Yellowface

by R.F. Kuang

June Hayward, a struggling white author whose career has stalled after the lackluster performance of her debut novel, is frenemies with Athena Liu, a successful and photogenic Chinese American writer, whose books hit the bestseller lists with regularity. One night, over drinks, Hayward watches Athena die in a freak accident. Impulsively, she grabs an unfinished manuscript she sees on the desk (with a few other items), and decides to edit it, massage the wording, and claim it as her own. Changing her name to the more exotic "Juniper Song" is the cherry on the cultural appropriation cake. At first, all goes better than Hayward's wildest dreams, as the book — a historical novel about Chinese laborers in World War I — takes off as a critical and commercial darling. But, of course, oh what tangled webs we weave and all that; soon June faces an acid reception from the Asian writing community, accusations of cultural appropriation and plagiarism, leading to intense backlash from the literary community, social media, and — somewhat dubiously —even Athena's apparent literal ghost, which seems to haunt her every move. As the pressure mounts, June grapples with guilt, paranoia, and the ethical implications of her deceit.

I was caught up in this story very early on. It's an enthralling, sharp, and even unsettling exploration of the ethical dilemmas surrounding cultural appropriation, identity, and the politics of the publishing industry. Kuang deftly tackles these complex issues with a provocative array of viewpoints and not a little black humor. The novel is also a thrilling story, as pulse-pounding in its way as an action thriller, as we wait to see what will befall Hayward, who as the novel progresses seems to become more and more defensive of her actions. I found her inner monologue honest and nuanced, and while I don't think she can be called a sympathetic narrator, at times I couldn't help hoping she'd land on her feet. I very much admire Kuang's masterful description of the internal conflict, putting on display the ambition, envy, desperation, terror, and defiance that comes from such an ugly act of theft. As for the ending, I found it rather unlikely, a bit cartoonish, and somewhat jarring, not matching the realism of the rest of the novel. However, overall this is a fantastic jeremiad of a novel, scathing and insightful, shedding light on the biases and power dynamics that shape which voices are heard and which are marginalized. 

four stars 

The Thursday Murder Club

by Richard Osman

Joyce, a recent resident of an upscale retirement home, is invited to join the Thursday Murder Club, a group of three other pensioners. Elizabeth, a woman whose past hints at secret service work, Ron, a former union leader, and Ibrahim, a retired psychiatrist, like to go over police cold cases as a hobby. When the local greedy yuppie land developer's right hand man turns up dead, the four unlikely but still sharp amateur detectives are excited to take on a current case. Managing to get into the reluctant good graces of the actual police investigating the case, they make good progress, but when more bodies start turning up, things get really complicated.

This debut mystery captivated me instantly. It's witty, fast-paced, full of twists and turns and red herrings, and had a large cast of endearing characters with their own quirks and secrets. Extremely clever, genuinely funny, and even poignant at times, when it discusses loss, friendship or death. The authorial choice to alternate between one first-person narrator (Joyce) and a third-person narrator that keeps things teasingly ambiguous is original and fun. The characters are vivid and the plot is dizzying. It just might be a five-star book, but I ding it one star for "cheating" the reader by using previously unknown information to reveal one of the mysteries (oh yes, there's more than one whodunit here). I may say this a lot, but I really do want to read more of this sly, moving, lively series. 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

by Tom Stoppard

1966

What happens to minor characters when they're not on stage in a drama? Well, for the hapless Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of "Hamlet," they're stuck in a theatrical limbo, an empty stage on which they wonder what their purpose is. Sure of nothing, not even their names, with only fragments of memory as to their task of delivering Hamlet to England, they encounter the play's dramatists, who give them only cryptic answers, and only every now and then the main characters of "Hamlet," who sweep past them, engrossed in their own roles.

It's a little bit "Waiting For Godot," a little bit "Six Characters in Search of an Author," and a little bit "No Exit." Ros. and Guild. have, for the preponderance of the play, only themselves to talk to, annoy, console, and baffle in turn, and in this case it does turn out that hell is other people. But this play is brilliant in its own right, with its meta-textural humor, surrealism, and frank contemplation of death. I'll tell you one thing, though. Death is not being on a boat. Possibly, however, at times it is not-being on a boat. 

five stars

The High Window

by Raymond Chandler

1942

In the third Philip Marlowe book, a bilious, dipsomaniac widow hires the sleuth to track down a very rare and valuable coin, which she believes has been stolen by her estranged daughter-in-law. He soon finds out that the job includes being accosted by the woman's ineffectual son, who still loves his wife, and by her timorous, neurotic secretary, for their own reasons. There's even another detective on the case, a cheerful but clumsy fellow, and two murders later Marlowe is checking in with the criminal classes to see what they have to say. He gets along with them better than he does the widow.

This is an astonishing feat of writing. These books aren't whodunits in the traditional sense; they aren't even noir, really. Marlowe is a genre unto itself, with original and self-assured writing that constructs a labyrinthine plot, but isn't really about the plot at all. A man confesses to a murder he didn't commit; later he'll recant and the murder will go cold and unsolved. Marlowe helps a lady in distress as far as he can. He also maybe helps another fellow get away with murder. Maybe the victim deserved it. Who's to say? Not Marlowe. "The white moonlight was cold and clear, like the justice we dream of but don't find." 

five stars

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen

by Christopher McDougall

The author, a sportswriter who runs but finds himself constantly injured, goes to several sports doctors to find the reason why. They tell him the same thing: after a certain age and at a certain weight, running is bad for your body, period. Unsatisfied with this bad news, he seeks answers in other areas, eventually stumbling upon a Mexican desert tribe called the Tarahumara, who run hundreds of miles a week as a daily routine, even into late middle age, and seem to never get injured. This discovery leads to McDougall hearing of a mysterious American called Caballo Blanco who lives among these people and has adopted their ways and diet. Once an article about this man is published, it sparks a new interest in the largely hidden and unknown Tarahumara in several of ultra-marathoning's top figures. Eventually, a race is set up between the bravest of American athletes and the top Tarahumara runners, a race filled with drama and surprises, which no one except the participants and the few townsfolk near the race area ever see.

The story is indeed dramatic, but the lily is gilded by the author's style. It is written in a very sensationalist tone: everything is the best, the most nutritious superfood, the most dangerous remote location, the highest town, the most capable humans, the toughest. McDougall is definitely not a just-the-facts type of writer. Every meeting has to be earth shaking, every character has to be larger than life. However, the book has everything, and it has it in copious detail. There is a cast of extremely quirky characters, there is serious medical data on the benefits of running barefoot, there’s criticism of the Nike sneaker industry for deliberately perpetuating bad running, there is the personal journey and breakthrough that the author goes through (along with practical step-by-step plan which the reader can copy to improve his or her running), there is the trove of historical tidbits and fascinating anecdotes about the limits of human endurance, and of course there’s the stars of the show, the Tarahumara themselves and their fascinating way of life and how it makes them such amazing athletes. Plus some American super-athletes. And a lot of data about the benefits of a vegetarian diet. Even evolutionary biology. Quite a lot. And thus we come to the raison d'etre of the book: according to the evidence McDougall cites, humans are evolutionarily created to run. We have the right ligaments, buttocks, and feet to run, and if we don't run, we are destroying ourselves with heart disease, diabetes, and cancer. It's a tall order. But McDougall seems to have interviewed everyone remotely connected with the race, or runs great distances, or the science of running, or the running tribes, and the book is both marvelously entertaining and informative from beginning to end. It gets a little corny and quasi mystical near the end when the race reaches a climax, but chalk that up to a runner's high. I don’t have the knowledge to debate the veracity or debunk or support some of the wilder claims, and the author is prone to depict detailed visuals and conversations for which he was not present. That said, taken at its face value it is a superb book. 

five stars

The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs: A New History of Their Lost World

by Steve Brusatte

The author, a paleontologist at the University of Edinburgh, covers hundreds of millions of years of biological history, from the pre-Cambrian to the latest Cretaceous (a fun phrase to say, by the way), explaining in lucid prose the story of the dinosaurs. Brusatte writes with the infectious giddiness of the young geek he still is; his informative chapter on T. Rex in particular is breathless in admiration for "the king." There's almost too much history and discovery for Brusatte to cover, so wide is his scope and excitement. He tells in vivid detail about the two great extinction events (the second, the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs, is confirmed in his account by a layer in the ancient rock of iridium that had to come from outer space). He explains how the ponderous sauropods grew so huge (fast growth, light bones, and most interestingly their birdlike lungs, which allowed them to take in both oxygen on inhalation and exhalation). He discusses the unfortunate and bizarre episode known as the "Bone Wars," in which eccentric 19th-century natural scientists Edward Drinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marshand (they had such great names back then) let their rivalry for glory overcome their desire for scientific advancement. Brusatte also makes clear the now accepted theory that birds are dinosaurs.

Considering the vastness of the subject and the amount of explanation required to lay everything out for the layman (including the required background knowledge on Pangaea, climate change, evolutionary adaption), this is a brilliantly written book. Sometimes Brusatte's excitable authorial voice made me wish he would slow down and lay things out a bit more slowly. He also spends valuable page time on very brief biographies of some of the paleontologists across China, Eastern Europe, and America whom Brusatte admires and works with – all fine people, I am sure, but I really don't care if one affects dandy clothes and listens to the Doors or if another loves to dance at techno clubs. I also would have liked a more in-depth look into the best guess on why only bird-dinosaurs survived the asteroid and not a single other true dinosaur species, while reptiles and mammals did. Still, these are minor complaints; Brusatte's book is probably the best complete overview of what the world of the dinosaurs was like.

Gang Leader For a Day

Gang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets (2008)

by Sudhir Venkatesh

The author describes himself as a "rogue sociologist," a bold bit of branding that's more than just posturing.  Tired of the stilted questionnaires and lack of human feeling in poverty research, Venkatesh one day takes it upon himself to walk straight up to a high-rise in Chicago and talk to the drug dealers.  He's accosted roughly and initially mistaken for a Hispanic, but one charismatic middle-level dealer, JT, is impressed with Venkatesh's bravado and allows him to see the day to day life of the people in the projects as well as some of the seedier aspects of gang life in the Black Kings.  For ten years, Venkatesh remained a somewhat trusted figure, an outsider for sure, albeit one with privileges as a sympathetic observer, and every once in a while getting his hands dirty (or his feet – at one point he joins in the beatdown of a woman-abusing junkie).  Eventually Venkatesh is even allowed to make the rounds of the South Side and even suggest ways to iron out squabbles and problems that JT deals with.

There are problems with this sort of rogue ethnography, of course.  Venkatesh is for better or worse an ally of the Black Kings, and thus may not be allowed to see the toll their protection racket may take on civilians, small business owners, and others trying to get by.  However, it's fascinating to hear how the gangs act as de facto police in the area, dispensing favors and settling disputes.  The real police, like EMTs, rarely come to the projects, so certainly the Kings are providing a needed service, but are they filling a need left by a racist system or, through violence, creating a reason for their interference and growing power?  It's more likely closer to the latter; JT isn't stupid, and uses Venkatesh for his own ends, as when he takes economic data recorded by the sociologist to extract more tribute.  In all, this is an eye-opening and enthralling look at a too-often hidden side of poverty in America, although since it's through the lens of a crack dealer in a high-rise in the '90s, it's a bit skewed.