Book Review: Speak

Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson

This young adult novel is hitting its 20th anniversary this year, and it is considered a classic for its subject matter -- sexual assault against girls.

Mel is a freshman at Merryweather High School. She is an outcast among her former friends because she called police during an end-of-the-summer party, which meant everyone got into trouble. But Mel never explains why she dialed 911. Instead, she clams up, not speaking or defending herself.

Slowly, throughout the story, we learn why. She was raped by a  classmate, a popular, good-looking senior at the high school. Mel's reaction is depression, silence, and withdrawal from her family and friends, who all reject her.

"I am an outcast," she said early in the novel.

She keeps a journal to witness her fellow students and record some of her thoughts. The book is her journal.

It's written simply, mimicking a young girl's thoughts and ideas. It's witty in its observations. Her comments on teachers and student groups, and the school's continuing efforts to change its nickname, are well done. Her descriptions of the lunchroom drama, and the student's daily interactions with teachers and each other, can be  laugh-out-loud funny. Mel's inner thoughts and connections with other students are sad and worthy of tears.

But the novel's flaw is it has the one well-developed character. And that's kind of OK, because the book is so much about Mel -- and it is, after all, her journal. But except for one girl who tries to befriend her, and an art teacher is a good guy, all of the other characters are one-dimensional. Her parents, most of the teachers, the principal, and the others students are stereotypes, broadly drawn -- some deliberately so. Each seems to be more about Mel's dislike of school and adults than about the individuals.

Even the young man who commited the crime against her is your standard issue rapist -- charming, domineering, and vile,

Again, that is OK. The story is Mel's story, not anyone else's. Because she doesn't speak, this is her voice. And in this book, that is what matters.

Book Review: Icarus

Icarus at the Edge of Time, by Brian Greene

One of my favorite science writers -- a guy who has helped me (somewhat) understand string theory and quantum particles -- has written this gem of a children's book. The wonderful pictures come from NASA.

Of course, he wrote it and I bought it 11 years ago, long after the time it would have been age-appropriate for my girls. But the story intrigued me. This week, I decided to read it again.

It was worth it. 

I've always loved the myth of Icarus. It shows how the hubris of man can be devastating. Hubris lets one live and exceed a dream, but cautions against going too far. It skirts the edge of urging one to stop short of perfection, but warns about the harms that can be caused by going beyond what is meant to be. It says just because we can do something -- or can strive to do something -- doesn't mean it's always best to actually do it. 

"Do you know what Angelica said

"When she heard what you've done?

"She said,

"'You've married an Icarus

"'He has flown too close to the sun.'"

                                     Eliza Hamilton
      Hamilton: An American Musical

In Greene's book, instead of flying too close to the sun, Icarus flies too close to a black hole, forgetting how time slows down near the event horizon. The result shows what hubris has cost this futuristic Icarus, along with showing us how correct Einstein was when he wrote about time and space more than 100 years ago.

It's a brilliant book that showcases a brilliant mind -- in a way that young and old alike can appreciate and understand. And the pictures are extraordinary.

Book Review: Mr. Fox

Mr. Fox, by Helen Oyeyemi

The writing here is exquisite. It's truly top-notch. Lyrical, compelling, expressive. The words jump off the page and into your eyes, mind and heart.

The stories told throughout the book are fantastical: Warm, tended-hearted, haunting, challenging, perceptive. They are full of emotion, wisdom, and joy.

But still. It's hard to say it works as a novel. It's more a collection of short stories. It's difficult to follow along, as one must jump from the overall storyline to accommodate the interludes. Don't get me wrong here: I loved the literary interventions. It was the overall narrative that's confusing.

In Mr. Fox, we meet St. John Fox, his wife Daphne, and his muse, Mary Foxe. His muse is either real, or she comes alive at times. It's hard to say. Because sometimes others can see her, and sometimes, she can flitter in an out like a phantom.

I am sure that the literary inventions have a larger meaning. I am sorry I can't seem to figure them all out. Suffice to say I enjoyed the book, but I feel hard pressed to tell you what it's all about.

This Week in Books, 5th Ed.

So. I found this list of new Irish writers in The Irish Times book section, and I have a sneaking suspicions I will be buying several of the selections. Their books may be hard to find here in the states, but I do have several options on the interwebs that do not include Amazon!!!  I am not a big fan of the megalith, mainly for its work helping to destroy local bookstores.

Indeed, several of my internet choices are local bookstores, even though they may be thousands of miles away. I define "local" rather broadly. figuring it's local somewhere. Right?

Adding to the stack

 Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson;
Dreyer's English, by Benjamin Dreyer;
and Song of Achilles, by Madeline Miller

Speaking of local bookstores, I went to one this weekend and bought these,  which will be going in The Stack. >>>

^^^ Also, my daughter added to the stack by recommending Wife of the Gods, by Ghanaian author Kwei Quartey. Because one of my goals this year is to read more writers of color, it's a good choice, and I am looking forward to it.

<<< Then there was this run of about 5.5 miles along the muddy trails and up the Stone Steps at Mt. Airy Park in Cincinnati on a cold but sunny Saturday. You can see me there in the middle, I climbed to the top of those steps, which rise 276 feet over the span of a quarter mile, a grade that averages 20 percent.

That sharp rise in the middle? That's the Stone Steps

Book Review: Music Love Drugs War

Music Love Drugs War, By Geraldine Quigley

Derry, Northern Ireland, 1981 -- It's a hard time in the history of The Troubles. Memories are long in this divided city.

Nine years have passed since 14 men were gunned down on the streets of the Bogside. IRA men are currently starving themselves in the H Blocks of the Maze Prison, Outside, during the wet spring and through the warm summer months, the angry youth are rioting to avenge the deaths and for the kicks.

Geraldine Quigley

"But the bin lids still rattled, of course, for the passing of another person dying for Ireland," Quigley writes in her authentic first novel. It's an audacious start for the Derry resident, and I hope to see more from her.

Quigley introduces us to a group of young friends and acquaintances in Derry, most in their late teens and on the cusp of adulthood, but unsure of their futures. They lived in tight-knit, often claustrophobic families. 

Derry is a city where jobs are scarce, the violence can be thick, and the hope can be slim. At the start of the '80s, their pleasures lie in drugs, music, and each other. Their fears -- and their realities -- lie in the violent struggle that has engulfed Ireland for 400 years.

Quigley defines Northern Ireland like the poet Seamus Heaney

"Yet for all this art and sedentary trace

"I am incapable. The famous

"Northern reticence. The tight gag of place

"And time: yes, yes. Of the 'wee six' I sing

"Where to be saved you only must save face

"And whatever you say, you say nothing."

But these friends have decisions to consider: University if they can, emigrating if they must, the IRA if they have to. Their decisions have consequences, and Quigley displays those outcomes, and whether they be positive, negative, or neutral, they are compelling.

Quigley tells their stories with commanding prose, brilliant dialogue, and deep background knowledge. Her characters are as familiar as an Irish mother, as charming as an Irish grandmother, and as exasperating as an Irish father. Her scenes and places are as intimate, euphoric, and sad as an Irish wake. Her story telling is enticingly, traditionally Irish.

Book Review: The Bees

The Bees, by Laline Paull

In the grand literary tradition of animals taking on human characteristics, Paull has given us a hive of honeybees that are feminist, pro-labor, and loyal. She uses them to tell a tale of love, life, hope, and commitment.

She hits the mark several times over.

The Bees gives us Flora 717, your basic worker bee. She's born to clean up after the other bees, and she does it so well that she uncharacteristically gets a chance to see other parts of the hive -- the egg-delivery rooms, the nurseries, even the queen's lair. But while she stays true to her kin, she does find that she enjoys -- and is really good at -- foraging for pollen and other bee-foods. It's a top hive job. Still, a key element of Flora is that in time or crisis, pain, or adversity, she returns to her kin, working quietly and unobtrusively among them, and proudly standing by their side.

As the books goes on, she also finds something else unusual about herself, but that borders on a spoiler, so you'll have to read the book to find out.

And you should. It's an enjoyable, well-written book. Her descriptions of bee behavior are accurate -- as they should be, seeing that she credits one of the world's premiere entomologists, E.O. Wilson, as an adviser. Bees are clearly a matriarchal society; she even portrays the male drones as exhibiting the behaviour of drunken frat rats. But as will be seen, #notalldrones.

She does take some literary license -- giving the bees speech, a level of sentience that nears anthropological to the extreme, and human thoughts and feelings. All that is fine: It gives us the opportunity to be like the bees, as much as she portrays the bees as being like us.

For instance, Paull's description of the forager bees waiting for the rain to clear so they can take flight is amazingly similar to my feelings as a runner when the weather refuses to cooperate with my running plans. The bees' returning after a long day gathering pollen matches that of a runner after a grueling marathon:

          "It was all (she) could do to latch her wings, then take herself to the canteen and eat whatever was put in front of her. She sat at the foragers' table and drew comfort from their presence, and now she understood why they did not speak, for it was not possible to do anything more than eat, drink cool water ... and find a place to rest. ... She took herself to a dormitory and collapsed."

Hive behavior also borders on the religious. The motto is: "Accept. Obey. Serve." The ceremony and language of Catholicism comes into play. Consider the hive's prayer to the queen: "Blessed be the sisters/ Who take away our sin/ Our mother, who art in labor/ Hallowed be Thy womb."

This book is about bees, but more than that: It's about us. It's about our caste system, and how we are, for the most part, locked into a caste at birth and struggling mightily to improve. It's about how we can be held back not only by those above us, but by those who are our own kin.

It's also about how we can break out of that caste and fly freely.

This Week in Books, 4th Ed.

When the longlist for the Women's Prize for Fiction was announced this week, I saw that two of the nominations are shelved in the TBR library. Not only that, but my current read, The Bees, by Laline Paull, was a shortlisted finalist for the award in 2015.So I wanted to know more.

                                                                   Photo from Women's Prize website
 The judges with their selection of the 16 books longlisted 

The award, dubbed one of the most prestigious in the UK, is given annually for the best novel written in English by a woman of any nationality.

Book awards in the UK have interesting logistics. First off, they announce a longlist, about a dozen to 18 novels of the best of the best. About six weeks later (April 29 this year for the Women's Prize) comes the shortlist, with the top five books becoming finalists. After a buildup, a ceremony is held to announce and honor the winner (June 5, 2019). The Man Booker and other awards use a similar method.

It's sort of the way the Oscars are heralded, and it's nice to see literary awards get the attention they deserve.

Such lists also are a great method to find new novels one might otherwise overlook. For years, I've used the Man Booker lists and found great novels written from different perspectives. The search will now include the longlist and shortlist of the Women's Prize, which seeks out and honors women writers from around the world.

"Written by women. For Everyone" is its motto. Previous winners include Half of a Yellow Sun, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in 2007, The Song of Archilles, by Madeine Miller in 2012, The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver in 2010, and last year's top novel, Home Fire, by Kamila Shamsie.


I have read two books on this year's longlist. Circe is the story of a minor Greek goddess, the daughter of the Titan sun god Helios. Because she is the goddess of witchcraft, she is banished to a deserted island. Here, Miller tells the story from Circe's perspective, including her meetings with Greek gods and heroes, such as the stories of the Minotaur, Medea, Icarus and his doomed flight to the sun, and one of her lovers, Odysseus. I read it last year at a time I was not keeping up with this blog, so I have not written a review. But it is top rate.

Milkman also tells its story from the perspective of its main character, a teen-age girl growing up in a split community very much like a 1980s version of Northern Ireland. My review is here.




Before I wrote this blog post, I went for a four-mile run to clear the head and think. It was cold, 20 degrees when I started -- that's seven below for you guys outside the United States.


 Also, it started to snow.

Book Review: Early Riser

Early Riser, by Jasper Fforde

To be honest, TBR was a little disappointed in this highly anticipated novel.

The premise seemed promising: A world in which humans hibernate during the winter. And it is written by the wonderful Jasper Fforde, whose mind works in mysterious ways.

But the story seemed ... forced? Fforde said he had difficulty writing this book, saying it took him three times longer than normal, and it shows. The first draft, he said, was crap, I certainly would not go that far, but it is not his best work.

Here's the idea. Humans hibernate. They always have hibernated through the long cold winter, when temperatures drop to 40 below, winds hit 60 mph, and snow falls constantly. As a result, humans have evolved differently, both socially and physically. Still, they are mostly like us, with the same fears and hopes and dreams.

This is where the story is strongest, as Fforde describes the world with his trademark wit, subtle takes of our current world, and bizarre inventions. He introduces us to several characters, and we learn about both them and their environment.

It's when he gets into those dreams the story take a turn. When you sleep for weeks and months at a time, those dreams -- your hopeful desires and your actual sleep fantasies -- may have outcomes that are a wee bit different than expected. Especially when one of those dreams goes viral, affecting people all over, including our hero and narrator, Charlie Worthing.

So the story turns into a thriller, with a predictable format -- lots of characters deceiving each other, unexplained violent deaths, characters not really around long enough for you to care about what happens to them. This is not TBR's favorite genre, and, sad to say, this novel did not overcome that bias.