Google Meets Manutius

Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore: A Novel, by Robin Sloan

I read this book on an e-reader. Specifically, the library app on my iPad. I feel like there should be some sort of subsection of academia out there that focuses on interactions such as this, meldings of the old world with the new, if there isn’t already (I’m almost positive there is, but I don’t know what one would call that; media studies? But it feels like it should be so much more…). That thought kept striking me as I read this book, which tries, I think, to be a part of that discussion: how does old media (i.e., books) hold up to new (let’s say, Google)? Does new media have any place in untangling the mysteries offered in old media? Is there any mystery there?

It’s something to think about. It’s also a red herring.

I say the book tries to be part of that conversation. I think it’s a very cool concept, and certainly the book is worth a read if that conversation is something you’re interested in. However, it’s very flatly written, a chessboard where Sloan could’ve given us a 3D journey. When I checked it out, the genre was labeled as “magical realism.” I hate to give away too much of anything, but I found the story to be magical in the way that books themselves are: transporting, engaging, elevating, but ultimately very real, everyday objects, not magical in and of themselves.

The characters themselves were collections of very pleasant quirks. Sloan’s protagonist, Clay, has apparently never met anyone he didn’t ultimately find uniquely talented and interesting. That’s a nice enough trait for a character. It threw me when that trait was almost universally rewarded. Maybe I’m too cynical?

Ultimately, this book is very optimistic. You will not be rewarded for navel-gazing or misanthropy. This is a book for hopers and dreamers, for readers and doers.

This review has been cross-posted to the Cannonball Read, where I am reviewing books as I attempt to read 52 in a year!


Just So-So Stories

I stayed up until 3:30 in the morning reading Rob Lowe’s book, Stories I Only Tell My Friends. The late hour was not due to any exceptional interest in the book (though I am a sucker for good Hollywood gossip) nor any other particular qualities. I just really wanted to finish reading it.


To those who would shame my interest in decades-old drama, be content with the knowledge that I did not get what I came for. As an author, Lowe pulls his punches. There are no villains in Rob Lowe’s life. He seems remarkably well-adjusted despite the childhood trauma of his parents’ divorce, and subsequent stardom and infamy. Lowe spends the first third of the book talking about that childhood, while the rest is divided into the making of “The Outsiders,” and, incredibly, he manages to cram everything since then into the final third. The most arguably eventful period of his life is glossed over, and even the “villains” of his story (the writer who coined the term “Brat Pack” comes to mind) are given free passes for having screwed him over.


This did not feel like a book of stories Lowe only tells his friends. This felt like a book of anecdotes Lowe might share with the neighbors at the block party. It does not feel intimate, but it does feel sincere. He approaches California, fancy new jobs and fancy new neighbors with a midwesterner’s awe. He is not Sam Seaborn. He is not Chris Traeger. As actors go, he seems to have spent the last two decades demurring from the spotlight as far as his personal life goes. And that’s fine, and probably makes for a very happy, satisfying life. However, it doesn’t make for a very interesting book.

This review has been cross-posted to the Cannonball Read, where I am reviewing books as I attempt to read 52 in a year!


Worst Neighbors Ever.

I wanted to love The Wordy Shipmates. If there’s anything that speaks to the essence of Me, it’s highly literate, passive-aggressive Puritans with authority issues. Who wouldn’t be into that? I re-read Sarah Vowell’s Assassination Vacation last year, and she has a way of making history so relatable, with real, long-reaching consequences that 21st century Americans feel everyday. The Wordy Shipmates is really no different in that sense. But there’s something missing


As to the writing, Vowell’s tongue is lodged firmly in her cheek. No one is safe from her snark. She is most sincere when she discusses what she loves about the Massachusetts Bay Company, acknowledging moments that are of course emotionally manipulative and problematic to our eyes (for instance, John Winthrop’s “City on a Hill” sermon, while still celebrating their intent.


I found a few heroes here. This book brought back a few latent APUSH/junior year historical crushes on Roger Williams and Anne Hutchinson. I love cantankerous idealists, and these two fought so hard for their beliefs (including a shared belief in religious freedom), and ticked off so many people, that they went and founded an entirely new state. And then, it wasn’t enough that now THEY had religious freedom; they had to go and guarantee it for others who were escaping religious oppression. It’s a beautiful idea, and it makes me want to visit Rhode Island, which sounds like a utopia of sorts. They make interesting foils for Winthrop, who seems all right himself, at first. If you read the book, read it for Williams and Hutchinson.


But of course this is history, and it’s not all freedom from oppression and religious liberty. Other people had to get stepped on to guarantee all that freedom, right? Vowell’s introduction of the Pequot War is ominous, and the book ends on this topic, which is probably why I felt so bad after it ended. I don’t know that I would re-read The Wordy Shipmates as readily as Assassination Vacation, barring an early U.S. history cram session, or participating in a Sarah Vowell compendium. Or maybe just to get reacquainted with Hutchinson and Williams.

This review has been cross-posted to the Cannonball Read, where I am reviewing books as I attempt to read 52 in a year!


Here, Have a Black Spot.

When I first read Treasure Island, I was living in Georgia’s low country, an area embroiled in pirate history (in fact, the Benbow Inn is rumored to have been modeled on Savannah’s Pirate House).  I like my reading to provide a little bit of local color. Anyway, perhaps it was my own location that made it easy to fall into Stevenson’s world. I can understand how Jim Hawkins might feel every time his little world is intruded upon by a pirate, those dual senses of danger and thrill, and how those emotions both might appeal to a kid like Jim (who manages to not only encounter danger, but practically invite it at every available opportunity). I’m a grown woman, and I recommend reading the first part of the book in a darkened room, at night, on a full moon. It’ll add to the experience.

The book is a classic, and it’s a classic for a reason. You will find the DNA of nearly every pirate trope here (minus any relating to women, as they are few and far between here). I will admit to being a lot more impressed with the characterization the first time I read Treasure Island, but I’m wondering if my impressions were strongly colored by the different film versions (it is one of the most adapted books in film history). I recall a Long John Silver who is as warm and paternal as he is changeable and cunning, which of course adds to the danger, and a Jim who is hungry for a similar father figure. I didn’t quite find them here. What I did find, however, was a classic story of suspense and adventure, well worth an evening read.

This review has been posted at the Cannonball Read, where I am attempting to read and review 52 books in 2016. Read along with me!



I don’t remember how I discovered Anne Helen Petersen’s Scandals of Classic Hollywood series over on the Hairpin. But I do remember devouring the latest entries during downtime at my job as a secretary. Petersen let contemporary fans like myself experience the restrictive glamour of stars under the old studio system. She did it with a clever, confidential voice that benefitted from hindsight, and I found the results fascinating. Her blog was a weekly read.

The book is more of the same, which feels familiar but oddly not enough. It’s divided into multiple parts, each focusing on a classic Hollywood phenotype, with chapters about separate stars (in other words, long-format essays akin to one of the Hairpin pieces). Much of it is ground already tread in the Hairpin, which I expected to some degree. However, the book was a quick read, and it left me feeling unsatisfied. Make of that what you will.

This is also pretty obviously going to appeal to a very niche audience (of which I am obviously a member). Petersen approaches gossip that’s up to a hundred years old with an academic’s interest, but a blogger’s voice. That’s appealing to me. While contemporary audiences lap up gossip about today’s stars, it’s easy to assume that I’m not “one of them,” even as I devour a chapter about Mae West’s bawdy career. Again, Petersen is concerned with what this interest in stardom says about the film industry and society at large. That’s certainly a subject worth tackling. However, I found myself constantly questioning my own motives for reading this book. Was I couching my own schadenfreude in academic curiosity? The lives these stars led (at least the ones Petersen focuses on) were pretty tragic. Was I consuming them (again) for further entertainment? The answer is, probably. I do get a vicarious thrill from reading about these stars, much like their contemporary audiences did, much like we get from our own stars today. Gossip is appealing for a reason, and apparently, it’s timeless.


This review has been cross-posted to the Cannonball Read, where I am reviewing books as I attempt to read 52 in a year!

Breaking Brontosaurus News

I loved My Beloved Brontosaurus. I really did. I was trying to pinpoint some sort of flaw as a reason why I would rate this book anything other than five stars, and I couldn’t. Maybe you’re not into science or dinosaurs (if that is the case, why did you pick this book up to begin with?). But I do love dinosaurs, truly, and the author takes some 200 years of paleontological research, including controversial updates, and synthesizes it into 222 pages of accessible, engaging science. I found it delightful, and inspiring.

For a topic as dry as dinosaur bones, the writing is funny. The entire chapter on dinosaur sex (at this point, discussed in hypotheticals) is pure gold, providing several laugh-out-loud moments, and at one point, prompting me to grab my phone to tweet a line. The book follows a practical procession of dinosaurs’ lifecycles, from conception to their inevitable (maybe), untimely (perhaps) destruction. Switek makes multiple detours along the way for recent scientific revelations, and those revelations hold the heart of the book.

Switek (an amateur paleontologist, freelance science writer, and the dinosaur adviser on “Jurassic World”) is appealing in particular to latent dino lovers who discovered the giants at a similar age to himself – late ’80s/early ’90s millenials whose worlds were rocked when the Brontosaurus was relegated to Pluto-status (or rather, denounced as not a dinosaur, was never a dinosaur, and should never have been named a dinosaur to begin with). I mention the age not because I think it should exclude anyone who was not a “true 90s kid,” but rather because I relate to that viewpoint so well. I understand exactly where Switek is coming from. So much of contemporary conventional paleontology has changed since my second grade dinosaur unit. I think sometimes, as learners, we are taught “facts” that stick in our brains, immobilized, almost fossils themselves, until something comes to root them out. This book makes a first-rate shovel.


This review has been cross-posted to the Cannonball Read. My goal is to read 52 books in 2016.

So Many Religious Puns…

…And I’ve attempted to avoid all of them. I obviously enjoyed Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie’s The Wicked and the Divine enough to read the issues again, this time as a collected trade paperback titled The Faust Act. I’ve been following the series since I started buying comics again, roughly a year ago, and I’ve enjoyed the pair’s original work, following them from Phonogram and so forth.


But this review is about The Wicked and the Divine. The premise is this: a pantheon of gods return to the earth every ninety years as pop stars. They live for two years, and then through various means, pass away from this world. For the current recurrence, we readers have Laura, a uni student and admitted fangirl, to serve as our eyes and ears and entry into the world of the gods. Laura strikes up a relationship (flirtation/quasi-employment) with the incarnation of Lucifer, brilliantly inspired by David Bowie. This leads to all kinds of mayhem, and Laura’s further inculcation into the pantheon.

The gods themselves are portrayed as human and petty as such gods as ever have been, yet they continue to hold some fascination for the faithful. In this first trade, we get glimpses of their world: assassins, conspiracies, mind-boggling powers.Those powers themselves are fairly shadowy. Even within their world, only those who attend the shows are able to experience the gods’ power, as any attempts to record the music result in only static and silence. As for the shows themselves, imagine the best concert you’ve ever been to, and then imagine you experienced religious levels of euphoria, possibly resulting in passing out or sexual climax (or maybe both?).

My favorite character is Laura. I can’t relate to any of the gods, but she is unapologetic in her fervor for the gods. She is quintessentially a fan, in a universe where fan tips over into zealot. One of my favorite bits is Laura’s inner commentary on the proceedings, the things she says to herself (and to us) that she believes are too much for everyone else to handle. Everyone can relate to that. I don’t dig her desire to be one of the pantheon, that thirst to be special, but even that is something everyone can see in themselves.

The art is beautiful. I always admire McKelvie’s line work, but Matthew Wilson’s coloring is radiant, reinforcing the idea of candles burning too brightly. As to the story, as I read the trade, I was confused by several points, such as the gods’ purpose (Ananke makes a brief reference to inspiration, but otherwise the point is not driven home). But this is at heart, a long, high-concept murder mystery (lasting roughly two years). I’ll be re-reading the second trade as well, and I expect those issues will be clarified.


This review has been cross-posted to the Cannonball Read. My goal is to read 52 books in 2016.

The coffee is unusually bitter.

The following is being linked to as part of the Cannonball Read, the reading challenge I’m participating in during 2016. My goal is 52 books. By all means, join in, share your thoughts, read with me! There are few things I love so much as talking about books.


Agatha Christie’s Black Coffee is frothy, mildly offensive (much like hyoscine), and formulaic. The miserly, inventive patriarch of the Amory family has called in Detective Poirot because he suspects someone in his family is attempting to steal a formula that is incredibly important. Poirot shows up, but not before the thief murders Sir Amory as well. There are xenophobic undertones, spy hijinks, bemused spinster aunts, and absolutely nothing of any note. Put together, the book’s parts are entirely underwhelming.


I typically pick up a Christie novel when I’m looking for something light, but literate. It’s notable that this book was actually her attempt at a play. It was adapted into a novel by Charles Osborne in 1997, twenty years after Christie’s death. As I don’t have the script of the play to compare, I will just express disappointment with the book, and not the author. Nearly every character is a caricature (see above, re: bemused spinster aunt). We have hints of interesting characters in Lucia and her husband Richard, but even then, they receive barely a hint of page time. Poirot, as always, is smug and patronizing, but hey, maybe you go for that sort of thing.


If you read mysteries for the sake of the mystery, I think this one will leave you cold. There’s barely any “there” there. I enjoy solving a mystery along with the detective, and a well-written mystery will have clues interspersed along the way. Those clues, much like the rest of the substance in this book, were an afterthought, and very few.


One more note on Amory’s formula: it is unfathomable to me that an amateur scientist would be able to contain a formula to “bombard the atom” (I have no idea what that means) in his country home in post-WWI England, especially with all the prospective murderers running around. But in this book, the disregard for national security is treated as an eccentricity. We’re told that Amory has been wretched to his companions, but we see none of this. Yet another of the book’s oversights.

Drink the Mead, See the World

The following is being linked to as part of the Cannonball Read, the reading challenge I’m participating in during 2016. My goal is 52 books. By all means, join in, share your thoughts, read with me! There are few things I love so much as talking about books.


2016 began with a re-read of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. I’m a big proponent of re-reading, and American Gods, in particular, is one book where I can always be certain of discovering something new. Gaiman packs quite a lot into his story; if you’re into road trips, or Americana, or mythology, or murder mysteries, or romance, or ghost stories (and I am into all of those things)…it’s cliché to say that there is something for everyone here, but it’s the truth. Of more interest than that, though, is that every person is likely to find something different. For instance, if I knew anything about chess (I had to ask my husband what a bishop does; “It goes diagonally.” Not as much info as I’d hoped for)  or the Tarot (my college roommate tells me this is significant; I trust her on that), I’m certain that would add another level to my reading.

Throughout this reading, I was struck by how cinematic the book is. American Gods is being adapted by STARZ for television, and this book is a no-brainer for adaptation. The characters are oddball enough that they’ll look fantastic on television, if a bit grim. The visual qualities don’t detract from the sensual; reading the book is a very sensory experience. As you read, you can feel the cold, smell the mold, and if you’re not the type to find music too distracting, by all means press play on this playlist. There are extensive references to different songs and locations in the book, and listening to the songs as they’re mentioned adds to the ambience. Gaiman’s characters also travel quite a bit around the American Midwest, and if you’ve traveled there as well, it is fun to spot the locations (I can imagine how many road trips this book has inspired).  I’ll be re-reading the book again before watching the show in 2017.

I should note that this time around, I read the 10th Anniversary “Author’s Preferred Text” edition. The changes were subtle enough that I didn’t note any difference between this text and the previous versions I’ve read. There is a deleted scene included post-epilogue, but to my mind, it was rightfully cut. I feel, after finishing the book…full. Pleasantly sated, not overly stuffed. Like after a nice glass of Soma. I would absolutely recommend the book to adult readers, fans of anything I’ve listed above, or those who have yet to experience Gaiman’s delightful weirdness.