narrator’s time, and the novel itself is called Serafine in the original Danish. She is connected to Mogens beyond being the last person to see him alive. Indeed, Serafine’s story and relationship with the victim is a great example of the types of causal conundrums police face when solving crimes. Distrustful of cops, Serafine spends much of the story on the run, trying to survive while being pursued by a mysterious villain, and searching for the money and treatment she needs to feel more comfortable in her body. As a cis-man, I don’t want to claim any expertise on transgender issues. So I’ll just say that I find Melander’s portrayal of Serafine a sympathetic and sensitive one. When Melander first reveals Serafine is transgender, the characters start bandying about words like transsexual and transvestite—but they are quickly corrected. Lars, for all his other faults, accepts that Serafine is a woman and should be addressed using feminine pronouns—because even if she has the body of a man, that’s how she wants to be addressed, so why not? Melander attempts to convey Serafine’s distress over being unable to continue her hormone replacement therapy, of feeling trapped in a body that fights her at every corner. I only wish that the other characters were half as well-developed as Serafine. There are numerous supporting characters in The Scream of the Butterfly. Indeed, I like how Lars works constructively with his colleagues. Although there is friction between him and Ulrik and between him and Sanne, they remain professional. This is a nice change from crime thrillers that capitalize on manufactured drama. Unfortunately, these supporting characters are paper-thin to the point of being stock. As I mentioned above, one of the subplots of the book involve a leak in the department, and the lack of character development means we never get a sense of the motives behind the person who is ultimately responsible (and really, it’s hard for us to guess who might be responsible beforehand, because all the characters seem the same). Similarly, the motives of the murderer fail to impress. Melander builds the mystery to an intense and confrontational climax between Lars and the killer, but it’s fraught with cliché. At one point the killer has the upper hand and literally says, “I suppose you have a right to know” before explaining the reason he killed Mogens. And as helpful as this spoon-fed exposition might be, the explanation itself is unsatisfying. Of course, if crime thrillers are your thing, then you may be more tolerant of these tropes than I am. The chase is high-octane, and the conflict between Lars and other characters, such as the formidable Merethe Winther-Sørenson, is very satisfying. I love the way that Lars is blocked at every turn by a shadowy political machine determined to keep its party safe from scandal, even at the expense of justice. Through this subplot, as well as the flashbacks that reveal more of Mogens’ background and Merethe’s treatment of her granddaughter, Sarah, Melander makes some keen commentary on the nature of political dynasties, and how they affect both the countries they rule and the people who grow up within them. So The Scream of the Butterfly is a competent and compelling murder mystery wrapped inside a political thriller. It features a transgender character prominently and in a positive way. And while I didn’t much enjoy the reveals behind the guilty parties, the political aspects of the story, combined with the way Lars confronts them, were enough to keep me hooked. I might not remember this novel years down the road, but it’s a satisfying read for a day or two. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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Nov 11, 2015
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Nov 14, 2015
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Nov 11, 2015
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| 0590762559
| 9780590762557
| 0590762559
| 4.08
| 3,975
| Jan 01, 1998
| Oct 1998
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it was amazing
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I’m trying to be sparing with my five stars in this series, but oh man … Rachel. Applegate just always breaks my heart with her, and The Solution is y
I’m trying to be sparing with my five stars in this series, but oh man … Rachel. Applegate just always breaks my heart with her, and The Solution is yet another perfect example. In the conclusion to the David trilogy, Rachel is instrumental in implementing the titular “solution” to the Animorphs’ problem. It is ironic that a human enemy, rather than a Yeerk one, forces the Animorphs to be at their coldest yet. Let’s just catalogue what Rachel has to endure in this book. Jake tells Ax to “get Rachel” instead of anyone else. This haunts Rachel for the length of the story: why did Jake send Ax for her, specifically, rather than Cassie or Marco? When she confronts him, he claims he needed the firepower of her morphs—but they both recognize this is a thin excuse. In actuality, Rachel has a ruthlessness that the other Animorphs lack. This is not the first time Applegate has drawn our attention to it, but it is the first time Jake, as leader, has taken tactical advantage of it. Rachel crosses a line. Until now, the most morally dubious action in this series, in my opinion, is what Tobias and Ax conspire to do in In the Time of the Dinosaurs . And that was a much more utilitarian decision than Rachel’s actions here. Having seen the lengths to which David is willing to go, Rachel snaps. She threatens to kill him. She threatens to take down his family. Rachel shows that she is prepared to cross any line to deal with David. It’s scary. And it scares her. When storming the resort to prevent the Yeerks from making world leaders into Controllers, Rachel encounters the President of the United States. She’s in elephant morph, and she’s not doing too well: I swear I had to fight down the urge to say, “It's an honor to meet you, sir.” But blood was flowing down my face and I was feeling dizzy. The bullets had done some damage. I keep saying this, but I’ll just reiterate: these aren’t kids’ novels any more, if ever they were. Applegate doesn’t pull punches. These fights are visceral—earlier, she talks about Jake in tiger morph lying in a pool of his own blood. Let’s not even mention all the times she has to morph quickly in hostile environments—she nearly drowns here when she’s trying to get into dolphin morph. Rachel is going through experiences that I, as an adult, probably wouldn’t be able to get through. Finally, Applegate reminds us that Rachel’s relationship with this war is only going to get more troubling. Jake likens it to an alcoholic with booze and expresses regret for his role in enabling Rachel’s warrior passion. Jokes about Xena aside, there’s definitely something to be said for Applegate making the stereotypically blonde-haired, blue-eyed “pretty” and fashion-obsessed Rachel the warlike one. But what breaks my heart is just the knowledge that this is the beginning of Rachel’s descent into darkness, not the nadir. It gets worse! And I say this not just with the foreknowledge from having read this series long ago but thanks to Applegate’s foreshadowing in this book. Rachel will always have to live with her role in eliminating the threat of David, in condemning him to a face that, in some respects, in much worse than simply killing him. I feel so sorry for the Animorphs that they have to make these decisions, and for Rachel in particular. While her guilt shows that, unlike David, she is not too far-gone, that guilt itself is a burden she should not have to bear. My reviews of Animorphs: ← #21: The Threat | The Hork-Bajir Chronicles → [image] ...more |
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Nov 09, 2015
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Nov 09, 2015
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Nov 09, 2015
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| 1250007135
| 9781250007131
| 1250007135
| 4.14
| 13,433
| Nov 04, 2014
| Nov 04, 2014
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it was amazing
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So let’s say you’re unsure on this whole evolution thing. You’ve got questions. But, for one reason or another, science never stuck with you in school
So let’s say you’re unsure on this whole evolution thing. You’ve got questions. But, for one reason or another, science never stuck with you in school. Maybe your classes (or teachers, sigh) were a bit on the boring side—lots of memorization and dull textbooks, and no explosions, no episodes of Bill Nye the Science Guy on VHS on the bulky 27" CRT television wheeled out from the A/V cabinet (ahhh, those were the days). Or maybe you had the misfortune to attend an underfunded public school in the United States—worse still, one in a state where politicians have decided that little things like “facts” don’t belong in curricula. Evolution is “just a theory,” and so you aren’t taught about it, at least not properly. Let’s say you’re one of those people. Because they exist, and if some people have their way, these people will become more numerous. The scientifically semi-literate, they will have a working knowledge of technology and a basic grasp of science, but they will drift through life forever uncertain and apprehensive of the controversial strides we are making because of science. And this is not their fault. It’s not something inherently wrong with them, a closed-mindedness they were born with or inculcated early at birth. They weren’t raised by a backwater cult. They simply had the misfortune to be educated in a broad swath of the United States. I’m not one of these people, of course. I was lucky enough to grow up in Ontario, Canada; while our education system is far from perfect, its science curriculum is fact-based at least. Although I don’t have the patience, determination, or fiddly manual dexterity to become a scientist myself (I went the more abstract route of mathematics!), I grew up with a great fascination of and respect for science and scientists. Bill Nye’s educational children’s show was a huge part of that. It is not exaggerating to say that he inspired my generation towards STEM careers. Undeniable: Evolution and the Science of Creation is Nye’s attempt to reach out to those who weren’t so lucky to receive that education the first go round. At least, that’s what it seems to me. He wrote this book as a follow-up to his debate with Ken Ham. But here, as there, his goal is not to try to persuade hardcore creationists. And even more so than in the debate, this book is not about evolution versus creationism so much as it is about evolution full stop. I already knew a good deal about evolution, and much of what Nye talks about is not new to me—but I still learned, because his prose is straightforward and his explanations accessible. This is the book about evolution for those who are genuinely curious or confused but don’t know how to find out more information. Nye brings a huge amount of compassion to the table, something scientists and sceptics (ahem, Dawkins) fail to do. Although he is unfailingly critical of creationism, Nye is not here to harangue or lecture the reader. And his aims are, as they were when he was the star of that beloved TV show, to educate: Frankly, my concern is not so much for the deniers of evolution as it is for their kids. We cannot address the problems facing humankind today without science—both the body of scientific knowledge and, more important, the process. Science is the way in which we know nature and our place within it. As a teacher, this is hugely important to me. One of the current—and, sadly, most effective—tactics used by creationist lobbies is the “teach the controversy” model, where science teachers must present creationism (or its gussied-up cousin, intelligent design) as a viable alternative theory alongside evolution, as if there were some debate amongst scientists it. This attempt to legitimize creationism as “creation science” and the use of pseudoscientific lines of reasoning in creationist arguments is pernicious and troubling, because creationism is not science. Nye makes this distinction clear from the beginning: science is open-ended and always changing; creationism is a fixed, closed worldview not amenable to new evidence or theories. Creationism’s textbook, the Bible, hasn’t changed (aside from translations) in over a millennium. And for a religious text, that is absolutely fine—like Nye (and unlike Dawkins) I have no problem with the idea that religion and science can coexist, and that you can be a scientifically-minded religious person, or a religious scientist. But as a scientific text, that is bonkers. Though The Origin of Species might be the seminal work on evolution, that doesn’t mean it’s a holy text for scientists. Darwin is widely lauded as the “father of evolution,” but his was the spark. Generations of scientists since then have carried the idea farther. Along the way we learned about genes and DNA, and we understand so much more than we did in the 1860s. And that’s wonderful. I agree wholeheartedly with Nye when he argues that creationism is an inherently useless perspective, because it will never lead to anything new. Creationism attempts to couch its beliefs in scientific language these days, but scratch the surface and you soon arrive at “God did it.” Again, as a religious argument this is fine. But as a scientific argument it is worthless, because we can’t extrapolate from “God did it.” Creationism insists that our world cannot be investigated in a systematic way—that, in fact, for some reason this all-loving creator has gone out of its way to fool us with all these fake fossils and sediments and whatnot. If that is the case, then how could we hope to learn more about how the world works, and in so doing, invent new things and improve our ways of life for everyone? The mutability of science with evidence is huge, and Nye has demonstrated this. In this very book, chapter 30 is all about GMOs (genetically modified organisms) and how he thinks we should “slow down” because there’s something very “unnatural” about putting fish genes in a tomato. I really don’t like this chapter; even though he is apprehension about GMOs is legitimate, it feels like he is falling back on a lot of unscientific and emotional appeals here. He is right that we should be concerned about GMOs and we need to think carefully about how we are creating/using them. Nevertheless, Nye has fulfilled the statement he made at the Ken Ham debate and reiterates in this book: in the face of evidence, he changed his mind about GMOs. Because that’s how science works. I also share Nye’s bemusement over the fact that evolution is, by and large, singled out among scientific theories as controversial. Few enough people argue about the principles that underline, say, aircraft or computers or phones. Physics is somehow less controversial—maybe because all that math makes it harder for laypeople to debate? (I mean, there are areas of the internet were people seriously talk about relativity as if it is a “liberal conspiracy,” but nowhere near to the extent as the popular debate over evolution). I suppose it’s easy enough to ignore the parts of the Bible that feel dated these days. But we can’t do that with science. As Nye explains in this book, evolution is inextricably linked to the chemical and physical properties of the universe—and is a consequence of those properties. It is illogical and irrational to take the parts and fruits of scientific discovery you feel comfortable with but discard the ones that disagree with your pet worldview. Nye responds to this exasperation with the same exuberance for science that inspired so many watching his TV show. For Nye, and for myself and so many others, science is just awesome. It’s so amazing to think about the processes that led to me and you. Like A Short History of Nearly Everything , this book’s enthusiasm and love for science and learning rings loudly. Undeniable is also one of the most accessible popular science books on evolution you’re likely to find. The chapters are short, averaging about 8 pages each, and there are no equations—but hey, Nye does include some sketches he drew himself! Drawing on his decades as a science communicator, Nye is able to use analogies and plain English to explain these complicated processes. And while there are areas I notice he elides, for the most part his accounts are both accurate and accessible, which is not easy to do. So if you like science but want to know how to talk about evolution in mixed company, this is the book for you. Or if you’re open-minded but genuinely not sure about evolution, this is the book for you. There is no test at the end. But really, I think the most controversial thing Bill Nye mentions in this book is that he read Fifty Shades of Grey. My entire world is shaken, Bill! [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 26, 2015
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Dec 27, 2015
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Nov 08, 2015
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Hardcover
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| 1927400376
| 9781927400371
| 1927400376
| 4.18
| 11
| Nov 01, 2013
| Nov 01, 2013
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liked it
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So you’re fourteen years old, and you’re on a vision quest. It’ll be another hundred years or so before Europeans show up and tell your people that, a
So you’re fourteen years old, and you’re on a vision quest. It’ll be another hundred years or so before Europeans show up and tell your people that, actually, Turtle Island is going to be called “North America” and was empty before they showed up. But I digress. You want to get a vision so you can become a man, but this stupid turtle just won’t shut up … ohhhhh. Meanwhile, you’re fourteen years old, and you’re walking along the train tracks, even though your dad told you not to, because who listens to their dad? He’s just a police officer with a totally rational fear of his kid getting hit by a train. You’re just minding your own business, avoiding a bully and saving a train from derailing because one of the tracks is out. You didn’t ask to meet Gathering Cloud and help him fight off a wendigo. It’s always a pleasure to receive as a gift a good book that you would otherwise probably not know about. My friend Carly gave me Out of Time because she was intrigued by the promise of a time travel novel set on the shores of Lake Superior and including Anishinabe mythology. The lives of two fourteen-year-old boys from very different times and places collide, allowing them to work together to vanquish a monster and learn more about themselves in the process. It’s an adventure combined with an after-school special in that most Canadian of storytelling traditions. Out of Time succeeds largely because David Laderoute keeps it simple. There’s a contained cast of characters, a clear enemy, and a clear goal. The plot is simple too, the arc almost predictable—but that doesn’t mean it’s unfulfilling. The way Laderoute allows the boys to defeat the wendigo temporarily, only for it to come back stronger and with a vengeance, is pretty clever. While the moments of moral clarity, as I want to call them, are a little heavy-handed, I think this is a common problem in YA (and maybe I’m wrong to call them a problem—maybe they should be this way, and it’s only my overexposure to Star Trek: The Next Generation that makes all this moral stuff look obvious to me). Time travel gimmicks and cultural allusions aside, this is a novel about courage in the face of selfishness. It’s about being prepared to sacrifice, and about knowing when you need to stand up for others even if you’re going to get hurt in the process. It’s about choosing your battles, knowing when to wait instead of rushing forward, and always respecting and listening to the counsel of others. There is plenty of “message” here, but it’s paired with a fairly slick action-adventure. Moreover, the book generally avoids falling into any of the sundry sub-genres that seem to have sprung up in YA in the past decade: it’s not dystopian, or about gangs, or overly-concerned with high school and dating. There are no vampires, werewolves, angels, or ghosts here. Well maybe ghosts. And I’m not trying to disparage those sub-genres or tropes if they are your thing—but if they aren’t, then you’ll find Out of Time that refreshment you want. And of course, as a Thunder Bay resident, there’s always the thrill of seeing one’s home turf portrayed in a book. In this case it’s the smaller, fictional community of Stone Harbour. But it feels very Thunder Bay at some moments, and that’s what matters. Gathering Cloud and Riley are both viable, vivid protagonists. They are similar in a lot of ways, as energetic and inquisitive fourteen-year-old boys are wont to be. Laderoute points out their differences across time and culture but doesn’t belabour the point. Handwaving the magic of the time travel and the language barriers aside, there’s the right amount of confusion when the two first meet, and of course the hilarity of Cloud trying to navigate a world of telephones and trains. I sincerely hope that he didn’t catch any diseases while in our time. It would suck if he went back to the past only to communicate something to his entire tribe. We’re going to be optimistic here and say that didn’t happen…. Similarly, Laderoute doesn’t give us much perspective on whether Riley uses this as an opportunity to continue learning about First Nations beliefs and culture. Again, let’s be optimistic. Although Out of Time features a creature of aboriginal myth as its antagonist, not to mention several other prominent spirits, it actually doesn’t portray any contemporary indigenous people. Riley attempts to pass Cloud off as “an aboriginal kid, you know, from the reserve up the highway,” a dubious proposition at best. And look, it’s great to increase the visibility of aboriginal culture, beliefs, and ideas in this way, and to show someone like Riley interacting positively with an indigenous person from any time. However, I just want to use this opportunity to point out that what we really need in our contemporary Canadian YA market are more books that feature relationships between white and indigenous youth. Moreover, with this approach Laderoute inadvertently perpetuates a common trope: Indigenous peoples are figures of the past and erased or invisible in our present. Moreover, I think it’s worthwhile to question whether a story like this Laderoute’s to tell at all. From what I can gather from the biography at the end of the book, he does not identify as Indigenous. He mentions the work of Basil Johnston, noted Anishnaabe author and scholar, as a big influence and source of his knowledge. Stories about Indigenous people and their culture should be told by Indigenous people. That’s not to say you can’t include an Indigenous character in your work if you’re settler—but to take aspects of Indigenous culture, as Laderoute does here, and use it for the central plot, can easily become appropriative and irreverent. As a settler myself, however, it is not my call to make. I just want to raise the issue, since it is important to be mindful of these facts any time one reads works by settlers that feature a lot of Indigenous characters/concepts. I could have done without the smaller-than-normal font size and the spacing between paragraphs. Conventions exist for a reason; break them at your peril. ’Nuff said! Out of Time has a good plot and great pacing. Other than the protagonists, the rest of the cast isn’t very remarkable. I enjoyed that Jonah was more than a two-dimensional bully. However, your enjoyment of this book is largely going to come from whether you manage to care about Riley and/or Cloud and their battle against an evil spirit. I’ll end off by saying that I am always a little more than sceptical when approaching books from small presses and by local authors. This probably isn’t fair of me, but I am only human. I’m trying really hard though to convey the fact that I enjoyed Out of Time. Neither the characters nor the subject matter happens to be what I typically read in YA (or elsewhere), despite the inclusion of stuff like time travel, so it’s hard to say this book excited me or left me tingling. All other things considered, though, it’s pretty good, and I’d recommend it if it sounds like something your speed. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 06, 2015
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Nov 08, 2015
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Nov 06, 2015
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Paperback
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| 1250030951
| 9781250030955
| 1250030951
| 3.95
| 757,948
| Sep 10, 2013
| Sep 10, 2013
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liked it
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I never wrote much fanfic. Or read much of it. I tried. I consider myself a “fan” of many things. But I don’t like playing in others’ universes that m
I never wrote much fanfic. Or read much of it. I tried. I consider myself a “fan” of many things. But I don’t like playing in others’ universes that much. And when I do (such as when I do my chatroom-based Star Trek roleplaying every week), I make up my own characters. Nevertheless, I understand why people like Cath Avery of Fangirl are so fascinated with writing in worlds others created. Rainbow Rowell takes this idea and spins it into a YA novel that’s on the more “adult” end of the age spectrum. Cath and her twin sister are off to college, and while Wren is ready and willing to jump into the deep end of classes, dating, and parties, Cath just wants to sit in her dorm room and write Simon Snow fic. Like you do. Fangirl fully won me over with a simple line: "I have a right to get upset about upsetting things." Cath says this when Wren tells her to calm down, and it pulled me out of the narrative—but in a good way. It’s just so true. When people are upset, very often our first reaction is to tell them to “calm down,” and we mean it in the nicest, most helpful way. Yet some subvert this phrase and twist it to mean, “just accept this.” It’s easy to fall into the trap of not becoming upset—at least, not visibly upset—simply because one doesn’t want to inconvenience others. Watching Cath’s development as a person is the main pleasure of the novel. She starts out as an extreme case—and, to be honest, a little annoying for all that. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t identify a little with Cath—we both love writing and staying home, for one thing—but I think it’s more that Cath and I share an enjoyment of an internal life. Reagan, Levi, and Wren all look for external stimuli to validate and energize their existence; Cath is fine by herself, exploring worlds of her own (or, more accurately, worlds of Gemma T. Leslie’s). For Cath and me both, the outside world is often more an inconvenience to be borne, an obstacle to what’s happening in our mind. I’m not saying that’s better, mind you. But it is different. And that’s the key to getting along with introverts: don’t tell us we’re broken or abnormal. Just smile when we tell you we’re too tired to hang out, and go have fun with your more extroverted friends. We’ll be around another time. This book is about Cath struggling to find her voice. At the beginning she is nervous to the point of illness, practically neurotic in her desire to avoid strangers and agoraphobic in her behaviour. I can’t go into the psychology and how this is all a result of her and Wren getting messed up because her mother left—I’m not a psychologist. But I like how Rowell starts with Cath clearly in a place of great fragility, and gradually, Cath changes. She gets to know new people. She experiments with having a proper boyfriend for the first time. She starts voicing her own desires, her own needs, and actually gets properly angry. I like that there are few trite resolutions here. Cath and Levi’s relationship doesn’t speak to me that much. But I like that Cath and Wren end up simply “OK” and that Cath and her mother don’t really resolve things. The end of this book reliably coincides with the end of Cath’s first year at college, and Rowell doesn’t mince her words or promise that a few scenes could make everything better. I’m a little sad we don’t get to hear how Cath ends Carry On, though. I’ll read Rowell’s version (which apparently is not exactly Cath’s version), but the ending is probably one of my less favourite parts of Fangirl. While this isn’t a book that I’ll be re-reading often or recommending at the top of my lungs like I do with some YA, it’s a steady-paced and thoughtful story. It’s a nice break from science-fiction and fantasy YA that I often read, and I thoroughly enjoyed ripping through this more hefty novel in a weekend. Rowell has talents both for characterization and dialogue. Her characters feel real, and talk like people with real pet peeves and problems might. Fangirl, despite its title, is not about Cath’s obsession with Simon Snow. That’s just one facet of a much more complicated but intriguing story. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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Dec 12, 2015
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Dec 13, 2015
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Nov 05, 2015
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Hardcover
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my rating |
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| 3.76
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liked it
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Dec 30, 2015
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Dec 28, 2015
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| 3.77
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liked it
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Dec 24, 2015
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Dec 24, 2015
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| 4.40
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it was amazing
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Dec 22, 2015
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Dec 23, 2015
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| 4.00
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liked it
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Dec 21, 2015
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Dec 22, 2015
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| 4.22
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really liked it
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Dec 12, 2015
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Dec 06, 2015
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| 4.25
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it was amazing
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Dec 06, 2015
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Dec 03, 2015
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| 4.19
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really liked it
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Dec 2015
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Dec 01, 2015
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| 4.49
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it was amazing
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Dec 18, 2015
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Dec 01, 2015
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| 4.33
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really liked it
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Dec 03, 2015
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Nov 30, 2015
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| 3.98
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liked it
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Nov 29, 2015
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Nov 28, 2015
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| 3.81
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liked it
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Dec 19, 2015
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Nov 27, 2015
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| 4.00
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really liked it
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Nov 27, 2015
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Nov 26, 2015
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| 4.06
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really liked it
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Nov 26, 2015
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Nov 26, 2015
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| 3.74
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really liked it
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Nov 25, 2015
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Nov 22, 2015
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| 3.66
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it was ok
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Nov 15, 2015
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Nov 15, 2015
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| 3.52
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liked it
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Nov 14, 2015
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Nov 11, 2015
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| 4.08
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it was amazing
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Nov 09, 2015
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Nov 09, 2015
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| 4.14
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it was amazing
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Dec 27, 2015
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Nov 08, 2015
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| 4.18
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liked it
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Nov 08, 2015
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Nov 06, 2015
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| 3.95
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liked it
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Dec 13, 2015
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Nov 05, 2015
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