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calarco's Reviews (760)
Murakami excels at crafting surreal narratives that plausibly come to life with emotional authenticity. In this collection of short stories the surreal stimulus that acts as the unifying theme for the collection is the aftermath of the actual 1995 Kobe earthquake. The violent tremors of this natural disaster leaves very tangible damage that feels anything but natural.
Like any short story collection, there is variation in terms of quality. My favorite was easily "honey pie." It was uncharacteristically hopeful (for Murakami) and was a heart-warming conclusion to a series that dwells on unexpected devastation of both material and existential proportions.
Admittedly, I have read over a dozen Murakami books at this point, so I grade this one in comparison to his other (better) works. However, even an average Murakami book is better than some author's best efforts, so if the topic appeals to you pick up a copy of "after the quake" and decide for yourself.
Like any short story collection, there is variation in terms of quality. My favorite was easily "honey pie." It was uncharacteristically hopeful (for Murakami) and was a heart-warming conclusion to a series that dwells on unexpected devastation of both material and existential proportions.
Admittedly, I have read over a dozen Murakami books at this point, so I grade this one in comparison to his other (better) works. However, even an average Murakami book is better than some author's best efforts, so if the topic appeals to you pick up a copy of "after the quake" and decide for yourself.
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Before J.K. Rowling or J.R.R. Tolkien, The Chronicles of Prydain, like for many a Millennial, was my true gateway series into the fantasy genre. This Welsh-inspired fable has a lot to offer and was my first impression of how a fantasy series narrative could be structured. However, I found myself asking if it could still hold up now that I am an adult, and the answer is - sort of, mostly, kinda.
There is a lot I still like about the series, such as the well rounded world-building, and hilarious cast of characters. Ultimately, the series stresses the merit of kindness, compassion, and the power of unlikely friendships. It places the real importance of team work over the myth of the rugged individual. These factors keep the material relevant.
The one character I enjoyed most for childhood nostalgia purposes was the weirdo Gurgi with his desire for "crunchings and munchings," a phrase I probably beat to death with the carcass of a dead horse as a child. But this man-dog character is just the standout of a cast of misfit toys who have something slightly off, but qualities that still make them valuable and endearing if given the chance.
When it comes down to it though, the plot is fairly predictable, and not just because I read it once when I was 9-years-old. While I liked that things go "wrong" for the main cast, in the end things miraculously line up and go right in an unrealistic, Mary Sue, kind of way.
This series is definitely still worth reading, especially if you want to impress on a child the importance of compassion over might. It also lays the groundwork for better things to come...
There is a lot I still like about the series, such as the well rounded world-building, and hilarious cast of characters. Ultimately, the series stresses the merit of kindness, compassion, and the power of unlikely friendships. It places the real importance of team work over the myth of the rugged individual. These factors keep the material relevant.
The one character I enjoyed most for childhood nostalgia purposes was the weirdo Gurgi with his desire for "crunchings and munchings," a phrase I probably beat to death with the carcass of a dead horse as a child. But this man-dog character is just the standout of a cast of misfit toys who have something slightly off, but qualities that still make them valuable and endearing if given the chance.
When it comes down to it though, the plot is fairly predictable, and not just because I read it once when I was 9-years-old. While I liked that things go "wrong" for the main cast, in the end things miraculously line up and go right in an unrealistic, Mary Sue, kind of way.
This series is definitely still worth reading, especially if you want to impress on a child the importance of compassion over might. It also lays the groundwork for better things to come...
So this book was given to me as a (gag) xmas gift from my sister's (non-practicing) Jewish boyfriend, because he heard I was reading the Christian bible. True story. So I read it as unbiased as humanly possible, and it was a pretty terrible hot mess.
I suppose in its defense, "The Satanic Rituals" does set out to denounce how organized religion can be manipulated to create unhealthy dichotomies of 'us' versus 'them.' In response to these socially-derived rifts, much of the ethos of this volume is dedicated to embracing the 'other.' In the opening thesis, LaVey establishes how entities contrary to established thought tends to get vilified on principle, and as a direct response Satanic beliefs contrarily embrace these dark elements.
LaVey also dedicates this volume to the active process of ritual as a means of using magic to invoke intense feelings of liberation. Rituals function as events instilling socially recognized changes within participating individuals. The participant enters into the ritual, undergoes a state of liminality, and then reemerges into society as a newly changed person. I believe the goal here is to achieve some semblance of existential freedom.
So here is where things go terribly wrong with "The Satanic Rituals" - these rituals are dumb, so so dumb. So profoundly stupid.
The source material used for the spoken word components of these "rituals" are gathered from other (better) traditions and authors, mostly H.P. Lovecraft. To say that LaVey is a totally rabid fanboy would be an understatement. By drawing references from "history" (a term used loosely) and other revered authors, LaVey does his best to legitimize some weird, niche larping.
But wait! The content is not just weird, the prose is also god-awful (har har). It is all delivered with heavy handed pseudo-intellectualism and needlessly represents chants in both English and their (alleged) originating languages including French, German, and (poorly) romanized Russian. This use of multiple languages is obviously a ploy to up the page count to fill out a bound volume resembling a book. However, the use of languages also reveals something abhorrently apparent: it is super hypocritical.
Until the 1960's, Roman Catholic masses were conduced in Latin with the priest facing the alter and his back to the actual people. This created a rift in terms of who had direct access to information, with the religious institutions monopolizing the power to distill knowledge and interpretation of scripture to the people. The (poor) use of other languages in the "The Satanic Rituals" tries to legitimize itself the same way the church did 60 years ago. You cannot criticize an institution and then turn around and use a component of what you are criticizing to legitimize your own schlock. So dumb.
Perhaps the gravest cardinal sin that this volume commits though, is that it was mind-numbingly boring. I thought it would at least be ironically funny, but no, it disappointed at every turn. H.P. Lovecraft could not have wanted this.
I suppose in its defense, "The Satanic Rituals" does set out to denounce how organized religion can be manipulated to create unhealthy dichotomies of 'us' versus 'them.' In response to these socially-derived rifts, much of the ethos of this volume is dedicated to embracing the 'other.' In the opening thesis, LaVey establishes how entities contrary to established thought tends to get vilified on principle, and as a direct response Satanic beliefs contrarily embrace these dark elements.
LaVey also dedicates this volume to the active process of ritual as a means of using magic to invoke intense feelings of liberation. Rituals function as events instilling socially recognized changes within participating individuals. The participant enters into the ritual, undergoes a state of liminality, and then reemerges into society as a newly changed person. I believe the goal here is to achieve some semblance of existential freedom.
So here is where things go terribly wrong with "The Satanic Rituals" - these rituals are dumb, so so dumb. So profoundly stupid.
The source material used for the spoken word components of these "rituals" are gathered from other (better) traditions and authors, mostly H.P. Lovecraft. To say that LaVey is a totally rabid fanboy would be an understatement. By drawing references from "history" (a term used loosely) and other revered authors, LaVey does his best to legitimize some weird, niche larping.
But wait! The content is not just weird, the prose is also god-awful (har har). It is all delivered with heavy handed pseudo-intellectualism and needlessly represents chants in both English and their (alleged) originating languages including French, German, and (poorly) romanized Russian. This use of multiple languages is obviously a ploy to up the page count to fill out a bound volume resembling a book. However, the use of languages also reveals something abhorrently apparent: it is super hypocritical.
Until the 1960's, Roman Catholic masses were conduced in Latin with the priest facing the alter and his back to the actual people. This created a rift in terms of who had direct access to information, with the religious institutions monopolizing the power to distill knowledge and interpretation of scripture to the people. The (poor) use of other languages in the "The Satanic Rituals" tries to legitimize itself the same way the church did 60 years ago. You cannot criticize an institution and then turn around and use a component of what you are criticizing to legitimize your own schlock. So dumb.
Perhaps the gravest cardinal sin that this volume commits though, is that it was mind-numbingly boring. I thought it would at least be ironically funny, but no, it disappointed at every turn. H.P. Lovecraft could not have wanted this.
"Borderlands" is a work that is hard define. It is part social-commentary, history, poetry, linguistic analysis, philosophy and more that cannot be easily summarized into a single genre. Using these different elements, Anzaldua explores the complex and multifaceted concept of 'identity.' She frames the work through her own lived experiences and language(s), which grounds her arguments in emotional authenticity.
While the content of “Borderlands” is academic in nature, Anzaldua’s decision to write the text in various languages including English, ‘standard’ Spanish, and Chicano Spanish is inherently defiant. Her local dialect is not something that is considered valid speak or eloquent syntax. There is something immensely satisfying about using an unacademic Spanglish to eloquently communicate nuanced social theory that is now taught in universities around the world. These deliberate language choices also enhance much of her poetry that appears in the second half of the book.
The use of multiple languages also allowed for further assessments of how words shape our ideas of identity and culture. For example, in the closing interview of the book a question is asked about post-colonial interactions, and Anzaldua introduces the term “nos-otras” (243). In Spanish, “nos” means “us,” and “otras” means “other,” but the overarching word “nosotras” means “us.” She uses the hyphen within the word to demonstrate that while there is an “us” and “them,” people cannot escape interactions without affecting one another, which ultimately creates a new, unintentional “us.” Moments like this made for both lyrical and insightful explorations of the human experience.
As she draws from her own life experience, Anzaldua examines the elements that make up her identity, including being American, Mexican, Spanish, Native American, and a lesbian. These different factions create friction and put parts of herself at odds with other internal components. She sums up the frustrations and realities of these internal contradictions quite well:
Though I’ll defend my race and culture when attacked by non-mexicanos, conozco el malestar
de mi cultura. I abhor some of my culture’s ways, how it cripples its women, como burras, our
strengths used against us, lowly burras bearing humility and dignity. The ability to serve, claim
the males, is our highest virtue. I abhor how my culture makes macho caricatures of its men. No,
I do not buy all the myths of the tribe into which I was born. I can understand why the more
tinged with Anglo blood, the more adamantly my colored and colorless sisters glorify their
colored culture’s values – to offset the extreme devaluation of it by the white culture. It’s a
legitimate reaction. But I will not glorify those aspects of my culture which have injured me and
which have injured me in the name of protecting me. (43-4)
While I am not Mexican or Chicana, this exclamation rang very true to my own experience as a queer Peruvian-Italian-American (so many hyphens). Growing up, there always seemed to be obvious double standards that were perpetuated by the discontent from imbalanced power dynamics stemming from class/racial/gender hierarchies. The fact that the norm was to accept this as reality was confusing and vexing. I do not think I was ever as angry as Anzaldua was when she wrote “Borderlands,” but her emotional honesty is pretty liberating, especially when she touches upon how these opposing factors can lead to internalized self-hate and devaluation.
Another argument Anzaldua makes is one against oversimplified dichotomies, especially the ones that are used to hurt women. She uses the virgin / puta dichotomy, which I was aware of from as far back as I can remember. The assumption still remains that if you are a “good” woman, you must maintain your chastity and purity. I don’t think anyone’s self-worth, regardless of gender, should be determined by carnal shame. Anzaldua goes further to explore how female sexuality was not always rejected by dominant culture, but rather was a byproduct of Spanish hegemony over Native social freedoms.
Finally, all of the arguments Anzaldua makes are rooted in emphasizing agency for those of us who exist within these borderlands. She emphasizes the power of her own choices, especially when drawing from different parts of the different cultures/traditions to make sense of herself. She makes her arguments for how different cultures have hurt other cultures, but she does not demonize anything other than the acts of oppression and subjugation. There is no superior identity or zeitgeist. Anzaldua wants her readers to make decisions for themselves, and that is pretty dope.
While the content of “Borderlands” is academic in nature, Anzaldua’s decision to write the text in various languages including English, ‘standard’ Spanish, and Chicano Spanish is inherently defiant. Her local dialect is not something that is considered valid speak or eloquent syntax. There is something immensely satisfying about using an unacademic Spanglish to eloquently communicate nuanced social theory that is now taught in universities around the world. These deliberate language choices also enhance much of her poetry that appears in the second half of the book.
The use of multiple languages also allowed for further assessments of how words shape our ideas of identity and culture. For example, in the closing interview of the book a question is asked about post-colonial interactions, and Anzaldua introduces the term “nos-otras” (243). In Spanish, “nos” means “us,” and “otras” means “other,” but the overarching word “nosotras” means “us.” She uses the hyphen within the word to demonstrate that while there is an “us” and “them,” people cannot escape interactions without affecting one another, which ultimately creates a new, unintentional “us.” Moments like this made for both lyrical and insightful explorations of the human experience.
As she draws from her own life experience, Anzaldua examines the elements that make up her identity, including being American, Mexican, Spanish, Native American, and a lesbian. These different factions create friction and put parts of herself at odds with other internal components. She sums up the frustrations and realities of these internal contradictions quite well:
Though I’ll defend my race and culture when attacked by non-mexicanos, conozco el malestar
de mi cultura. I abhor some of my culture’s ways, how it cripples its women, como burras, our
strengths used against us, lowly burras bearing humility and dignity. The ability to serve, claim
the males, is our highest virtue. I abhor how my culture makes macho caricatures of its men. No,
I do not buy all the myths of the tribe into which I was born. I can understand why the more
tinged with Anglo blood, the more adamantly my colored and colorless sisters glorify their
colored culture’s values – to offset the extreme devaluation of it by the white culture. It’s a
legitimate reaction. But I will not glorify those aspects of my culture which have injured me and
which have injured me in the name of protecting me. (43-4)
While I am not Mexican or Chicana, this exclamation rang very true to my own experience as a queer Peruvian-Italian-American (so many hyphens). Growing up, there always seemed to be obvious double standards that were perpetuated by the discontent from imbalanced power dynamics stemming from class/racial/gender hierarchies. The fact that the norm was to accept this as reality was confusing and vexing. I do not think I was ever as angry as Anzaldua was when she wrote “Borderlands,” but her emotional honesty is pretty liberating, especially when she touches upon how these opposing factors can lead to internalized self-hate and devaluation.
Another argument Anzaldua makes is one against oversimplified dichotomies, especially the ones that are used to hurt women. She uses the virgin / puta dichotomy, which I was aware of from as far back as I can remember. The assumption still remains that if you are a “good” woman, you must maintain your chastity and purity. I don’t think anyone’s self-worth, regardless of gender, should be determined by carnal shame. Anzaldua goes further to explore how female sexuality was not always rejected by dominant culture, but rather was a byproduct of Spanish hegemony over Native social freedoms.
Finally, all of the arguments Anzaldua makes are rooted in emphasizing agency for those of us who exist within these borderlands. She emphasizes the power of her own choices, especially when drawing from different parts of the different cultures/traditions to make sense of herself. She makes her arguments for how different cultures have hurt other cultures, but she does not demonize anything other than the acts of oppression and subjugation. There is no superior identity or zeitgeist. Anzaldua wants her readers to make decisions for themselves, and that is pretty dope.
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While I did not get to see it during its Broadway or Off-Broadway runs, "Eclipsed" was amazing to read. The play takes place in 2003 during the Second Liberian Civil War and is told from the perspectives of five women. Four of the women are "wives" of a LURD (Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy) general, and the fifth woman is a representative of the Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace.
The play is really great in large part because of its characters. In the face of horror, each woman responds to her circumstances in the best way she thinks will allow for survival, physically and mentally. These responses at times puts them at odds with each other. As events escalate and the tension builds, I found myself superbly invested in all of their fates.
I will admit, this play came on my radar because I saw "Black Panther" this weekend and am now suffering from withdrawal. Like any nerd, I went and researched all of the projects that Danai Gurira and Lupita Nyong'o have completed. Once I realized Danai wrote a play that Lupita stared in, I knew reading it was a done deal. All that aside, the play is great on its own. I recommend it, and will be sure to get a ticket if it has another Broadway/Off-Broadway run regardless of who is cast.
The play is really great in large part because of its characters. In the face of horror, each woman responds to her circumstances in the best way she thinks will allow for survival, physically and mentally. These responses at times puts them at odds with each other. As events escalate and the tension builds, I found myself superbly invested in all of their fates.
I will admit, this play came on my radar because I saw "Black Panther" this weekend and am now suffering from withdrawal. Like any nerd, I went and researched all of the projects that Danai Gurira and Lupita Nyong'o have completed. Once I realized Danai wrote a play that Lupita stared in, I knew reading it was a done deal. All that aside, the play is great on its own. I recommend it, and will be sure to get a ticket if it has another Broadway/Off-Broadway run regardless of who is cast.
If RuPaul is muthaaaa, Michelle Visage is a prominent mother and ally of the LGBT community, especially among drag queens. In true mom fashion Visage offers a lot of cheesy, if well-intended and heartfelt, advice. If you are queer or a qween you probably already know a lot of what she has to say, but that does not make her spiel any less entertaining or comforting to read.
I cannot say I agree with the entirety of her world view, but I really did enjoy reading about her shenanigans during the 90's. She has undeniably lead a life grounded in resilience and a strong work ethic. The constants of her every changing career seem to be wanting people to pay attention to her, but also wanting to help people feel less isolated and more radiant.
After all is said and done, I have but one question: Did she write Chapter 7 with Laganja Estranja in mind? I mean, she (lovingly) reads Magnolia Crawford to filth in Chapter 19, so I feel that this is a legitimate question.
I cannot say I agree with the entirety of her world view, but I really did enjoy reading about her shenanigans during the 90's. She has undeniably lead a life grounded in resilience and a strong work ethic. The constants of her every changing career seem to be wanting people to pay attention to her, but also wanting to help people feel less isolated and more radiant.
After all is said and done, I have but one question: Did she write Chapter 7 with Laganja Estranja in mind? I mean, she (lovingly) reads Magnolia Crawford to filth in Chapter 19, so I feel that this is a legitimate question.
I have to say, "The Lost World" really lost me (badum tish).
In terms of what it does right, the novel does have a number of really great world-building elements. An ecosystem that contains both dinosaurs and extinct mammalian megafauna - now that's a dope setup. The fact that there are humans (Homo sapiens) living simultaneously with ape-men (Australopithecines?) is also a really cool scenario from an anthropological point of view. Ultimately, the problem lies with the lame humans traversing this otherwise-exciting environment.
Anticipating that the lens of the narrative would most likely be seeped in colonial-era paternalism, I sincerely tried to set aside moral relativism and understand the characters within context. Well at their core they suck; Challenger is an arrogant blowhard whose propensity for macho shenanigans would get him killed in a real-life expedition, and Malone is the quintessential, self-proclaimed 'nice guy.' Seriously, these guys had me rooting for the ape-men.
Similar to how Malone cannot figure out how to appeal romantically to Gladys (dude, she's just not that into you), the prose is prosaic and does not really elevate the material. I really thought I was going to like this story, at least aesthetically, so this was a bummer.
In terms of what it does right, the novel does have a number of really great world-building elements. An ecosystem that contains both dinosaurs and extinct mammalian megafauna - now that's a dope setup. The fact that there are humans (Homo sapiens) living simultaneously with ape-men (Australopithecines?) is also a really cool scenario from an anthropological point of view. Ultimately, the problem lies with the lame humans traversing this otherwise-exciting environment.
Anticipating that the lens of the narrative would most likely be seeped in colonial-era paternalism, I sincerely tried to set aside moral relativism and understand the characters within context. Well at their core they suck; Challenger is an arrogant blowhard whose propensity for macho shenanigans would get him killed in a real-life expedition, and Malone is the quintessential, self-proclaimed 'nice guy.' Seriously, these guys had me rooting for the ape-men.
Similar to how Malone cannot figure out how to appeal romantically to Gladys (dude, she's just not that into you), the prose is prosaic and does not really elevate the material. I really thought I was going to like this story, at least aesthetically, so this was a bummer.
Just as love can make people dumb, "The Castle of Llyr" proves that love can also make an entire plot stupid. In this filler installment billed as Princess Eilonwy's coming-of-age story, the girl of the red-gold hair disappears for the majority of the novel only to reappear in the end as a damsel in distress. The true focus of the story are Taran's FEELINGS for Elionwy, not the actual girl in question.
But wait, if that wasn't irksome enough, Eilonwy also looses much of her sense of agency to aide a lazy plot device, because heaven forbid someone other than Taran has a meaningful growth arc. Then the ending, while intended to be an emotional climax highlighting the importance of personal sacrifice, was an underwhelming mess.
This is all a shame, because I liked this book well enough as a kid. The only thing that saves this volume from a one star rating is the over-sized cat Llyan. Her annoyance with the humans was truly warranted; may she hear all the bard music she wants.
But wait, if that wasn't irksome enough, Eilonwy also looses much of her sense of agency to aide a lazy plot device, because heaven forbid someone other than Taran has a meaningful growth arc. Then the ending, while intended to be an emotional climax highlighting the importance of personal sacrifice, was an underwhelming mess.
This is all a shame, because I liked this book well enough as a kid. The only thing that saves this volume from a one star rating is the over-sized cat Llyan. Her annoyance with the humans was truly warranted; may she hear all the bard music she wants.
In addition to being a great coming-of-age novel, "Taran Wanderer" is quite possibly the strongest volume of "The Chronicles of Prydain."
While the first half of the narrative reads like much of the fairy tale material previously presented in the series, the second half grows exponentially in maturity, not unlike Taran himself. The real turning point transpires with the introduction of Craddoc and the challenges he presents to Taran's sense of identity.
I find great merit in critical self-reflection, especially when assessing internal ugliness, as uncomfortable as it may be. Everyone, including a protagonist, is capable of being a villain. We all have dark and selfish thoughts, but it is our outward choices that define our character. Eventually, if your actions are good, you will inwardly become the good person you project into the world. I think that most people view themselves the protagonists of their own stories. Ultimately, it is our choices rather than our intentions that make us the hero, the villain, the court jester, or whatever other village person I've left out.
Another highlight is when Taran allows himself to be a Wanderer and learns of different trades to try and find his path. While none of these endeavors end up leading to permanent employment, he inadvertently learns different outlooks of life by working with such vastly different people. Even if you don't agree with a world view, there is great merit in learning about it, if only so you can understand why that perspective is not for you.
Overall this is a solid read, I would have to recommend it.
While the first half of the narrative reads like much of the fairy tale material previously presented in the series, the second half grows exponentially in maturity, not unlike Taran himself. The real turning point transpires with the introduction of Craddoc and the challenges he presents to Taran's sense of identity.
I find great merit in critical self-reflection, especially when assessing internal ugliness, as uncomfortable as it may be. Everyone, including a protagonist, is capable of being a villain. We all have dark and selfish thoughts, but it is our outward choices that define our character. Eventually, if your actions are good, you will inwardly become the good person you project into the world. I think that most people view themselves the protagonists of their own stories. Ultimately, it is our choices rather than our intentions that make us the hero, the villain, the court jester, or whatever other village person I've left out.
Another highlight is when Taran allows himself to be a Wanderer and learns of different trades to try and find his path. While none of these endeavors end up leading to permanent employment, he inadvertently learns different outlooks of life by working with such vastly different people. Even if you don't agree with a world view, there is great merit in learning about it, if only so you can understand why that perspective is not for you.
Overall this is a solid read, I would have to recommend it.
A friend of mine lent me a copy of "A Happy Death" about a decade ago, and today I finally made good on reading it... sorry buddy. "The Stranger" blew me away when I read it in my formative years, and for this very reason I have been reluctant to read to the novel billed as its preamble. That said, my reluctance was probably warranted.
While this has many hallmarks of a Camus narrative, it is still an underdeveloped product compared to his later works. Not just with character and plot development, what makes Camus so great is his ability to craft tone that simultaneously weighs on you and evanesces into the stratosphere of your mind.
His characters embody detachment, and tend to oscillate between manic highs (hope) and depressive lows (existential dread). This is something that is highly relatable, especially when coming to terms with trauma, even damage that a "protagonist" may have caused.
A problem with published volumes released posthumously is that they are inherently curated by someone other than the author. Intention is everything in a Camus novel, so this is a factor that definitely impacts the overall work. One might say that this whole business is... absurd? Don't worry, I'm done.
While this has many hallmarks of a Camus narrative, it is still an underdeveloped product compared to his later works. Not just with character and plot development, what makes Camus so great is his ability to craft tone that simultaneously weighs on you and evanesces into the stratosphere of your mind.
His characters embody detachment, and tend to oscillate between manic highs (hope) and depressive lows (existential dread). This is something that is highly relatable, especially when coming to terms with trauma, even damage that a "protagonist" may have caused.
A problem with published volumes released posthumously is that they are inherently curated by someone other than the author. Intention is everything in a Camus novel, so this is a factor that definitely impacts the overall work. One might say that this whole business is... absurd? Don't worry, I'm done.