Glasses (Object Lessons)
I read this courtesy of the publisher, Bloomsbury Academic, and NetGalley. It’s out in July.
Firstly, I know this is an ARC but I really hope that the publishers deal with the editing issues. Eyes described as “shouldering blue”? There are a few points with very silly typos, and a couple of sections where sentences have clearly been rewritten but the original not removed.
Overall I enjoyed this book, if not quite as much as others in the series. The history of lenses used to either improve eyesight or shade the eyes from bright light is genuinely fascinating – I had no idea about the use of emeralds and green-tinted glass by Venetian nobles, nor the use of visors by artists. I was a little perturbed by the discussion of how kids with glasses are viewed: not the repeating of stereotypes so much as that it didn’t feel like there was enough reminder of the fact that these ARE stereotypes. There’s also a weird tendency across the book to suggest that in some cases the assumption of genius in the glasses-wearer is born out by some individuals, which feels like making assumptions about cause and effect – and individuals don’t make stereotypes real – etc etc. There’s also a discussion about the aesthetics of facial shape and what glasses work with what shape, which also honestly just felt weird, when there was no “or you just pick the glasses you like!”
I liked that the book included exploration of sunglasses and their use by celebrities – and also what wearing corrective glasses does for celebrities, and that this included extended discussion of Clark Kent. The section on sunglasses included mention of blind people like Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles, which was great – but the omission of Roy Orbison felt egregious, given how his use of sunglasses was counter to basically every example provided in the book.
All up, an interesting overview, but not as insightful or engaging as others.
A Bite-Sized History of Italy
Read courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher. It’s out at the start of June.
This book was an absolute delight.
The ‘bite-sized’ is an important part of the title, and the point is reiterated in the introduction: Callegari isn’t claiming this as a definitive look at Italian food, Italian culture, Italian identity, or their connections. What it is is a starting point, a set of vignettes (appetisers?) pointing to important moments and aspects of food and culture and identity, which are starting points for a deeper investigation – if you want to. If you just want an overview, that’s what this is!
Starting from Roman history and coming through to today, touching on many geographical areas and many Significant Italian Foods, Callegari touches on how certain things became ‘Italian” – tomatoes are not even European, let alone originally Italian! – as well as what it means for certain foods to exist in very specific regions. And beyond that, she touches on what it even means to be “Italian,” how that has changed / is changing, how food has influenced it, and also how talking about food (looking at you, Dante) has been a factor in this.
Not only is this a really great overview of a lot of interesting topics, it’s incredibly engaging. Chapters are short – like I said: appetisers – but they usually don’t feel too superficial because Callegari is very clear about the purpose of the book.
If you’re interested in food history but not looking for an encyclopaedia, this is an excellent starting point on Italy. Also: what a brilliant bibliography.
LOTR: Book 2
Here are my thoughts on Book 1. Note again that I am not being anywhere near as thorough as Nick and Abigail, who are linked there!
Well, as something of a reward for finishing several review books, I finally got around to reading Book 2 of The Lord of the Rings. And it was a reward, because Book 2 is a delight. Everyone is still together, there are some really interesting interactions and lovely descriptions, we get Galadriel… there’s hope and horror and excitement and the exquisite pain that isn’t quite nostalgia but something like.
So, some thoughts:
- The stay in Rivendell is much more extended than I recalled. Like their stay in Lothlorien, it’s such an interesting way of showing how the Elves are slightly removed from the rest of the world – that time doesn’t quite work for them as it does for mortals. 100% I would want to stay there rather than going on. I had also forgotten how little we get of Arwen here. But we do get further glimpses of Impressive Aragorn. I am endlessly fascinated by the different perspectives we are shown of him.
- As noted last time, I was 12 and relatively sheltered when I first read this (in the mid 90s). But my readings from at least late adolescence, and definitely in my 20s, absolutely noted the queer under (over) tones of Sam towards Frodo.
- Once again I enjoyed the travel story. Maybe I just impressed on it at a young age – although I do still enjoy a travel story in other contexts too. Tolkien both gives us the details of their travails, and the difficult terrain – but it doesn’t go on for chapters, so it’s still a fair pace so it doesn’t bore me.
- I do think the films captured Moria beautifully, and also the Balrog.
- It’s interesting that for all the Nine Walkers are officially an ensemble cast, actually we don’t see the actions of most of the characters across this particular book. Pippin gets scolded for checking the depth of the well, but otherwise he and Merry have little to do. Sam is scared of heights. Boromir gets to be large in the snow, and concerned about Galadriel, and of course is under the ring’s ‘fluence at the end. But otherwise… it’s Gandalf and Frodo and Aragorn. Gimli is literally to the fore in Moria, Legolas a bit in Lothlorien. I think it’s different from how writers tend to approach it these days.
- I will always love the chapters in Lothlorien. But that moment when it says that Aragorn never returned to Cerin Amroth as living man? That’s the moment that pierces my heart. It’s future-oriented – well, not nostalgia, which tends to be seen as more sentimental. Anyway: Aragorn will die. He is mortal. There are things he has done that he will never do again, even if he survives the coming war. And this knowledge is present throughout these chapters in particular – Galadriel even says it out loud: even destroying the ring, which is good for the world, will have negative consequences for the elves. This sort of complex approach to the task, and the world, is definitely not something I understood as a kid and am only grasping more fully as I age.
- I simply cannot imagine reading The Fellowship of the Ring and having to leave the crew as a) Sam and Frodo head east, and b) there might be sounds of battle but we’re not sure?? To Everyone who read this as it was published: I see you.
Lords of the Salt Road
I read this courtesy of the publisher, Osprey, and NetGalley. It’s out at the start of June.
Overall I enjoyed this book very much. I have a couple of caveats, which I’ll get to, but in general it has expanded my understanding of the role “the Norse” played in the history of the British Isles, as well as what it meant to be Norse / a Viking.
I came to this book with some knowledge already of “the Viking Age” – and I use those quote marks advisedly, since it’s a term that many historians aren’t happy about and is anyway incredibly vague (after all, what is “viking”?). Still, this is my context: I have a decent understanding of British history between when the Romans nicked off and the Normans stomped in; I have slightly less, but still some, knowledge of what was going on with that area now called Scandinavia. Would this book be as accessible to someone with zero knowledge of those things? It’s hard to say. Perhaps not, not least because one of the very difficult things is all of the Hara/olds, and there are a couple of other names that pop up repeatedly too; it’s hard to keep track of who’s who, even if you have a basic grasp of who should be when.
So, the book: a history of the Earls of Orkney (who also had control of the Shetlands, for most of their existence, as well as parts of northern Scotland for a fair chunk of time). It uses as its base a Norse saga about the earls, along with some other bits and pieces. Konstam makes a good argument for seeing the earls as a really important part of understanding the history of both Scotland, and Britain more broadly, and Norway in particular. It has been very easy for a very long time to insist on a French/maybe also Spanish tilt to British history, but the truth is that the Norse played much more of a role than just occasionally burning some monasteries down. And this book goes a ways to showing how that was true. I learned a great deal that I had no idea about, and some things I did already know got a lot more context.
Now, the caveats.
- The treatment of women. There’s one woman in particle, Ragnhild the daughter of Queen Gunnhild, whose role in various terrible events is taken with basically no hesitation straight from the sagas – that she was responsible for the deaths of “four notable men”, was evil, nearly destroyed the earldom, blah blah. I honestly can’t believe that this got past the editors: that there was no discussion about “maybe something else was going on here?”
- The first irked me. The second is actually more of a problem: there are a couple of things that I know for sure are actually errors. Harald Hardrada is described as having founded the Varangian Guard – nope. And a couple of the earls had to do with Macbethad ac Findleach – Macbeth. Konstam says that “Shakespeare followed the right historical script” in terms of murdering Duncan; again, nope, it seems to have been in battle. Both of these things do trouble me as to the veracity of other parts.
- Linked to the above: there’s not quite as much external verification of the Orkney saga as I might hope. The author brings in points from other sagas, and I get that there’s not many other sources, but the book also doesn’t caveat a lot of the ideas quite as much as I might have liked.
- Finally, a stylistic choice that drove me spare. Most of the Earls and other significant men have nicknames, like Harald Hardrada and Magnus Barelegs. Throughout the book, Konstam writes this as Harald ‘Hardrada’. And I can’t help but read these as ironic quote marks, as if the author is having a little joke or something. I’m sure that’s not true, but it did make for a frustrating reading experience.
Do I regret reading the book? Not in the slightest. It’s definitely made my knowledge of the late 800s-1200s in northern Scotland and Norway much more expansive. It’s not perfect, but that’s why multiple books should be written about similar topics.
Moon Over Brendle
Read c/ the publisher, Angry Robot, and NetGalley. It’s out now.
This is one of the most remarkable books I’ve read in a long time.
It’s 1968, and Joe is 11. It’s the summer holidays, which means hanging out with best friend Denny, and generally exploring his small town. One day, the pair stumble across the dying body of the local drunk, Tom Halfpenny. Then Eileen starts turning up to hang around with Denny; then Joe sneaks into a weird, semi-neglected house, getting caught by the elderly inhabitant. The old man is a science fiction writer, and for a period of 1968 he and Joe form a strange, important relationship.
Those three things sound like they should be given very different values. But when you’re eleven, they might have fairly similar weight. Indeed, Eileen maybe stealing your best friend may have the greatest import.
In terms of the book, there’s one significant point I haven’t noted yet. This is not our world. Joe is a witness: he can see the Greot, the colourful dust that flows over everything in the world, in varying hues and in different densities according to its own rules. Only witnesses can see Greot all the time – except at 3.06am, when everyone can – and an even fewer number of people can see what Greot sees; and there’s even fewer who can manipulate Greot.
The novel is written as a memoir: a man looking back over his life, the paths he followed from 1968, how the events of that year had an impact on him. It could very easily have been written in a realist style: young boy influenced by slightly mysterious older mentor. It could have been magical realism, too – did the young boy really experience something magical? Instead, Noon commits fully to the novel as fantasy. and it’s richer for it. Joe’s experiences with the Greot, understanding what it is (and is not), what it can (and can’t) do, how it impacts on other people; all of these are significant factors in his growing up. The fact that the Greot is never explained, and that otherwise this is recognisably our world, add to the beauty and delight and captivating-ness of the novel.
This novel is just stunning. I hope many people find it.
The Lord of the Rings: a(nother) re-read
The year I turned 12, I had an extended reading competition with a friend. It was determined by both number of books (so I read lots of Babysitter Club books, which dates this competition to some degree), and also page numbers. This enormous, tape-mended book was on the shelf, so I thought: The Lord of the Rings. Why not?
For a while, in adolescence and early 20s, I was indeed one of those people who read LOTR every year. I think I’ve read it ten times? I haven’t read it since 2017, although I’ve watched the films almost every year for at least the last decade.
This year, though, there are several LOTR re-reads being blogged around the place, so… I felt like it was time to dive back in. I am not going to write about it as thoroughly as Abigail Nussbaum, and I don’t have the deep knowledge and analytical skills to come anywhere near what Nick Hubble is doing, although I’m following along closely and learning a lot.
So: I have just finished Book 1. And the truth is – the reality is – I still love it. I’m one of those people who enjoys the wandering in the wilderness, and finds the place descriptions evocative and delightful. Partly this is nostalgia for the first time I read it, when I was absolutely captivated… but I do just like it.
Some other thoughts:
- I had forgotten how organised Merry was, and what a lead he takes in getting things done. I like it.
- I enjoy Tom Bombadil, and I’m not going to apologise. He and Goldberry are a fascinating diversion into aspects of Middle-Earth we just don’t see much elsewhere in this novel, and I appreciate the depth and breadth they provide.
- I have always felt uncomfortable about the “master” language from Sam. Even as an adolescent. It’s still not something I particularly like. Having read a lot of Biggles novels etc, I eventually came around to reading their relationship as being like an officer / batman one, and I can place it in an historical context. But I don’t have to like it.
- Farmer and Mrs Maggot are wonderful.
- Barliman Butterbur is poorly treated by the film (I mean, I love those films but I am very aware of the ways in which they Not The Novels).
- Nick Hubble makes some interesting points about reading Fellowship in particular as a sequel to The Hobbit, and I was very aware of that as I read it this time. The structure, and the language – at this halfway point it’s easy to imagine the story being finished in another 200 pages or so.
My main struggle from here is going to be making sure I don’t just keep reading this. There are other books I have committed to reading!
Considering The Female Man by Joanna Russ (Farah Mendlesohn)
First, (re-)read The Female Man. I think that really is necessary. Then you’ll be fresh and able to really get into the points that Mendlesohn is making in this compact and insightful book.
While I’ve read a bit of Russ criticism – including some of Mendlesohn’s previous work – I’m not claiming to be an expert. So one of the things I appreciated about this book was Mendlesohn touching on some of the previous work done on Russ in general and The Female Man in particular, to give context to this particular book. I was interested to see some of the ways that attitudes have changed, and some of the aspects that haven’t previously been explored in much depth: in particular, here, how Russ’ Jewish identity impacted on the structure of the novel, as well as the story.
It really is a wee book: 169 pages, and a tiny package. But Mendlesohn packs a lot in! There’s an introduction to both Russ and the novel – historical context, cultural and literary context, feminist context – which doesn’t shy away from the fact that Russ in the 1970s was decidedly TERF (acknowledging that she did change her views, which is the only reason I can still come at reading the book – but YMMV!). Then, three chapters going deep in literary analysis: Character; Structure; Argument. How “the Js” work as individual characters as well as aspects of, perhaps, one whole; how what feels initially like a convoluted maybe-not-really-a-narrative-at-all actually works, and why Russ wrote it that way; and how the novel presents Jewishness, anger, and humour. And an epilogue about the epilogue, which is so meta I think Russ would have approved.
I’ve read The Female Man a few times, and I always get more out of it. There are definitely things I had never noticed before – because my cultural, historical, and literary context are very different from Russ’s, there are things that just did not click for me, but which Mendlesohn has pointed out. In particular, I think, there’s the discussion about how the characters function across the story, with and against one another – their attitudes have always been what I found most fascinating, and that’s just been deepened.
One thing I will note: there are a few typos in the copy I read (eg Jael is Jane once, and Joel another time).
Highly recommended to those looking to further appreciate Joanna Russ and her work. You can get it here.
The Brilliant Boy, Gideon Haigh
Doc Evatt and the Great Australian Dissent
Ok. So. Firstly, this is not the book I thought it was going to be. Partly that’s on me – I didn’t read the blurb carefully. So that’s a lesson. It’s also on the person who recommended it to me, because he led me to believe it was a proper – that is, complete – biography of Doc Evatt. And it’s not.
So, actually, possibly firstly: did you know that Gideon Haigh wrote full-on proper history, and not just cricket?? Me neither, until I was recommended this book.
Maybe this is first: until last year, I really didn’t read modern biographies, and I certainly didn’t read modern Australian biographies, let alone modern Australian political biographies. And now I’ve read two, arguably three, and I am having a minor (very, very minor) identity crisis.
All of that out of the way:
I know of Doc Evatt for having been instrumental in setting up the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, doing other important work at the UN, and then being shuffled off and ignored by the Labor Party and Australian politics more broadly. I had absolutely no idea about his early life, how he got into politics, or what he was like as a human – except that he’s generally regarded as “brilliant and/but mad.” This book is almost entirely about Evatt’s early life, focused on his career as a lawyer and then as an exceptionally young High Court judge.
Do I care much about the law, the legal profession, or even much about how the Constitution is interpreted? No I really do not. Were there bits – large chunks excerpted from lawyers’ speeches, and bits from judgements – where my eyes glazed over? What do you think. Did I nonetheless find this a fascinating biography? I am almost embarrassed to admit that I really did. And that’s partly because Haigh is a really great writer, and partly because of the actual point of the book. Yes, it’s about Evatt. But it’s also about the idea that someone should be recompensed for the suffering they experience – not just physical injury – when someone has done them wrong.
The book opens not with Evatt, but with the death of a young boy – “the brilliant boy” – a child of Polish Jewish migrants who drowned in water collected in a hole in a road thanks to roadworks, in the early 1930s. The council hadn’t put up much in the way of protection. The mother suffered enormously from what was then termed “nervous shock” in the months and years after his body was found. And that was the focus of many court cases. Were the council liable for the mother’s suffering?
Warning: there’s a lot of callous and misogynist language in the judgements handed down.
I did, indeed, learn a lot about Evatt. I have much greater respect for his intellect and achievements – as well as some appreciation for why he was and is regarded as a bit mad. There have been two full biographies written of the man, but they’re both quite old and I don’t feel like I can go read them now. Along with all of that, I also learned a great deal about the development of how pain and suffering are viewed in the law, and – knowing that our current system is very, very far from perfect – feel very thankful that I live now, rather than a century ago.
Notes from a Regicide, Issac Fellman
This is a complicated and complex, beautiful, fierce, glorious novel. There are so many things going on. The short version is: if you want a beautifully written novel involving a political story (I mean, look at the title), trans stories, a love of art, dealing with families, and a hint of science fiction – just read this. Don’t bother reading this review, just go find it.
If you need some convincing, well:
I feel like the only way I can talk about this book is to identify some of the strands, but also begin by saying all of the strands work together perfectly.
In part this is a son editing and presenting his father’s memoirs, particularly from when the father was in prison. The son, Griffon, includes notes at the start of those chapters – just a little William Goldman-esque, noting that he’s done some pruning. Those sections are where most of the politics are. The father, Etoine, lived for many years in Stephensport, an island that has completely turned its back on the wider world, ruled by a prince chosen by electors – who otherwise sleep in “the stone yard” and for whom citizens pray. Etoine is an artist, and gets drawn into revolutionary activity mostly against his will. It’s here Etoine meets fellow artist Zaffre (which really is a beautiful colour); she is a much more willing revolutionary. As someone who taught kids about revolutions for many years – well, the political bits here ring true, in the most devastating and fierce and poignant ways.
It’s also a memoir of Griffon, finding his family with Etoine and Zaffre, and also finding himself: he is trans, and it’s only on meeting Etoine and Zaffre that the possibility of living as himself starts to seem feasible. As an adult, looking back on his adolescence, Griffon is both harsh on his younger self for being self-centred and arrogant, and also forgiving for not knowing any better. It feels right.
So there is a lot about family here – having one, ignoring them, the frustrations and embarrassments and comfort, the impossibility of ever knowing people fully and the joy of being known and loved despite that. All of that alongside the politics.
And then there’s the art. Etoine and Zaffre are artists: for both of them, although in different ways, art is at the core of their identity. Fellman captures the obsession and drive of some artists, not romanticising the despair but also not ignoring the difficulties; for both, art is about life and life is about art – and it’s inextricably connected to politics, too.
I haven’t finished yet. There’s also mental illness – Etoine is an alcoholic, Zaffre has schizophrenia (maybe; her diagnosis is unclear), which they manage to varying degrees across their lives, to different effect on themselves and those around them. Again, not romanticised, but it also doesn’t make either of them a villain – and nor is it necessary to their art. It just is.
And, finally, this is a science fiction novel. Honestly it would be easy to ignore that part. It’s not quite blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but it’s not far off. It is completely necessary to the world of the story, but it’s also not at the heart of the narrative. It’s supremely well done. I feel like there will be a lot of people who go into this expecting A Science Fiction Novel who may be disappointed by the way it uses the genre; that would be sad, but I would get it. I also think there will be a lot of readers who would love this book – for all the reasons listed above – who will avoid it because it’s called science fiction. That, my friends, would be a great tragedy. But if the foregoing words don’t convince you of that, there’s not much I can say.
Really. Just read it.
This is yet another book I have read by Ian Mond, and – intriguingly – he’s never steered me wrong. I’m not going to say we always agree, because there’s a lot he reads that I never will, but the circles of our reading Venn diagram do have some overlap.
Speculative Orientalism, by Sang-Keun Yoo
I read this courtesy of the publisher, Bloomsbury, who sent me the ebook. It’s out now.
It’s been a while since I read a book doing such serious literary analysis. And I don’t remember the last time I read one looking at such a range of science fiction authors, so that aspect alone was really awesome.
I believe that this book came from Yoo’s PhD thesis, and having read a few theses – and read a few books that have come out of theses – I can say that overall Yoo has done a good job translating what is necessary for a very specialised academic audience into what works for a slightly more general audience. There are a still a few bits – in particular, some repetitions – that I think are hold-overs from the thesis; they weren’t bad, as such, just not quite what I would expect from a book written first and foremost as a book.
I should note, though, that this is not a read-in-one-sitting, easy-going book. It requires you to actively pay attention, and think seriously about the words and ideas, because the ideas about ‘orientalism’ and Yoo’s points about how English and, in particular, American authors have used and changed orientalism, particularly as part of the New Wave – these aren’t entirely straightforward, and you want to follow the changes over time closely.
So, if you’re up for a serious read, this will suit you well!
I’ve been reading science fiction for a long time, but I am a child of the 80s, which means that “new wave” fiction was already ageing when I first became aware of it – and honestly I would still struggle to point out the real differences between pre-new wave, new wave, and post-new wave. Maybe I’m just not analytical enough? Whatever the case, one of the initial things that actually really worked for me was Yoo’s general introduction to what the new wave authors were doing, and why this was important, and what it looked like in both the UK and the USA. So that was one very useful result!
The meat of the book is looking at the – well, I hesitate to use ‘progression’ or ‘development,’ for their implications of positive change over time. I think Yoo does make a claim for progression, eventually, but it’s still a somewhat fraught term.
Let’s stick with ‘change.’ So, Yoo opens with looking at how William S Burroughs (whose work I have never read!) uses orientalism in his work: that is, references to “Asian” ideas, places, or things, whether that’s a generic “Asian” or a specific ethnicity like Chinese. Uh, spoiler? It reads as super racist. (Who am I kidding, it is super racist.) So that’s… fun.
The really serious analysis comes with next three chapters: Philip K. Dick (do I get kicked out of the club if I say I didn’t enjoy the few stories I’ve read); Samuel Delany (I’ve read a few! I refuse to read Dhalgren, though, on the grounds of too darned long), and Ursula K. Le Guin (I have read most). With these authors, Yoo traces the various influences on their writing – personal experiences, personal belief systems, and so on – and how this plays out across their fiction, and what this suggests about attitudes towards “Asian” ideas, in particular religiously and politically. Unsurprisingly, Le Guin’s use of Taoism is noted as the most nuanced and thoughtful use of those ideas, and as developing across her long career. I was also very interested to read about the African-American and Asian connections that were apparently being discussed in the 1960s, about which I knew nothing.
Overall? This is not a book for a casual reader. It is a book for someone who likes thinking about meaty issues, and who already has at least some familiarity with some of the works being discussed. I’m very pleased that I got to read it.
Randomly Yours, Alex 