Rebel Queen by Michelle Moran
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Although I usually avoid this sort of book, being suspicious of most western, orientalist portrayals of the “east,” I do love picking up random books from the many nearby little neighborhood libraries (those wonderful front-lawn libraries-on-a-post that have sprung up in recent years). This one leapt out at me, so I blazed through it over the past few days. The basic story was interesting enough to hold me to the end, but that’s built into the historical material: the clash of cultures, colonization, rebellion, etc. Beyond that, the book was a disappointment.

First, I tripped over the language. Moran makes use of some astoundingly clunky imagery. Consider a few examples:

“As anyone who’s ever lived inside a house of eggshells knows, nothing is more fragile.”

“I became like a frozen stream—hard and impenetrable on the outside, but secretly bursting with life within.”

“By the time we rode out, the lump in my throat had grown so large I could hardly swallow.”

“Love can be like the seasons, turning a green leaf into something frail and yellow.”

Hello… editor? How did these make it into the final draft? Those first two are on the same bloody page. On the bright side, as a writing teacher, it’s always good to find such stink bombs. I’ve already shared them with one English class… and even seventh graders recognized their flaws.

Second, the book succeeded in dampening my interest in the title character (the famed Rani of Jhansi). I was certainly sympathetic to the rebel cause, but after reading page after page about the overwrought opulence of the Rani, the Raja, and the members of their court, and then contrasting this with the lives of the bulk of the people in their community, it was difficult to maintain a sense of sympathy. When the British first annex Jhansi, there is a chapter that focuses on the Rani being forced out of her stupendous palace and moving to a smaller, older, stupendous palace. It’s filled with pathos, with lines like, “Thousands of people lined the roads to watch our procession to our new home, and they were utterly silent.” And the dramatic tension was sustained by focusing on whether the Rani would be able to keep her stuff, including her “elaborate peacock throne” made of emerald studded gold. But luckily, in the midst of the central drama of who gets to keep the bling, the Rani says, with tears in her eyes, “And what will happen to our people?” See, she really does care!

Ultimately, I recommend reading an actual historical account of this period and these legendary characters rather than this clumsy fictionalized version. And, don’t forget that your house of eggshells is fragile.

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The Road Not Taken and Other Poems
by Robert Frost
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Robert Frost never leapt out at me during my sporadic forays into poetry. I was familiar with—and moderately fond of—a few of his most famous poems, and certainly the title poem of this collection, but never enough to seek out more. I picked up this collection because of David Orr’s introduction, which did not disappoint. I love an intro that can contextualize the author both historically and in terms of current sensibilities. Orr is erudite, efficient, and precise, with enough wit (and delicious dashes of pop culture) to avoid any whiff of pedantry.

I intended to skim through the rest of it, but found myself sucked in. To my surprise, I was particularly drawn to his longer poems; I rarely have patience for these, preferring poetry that packs a quick wallop. The first that wowed me, and still my favorite in the collection, was “The Death of the Hired Man.” I read it, was stunned at how evocative it was, and reread it immediately—I was there on the porch steps watching the conversation unfold. A 166 line masterpiece. Others that leapt out were “The Housekeeper,” “The Fear,” “Birches,” and “The Bonfire.” Each of them packed an emotional punch and grew with each rereading.

My former English teachers may be relieved to know that I finally, a few decades late, get what all the Frost fuss is about.

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The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

My introduction to Patrick Rothfuss was his fantastic short story, “The Lightning Tree,” in the Rogues anthology (2014). I was immediately hooked by both his world, where the fantasy elements are deliciously subtle, and his writing style. The story was beautiful and left me wanting to learn more about this world. I was thrilled to learn that he has a whole series of books revolving around the characters and setting.

There was much that I found compelling with the first novel in this series. I particularly liked the frame story which maintained some of the languid pace that I enjoyed in the short story. There were elements of the primary narrative that I also enjoyed: traveling minstrels, fantasy elements fading into myth, hints of darker realities. I continue to appreciate the setting, particularly the university library, the Underthing, a whole town devoted to the arts, and layers of history both physically present in the architecture and landscape, and figuratively present in layered stories and songs. Some surprising characters, especially Devi the moneylender, were fun to get to know. And I like the style of magic—it felt appropriate to the setting, the in-story fluff was plausible, and, at its best, it evoked a genuine sense of mystery and awe.

Oddly, though I began the book loving the slow pace, which felt luxurious, I came to resent it later on. I enjoy a story that takes its time, but not if it starts feeling predictable or like I’m being strung along. In particular, the frame story makes it clear that Kvothe (our hero and narrator) just wants to nail down the essential elements, yet he meanders all over the place. Yeah yeah yeah, I know he’s going to screw things up with the girl again. Let’s get on with it. And he’s going to have umpteen run-ins with the snooty rich kid at the university. Yawn. And one-dimensional Professor Snape-I-mean-Hemme? Either breathe life into him or find a better obstacle.

In a similar vein, I couldn’t quite buy into the challenges Kvothe faced. How could this brilliant, talented prodigy not figure out a way to earn a living? I get it that the rich kid scared off all the noble patrons, but if he was 10% the minstrel that the story implies that he was, I’d think he could do a lot better than simply getting an attic room at the inn. He could have earned enough through busking alone. His financial plight kept the tension up, but it was forced. I kept waiting for him to get his bloody act together.

In general Kvothe’s level of obtuseness appeared to be in service to the plot. Most of the time he was a super-genius, but then he would suddenly become dumb as a stump. Of course real people are brilliant in some areas and have blind spots, but Kvothe is wildly inconsistent. With “magic,” for example, he usually runs circles around his classmates, but he becomes braindead when he talks to Master Elodin. For example, he’s fully aware that Elodin has the keys to the Real Magic that he’s after, but he describes him as a loony bin: “He talks in circles about names and words and power. It sounds good while he’s saying it. But it doesn’t really mean anything.” Really? Why not apply yourself to figure out what Elodin is talking about, like you do most of the time? Besides, as someone as steeped in folklore as Kvothe, who often says things like, “that’s how this would go if it were a story…,” I’d think he’d recognize the absent-minded professor archetype.

I’m rounding down to three stars, though I’m definitely interested enough in the core story to continue on with the next book.

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Butterick’s Practical Typography
by Matthew Butterick

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Loved everything about this on-line book. I’ve been mildly interested in typography for years, but only as a dabbler: I love a proper em dash, end sentences with only a single space, keep an eye out for attractive layouts to emulate, and, of course, avoid comic sans. This book helps crystalize things I’ve mused about, and explains why some design decisions work and others don’t. It also gives me a great foundation to use as a teacher whose students do most of their work via keyboard. (Eighth grade ain’t too early to start getting it right.)

Butterick definitely practices what he preaches—the book is gorgeous and the writing is sharp and witty. A sample:

For those who want to get right to the heart of it, he includes a Typography in ten minutes chapter and a Summary of key rules.

My only regret is that many of his suggestions can’t be implemented in Google Docs which is my primary word processor these days. But I still keep full-featured word processors around for work that requires precise design, and Google may evolve to be more design-friendly in time.

Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A new sci-fi author to keep an eye on! Leckie is a world builder — the setting is broad in scope and lavishly depicted. Early on there was a bit too much exposition for my taste, but once I got into the setting I loved its richness. The characters and conflicts were compelling, including fresh takes on some genre tropes like artificial intelligence and cyborgs. Imagine a starship intelligence with a linked cyborg crew — every body shares the same overriding consciousness. Pretty cool, and deftly presented. There is plenty of moral ambiguity too; characters have complex motivations and don’t always make good choices. Thankfully, there are no obvious “good guys” and “bad guys,” except perhaps the main character / narrator, who is pretty easy to root for.

According to an interview with the author at the end of the book, this is the first of a planned trilogy. There is room for a whole pile of stories in this setting, and I’d like to see more of it. I’m looking forward to the next installment.

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McSweeney’s Issue 45: Hitchcock and Bradbury Fistfight in Heaven by Dave Eggers

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book is why we need to have vigorous bookstores and libraries in every neighborhood. I stopped by my local independent bookseller to look for a list of books I was interested in. This book was not on my list, but it leapt off the shelf — the cover picture and title were irresistible. After browsing through it for a few minutes, and despite the fact that there were no reviews on either Goodreads or Amazon (gasp!), I went for it. And how much fun I’ve had since then!

The title (used with Sherman Alexie’s blessing) reveals the origin of this collection. Over the past few years, Dave Eggers came across two out-of-print anthologies: Alfred Hitchcock’s 1965 Stories Not for the Nervous and Ray Bradbury’s 1952 Timeless Stories for Today & Tomorrow. He pulled the best from each collection and mixed them together with a few bonus contemporary pieces.

I loved most of the pieces in here, and found myself sharing highlights with anyone who would listen. There are classic science fiction pieces like Roald Dahl’s “The Sound Machine,” where a guy invents a machine that can hear the language of plants, Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian,” about a world where people never stop watching TV, and Julian May’s “Dune Roller,” about a spooky meteor in Lake Michigan. Then there’s Jack Ritchie’s hilarious “For All the Rude People,” where Emily Post hooks up with Rambo. The opening of that story is so darkly delicious, I’ll share it here:

     "How old are you?" I asked.
     His eyes were on the revolver I was holding. "Look, 
mister, there’s not much in the cash register, but take 
it all. I won’t make no trouble."
     "I am not interested in your filthy money. How old 
are you?"
     He was puzzled. "Forty-two."
     I clicked my tongue. "What a pity. From your point 
of view, at least. You might have lived another twenty 
or thirty years if you had just taken the slight pains to 
be polite."
     He didn’t understand.
     "I am going to kill you," I said, "because of the 
four-cent stamp and because of the cherry candy."
     He did not know what I meant by the cherry candy, 
but he did know about the stamp.
     Panic raced into his face. "You must be crazy. You 
can’t kill me just because of that."
     "But I can."
     And I did.

The longest piece in the book is “Sorry, Wrong Number,” an expanded version of a famous Lucille Fletcher radio play about a bed-ridden woman making repeated phone calls to try and locate her missing husband. Although it had a bit too much exposition at times, I loved the premise and the ever-rising tension which, Bolero-like, sucked me into her mounting hysteria.

There are some unexpected names in here, too. Kafka’s got a spot (dark, ornate, but also funny at times), along with Cheever (classic sci-fi thought piece), and a bizarre Steinbeck gem, “Saint Katy the Virgin,” about a holy pig. High hilarity. Finally, there were the contemporary pieces by China Miéville, Brian Evenson, Benjamin Percy, and E. Lily Yu. My favorite was Miéville’s “The Design,” which grapples with one of the coolest ideas I’ve seen in a story in a long time. I can say no more without spoiling it.

Although this collection was all over the place, it felt coherent. Eggers does a great job in the brief introduction of explaining the guiding theme, and the book stayed true to it throughout. He also sets the reader up to anticipate the final story, describing it as “one of the creepiest things” he’s read. Then he admonishes us not to jump ahead, “Whatever you do, make sure you read ‘Don’t Look Behind You’ last.” Throughout the book, I looked forward to the finale, savoring the promised creepiness. It was worth the wait.

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Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I first learned about this wonderful book after hearing that one of our local school districts (Anoka-Hennepin, somewhat infamous around here) was embroiled in a controversy over whether this book was appropriate for youth. In short, the book had been selected by district librarians for an optional high-school summer reading program. A parent noticed some f-bombs and things spiraled from there. Rainbow Rowell’s speaking engagement was canceled and the district is still embroiled in a formal book-review process. Luckily, Rainbow Rowell came to Minnesota anyway and spoke at a number of engagements, one of which I attended. She was smart, funny, and charming, delivering a passionate and persuasive defense of the core message of her book.

Having now read the book, I am flabbergasted that anyone could call it profane. Yes, there is a fair amount of profanity. (A crazy Anoka-Hennepin parent actually counted “227 instances of profanity.”) But since when is this unusual in realistic fiction about teenagers? Are these parents unaware of how typical teenagers talk? But more importantly, the book’s protagonists are clearly making choices to rise above the shallow trashiness of their peers. And when it comes to sexuality, there’s no rational basis for criticism. I remember poring over far racier (and more explicit) material with my sixth grade friends a million years ago; from a high school perspective this is utterly tame. The most intense “sex scene” in this book is of the two kids holding hands! (And it is sublime!) The book is certainly sexually charged, but I’ve read religious parables that are more pornographic.

This book is a gorgeous story of two teenagers finding their first love. Rowell makes school feel real, with all the social nastiness that usually goes along with kids growing up. She focuses tightly on the title characters, but the supporting cast feels rich and believable. (And I think I went to school with some of them.) Eleanor and Park are both complex, confused, and extraordinary. I laughed constantly as I got to know them, and later I cried through entire chapters. (Love a book that has plenty of both.) I won’t spoil anything by talking about the plot, but here are some key highlights for me:

– I love it that Park was a good guy.
– I love it that they get to know each other through comic books and music.
– I love it that the book is set in the ’80s.
– I love it that Rowell touches on a lot of complex YA issues without neatly tying them up with moralistic bows (body image, gender identity, race, bullying, to name a few).

In short, I loved the book and look forward to the time when my children can read it too.

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Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I have mixed feelings about this one. I’ve been vaguely looking forward to reading it for decades. It sounded intriguing—a progenitor of both science fiction and horror, and much more thoughtful than a mere “monster” book. My impetus for starting it this month is an upcoming 8th grade field trip to the Bakken Museum of electricity which features an exhibit on Frankenstein and Mary Shelley.

Possible spoilers below.

In general, I found much of the book to be plodding, even taking into account the different literary style of its era. (I don’t usually have much trouble with 19th century literature.) The bulky frame story felt awkward and overwrought. Victor Frankenstein was such a miserable wretch that I found myself dreading reading anything else about him. I wanted to scream at Shelley, “Show, don’t tell!” As Frankenstein’s tragedy’s mount, it felt like every paragraph was a variation of, “No one can conceive the anguish I suffered…” Ugh. The foreshadowing was also heavy-handed by current standards, leaving few real plot surprises.

Hooray for chapter 10! Enter the monster. This is where the story came to life, so to speak, for me. I knew the monster would be more than what I expected from cartoons and film, but I was still surprised when he delivered eloquent lines like this, “Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us.” I love a monster with a strong vocabulary and proper elocution. I found his story to be fascinating and tragic, and spent much of the rest of the book rooting for him. The whole book was worth it for the monster’s story. I can see why the story became famous. It raises profound questions about the nature of humanity and evil.

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