calarco's Reviews (760)

Well, if you want heavy-handed cat and mouse references thrown at you left and right, then [b:Die for Me|51884960|Die for Me (Killing Eve #3)|Luke Jennings|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1590667526l/51884960._SY75_.jpg|70878020] might be the international spy thriller for you! The third and final entry of the Killing Eve trilogy, I am afraid that this one underwhelms. There are some good ideas, but they are delivered with shaky execution; this novel could have used some better editing to be honest. Additionally, it was really obvious that a man was the one writing this relationship between two women. While Luke Jennings is a more than competent author with good ideas, he botched that part I’m afraid. Eve and Villanelle were more interesting apart than together, and while anticipation will make anything interesting, I’m afraid that’s where the fun ends with this written series. Given that the BBC series has already transcended the source material, I hesitate to recommend this one, unless you are particularly pressed to know what happens after [b:No Tomorrow|39321542|No Tomorrow (Killing Eve, #2)|Luke Jennings|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1544034354l/39321542._SY75_.jpg|60935584].

If you are looking for a great thematic memoir, then Temple Grandin’s [b:The Autistic Brain: Thinking Across the Spectrum|16056498|The Autistic Brain Thinking Across the Spectrum|Temple Grandin|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1355892997l/16056498._SY75_.jpg|21842377] is more than a solid pick. Essentially, Grandin relays to the reader everything she feels would be helpful for others to better understand autism, and different matters related to being on the spectrum. She explores patterns of behavior with scientific inquiry, but what makes this memoir so good is that it feels like she is an investigator delving further and further into her own mind, not just to better understand herself, but also to better understand others who are on the spectrum. Both a work of inquiry and advocacy, this is really a great read from a great mind and I highly recommend it if you are interested in any of these topics.

So I will not lie, I came to read this text after having finished watching the Netflix adaptation The Haunting of Bly Manor, though in my defense this has been a pretty great year for classic horror tv/film adaptations. That said, this is a pretty solid read that walks the line of asking if the house is truly haunted or is the narrator just insane (or both).

“Of course I was under the spell, and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew I was. But I gave myself up to it; it was an antidote to any pain, and I had more pains than one.”

Overall, I feel like mood and tension building is what Henry James accomplishes best with this text. I may have even enjoyed this text more had I not read George Elliot’s [b:The Lifted Veil|223222|The Lifted Veil|George Eliot|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1320454631l/223222._SX50_.jpg|2366204] earlier this year, which engages with similar narrative concepts, but I feel executes them with a bit more style the further builds intrigue. [b:The Turn of the Screw|12948|The Turn of the Screw|Henry James|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1567172392l/12948._SY75_.jpg|990886] is still a good read nonetheless, and a solid fireside read if you are so inclined.

This is your classic tale of a man in mourning and so overwhelmed by grief that he seeks meaning from the Raven that has flown into his house. Bleak and beautiful, Edgar Allan Poe’s [b:The Raven|264158|The Raven|Edgar Allan Poe|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1347398489l/264158._SX50_.jpg|256076] is a great piece of prose; I have no idea how I’ve managed to go this long without having read the whole text. Mourning is brutal, but when the narrator cries for his lost Lenore, the Raven can only respond with, “Nevermore.”

Loss can feel as a cruel as a mocking crow rubbing salt in the wound, and it is certainly just as meaningless. I feel that this is the most powerful component of the work, that Lenore’s death does not serve a greater purpose. The death neither triggers character growth for the narrator, nor unveils some greater meaning about life. All that results is authentic vulnerability trapped in the isolation of trauma. Only a Raven seems to penetrate the narrator’s exterior, and even then, it offers no solace.

Overall, this is a great read. If you ever find yourself feeling morose and in need of cathartic material, then I highly recommend The Raven.

It’s safe to say that if Haruki Murakami endorses a book, I basically have no choice but to read it. That, and my book club chose it, so that is how I came to read Mieko Kawakami’s [b:Breasts and Eggs|50736031|Breasts and Eggs|Mieko Kawakami|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1573825173l/50736031._SX50_SY75_.jpg|74401064]. If you want to read a surreal tale interlaced with social commentary on gender issues, then this is a pretty solid pick.

This book occurs in two parts. The first is a novella (published a decade earlier) that introduces the main character (and author) Natusko and details some time she spends with her sister Makiko and niece Midoriko. Makiko is dead set on getting breast implants, and Midoriko has mysteriously stopped speaking only writing her thoughts down in her journal. Each interaction/conversation is punctuated by Midoriko’s journal entries. Overall, I think I liked this portion more, in terms of quality.

The second part was written after Trump was elected to office, and likely had a different translator. While Kawakami’s style does change, I suspect the difference in translation also added to the sharp tonal shift. The first part of this section reads in the classic early-1900s I-novel format, with Natusko wondering if she would ever write anything as great, or worth publishing, as her last novel (I see you Kawakami).

Natsuko then goes on to write about artificial insemination, as this is what is preoccupying her at the time and she is encouraged to write about it in the absence of other ideas. She then reaches out to different individuals who were born via this method, including Aizawa and Yuriko. One thing that surprised me was learning about present-day Japan’s current stance on artificial insemination, and apparently only women in relationships can really get access to them; single women have an insanely hard time finding assistance.

I think everyone should have bodily autonomy, and that includes the right to reproduce on their own terms, and I did not expect how much push back there was against single mothers who want to reproduce this way. On her journey, one of the people she meets is Yuriko, who after birth was then raised and abused by a pedophile father. While not so much a denunciation of artificial insemination, Yuriko goes on an unexpected rant detailing her grievances with what she deems to be the parental ego.

People give birth thinking they are doing something positive, but for every happy person born, there is an unhappy person, or someone born into unfathomable pain. Yuriko points out the choice to be born is never given to a person and that reproduction, as a result, is not inherently benevolent. At the core of perpetuating our species, “People are willing to accept the pain and suffering of others, limitless amounts of it, as long as it helps them to keep on believing in whatever it is that they want to believe. Love, meaning, doesn’t matter.”

I do not think that this moral dilemma has ever really crossed my mind before, but it did make me really happy to have chosen not to give birth myself. This book will likely make parents feel some level of discomfort, but without spoiling, I do not believe it actually denounces the practice of parenthood on the whole, if anything quite the opposite. So I recommend it to anyone who is interested in this strange and great amalgamation of ideas.

This play is pretty amazing; Lorraine Hansberry’s talent shines in the layered narrative of [b:A Raisin in the Sun|5517|A Raisin in the Sun|Lorraine Hansberry|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1165522672l/5517._SX50_.jpg|3154525]. Moreover, the Youngers are one of the most memorable families in a play I’ve seen since the Wingfields.

Published in 1959, so much seems to be ahead of its time. This is especially true with Beneatha, the objective best character. She is set on having a career, seeks a meaningful relationship that is intellectually stimulating, doesn’t mute her voice to be and questions established norms—including religion. To question faith, especially as a woman (and a black woman at that) is a pretty big deal in this time period.

“Mama, you don’t understand. It’s all a matter of ideas, and God is just one idea I don’t accept. It’s not important. I am not going out and be immortal or commit crimes because I don’t believe in God. I don’t even think about it. It’s just that I get tired of Him getting credit for all the things the human race achieves through its own stubborn effort. There simply is no blasted God—there is only man and it is he who makes miracles!”

This is a big declaration to make, especially in the 50s. In general, when a family has so little due to structural socioeconomic inequity, faith is an incredibly important cultural cornerstone; one that can help to cope with grief and trauma, as well as provide a basis for community building. But as any religion has its positives, it also has it’s detracting elements; notably in that it can be used to allow for passive acceptance of unjust situations on the basis that it is a higher power’s “plan.”

Now religion really is not the major issue tackled in this play, just to be clear, the star topic is racial strife. There is a lot I would like to say, especially in terms of the Youngers’ discrimination, but I feel like I could be entering spoiler territory as this is the crescendo of the play’s drama. It is still worth noting, because even though the play takes place in 1950s Chicago, red lining continues to remain a pressing matter today all across the United States. Whether by overt state/municipal policy, or by more subtle individual-levels of covert racism, it all results in the same bullshit.

Just as Beneatha questions religion, she also sarcastically exclaims of polite segregation, “He said everybody ought to learn how to sit down and hate each other with good Christian fellowship.” In general, messages delivered with a tone of civility or spirituality can still be inherently malignant if they only serve to maintain an unjust status quo that defiles the justice of others.

Overall, this play is filled with a number of really thought-provoking conversations and arguments that only a family cooped in a too-small apartment are capable. This is a great read, and I definitely recommend it.

If you are looking for a great environmental history read comparable to Rachel Carson’s [b:Silent Spring|27333|Silent Spring|Rachel Carson|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1442353674l/27333._SY75_.jpg|880193], then I absolutely would have to recommend Kate Brown’s [b:Plutopia: Nuclear Families, Atomic Cities, and the Great Soviet and American Plutonium Disasters|16248513|Plutopia Nuclear Families, Atomic Cities, and the Great Soviet and American Plutonium Disasters|Kate Brown|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1358752376l/16248513._SY75_.jpg|22279219]. I think it’s safe to say that any community, be it in the United States or Soviet Russia, that was burdened with plutonium development inherently suffered from both health and social consequences. For as different as the two country’s governments were, the sad universal truth remains that the powerful exploit the weak.

Brown looks at Richland, Washington and Ozersk, Russia, two of the first cities in the world to engage in plutonium manufacturing. Both were subsidized and presented as modern-day communities where the nuclear family could achieve a better future. In reality, the role of the nuclear family (juxtaposed to an extended family) mainly thrived as the more isolated an individual was, the more dependent they grew on their respective community.

The strongest element in this book, is how Kate Brown recounts her interviews with an almost post-processual reflection, and in a way that humanizes the accounts. It’s one thing to read about how young women were hired without being notified of the risks and given little to no protection from radiation, and another to see a firsthand account recalling how a climate of secrecy prevented college educated colleagues from sharing basic safety information with their working-class counterparts operating in the same lab.

In the end, each of these communities’ work were exploited, not rewarded. While in the spiritual sense it’s hard to envision any type of Utopia forming around an economy rooted in creating materials used for harm, it is even more horrifying to see the actual health consequences with children developing high levels of cancer, and people dying in their 30s. Downwinders’ culture is a topic for further investigation that I look forward to reading more about.

Overall, this was a great book and if this is a topic you are interested in, please give it a read.

Sometimes memories from my teens resurface of when people would ask me if I was a “feminist” and I would scoff and respond, “No, I’m a humanist!” with the dismissive petulance only a teenager is capable of. I generally cringe at these recollections, but I do now offer my past-self some slack in that I really did not see myself, my family, or my values reflected in a movement that at the time (early-2000s) was not yet fully rooted in the intersectional inclusivity that it is today. I really wish Mikki Kendall’s [b:Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot|36687229|Hood Feminism Notes from the Women That a Movement Forgot|Mikki Kendall|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1577489813l/36687229._SY75_.jpg|58481445] was available back then, but boy am I happy it exists now. What a great read!

Mikki Kendall does not forget where she comes from, and her feminism is inclusivity incarnate. She writes about people of color, LGBTQ folks, the poor, the disabled, abuse survivors, and the people that society wants to sweep under the rug, including sex workers. Everyone has to work for a living, and everyone is deserving of being treated like a person. It is crazy to me that this is still considered a radical sentiment to love thy neighbor (or at the very barest of minimums do not harass or murder thy neighbor just for existing), but here we are. Notably, Kendall’s writing is authentically all-encompassing in that it is rooted in her critique of respectability politics:

“Respectability politics are really about controlling group behavior with designations of appropriate or inappropriate behavior rooted in structural inequality. Gatekeepers of respectability push dominant narratives but don’t necessarily understand where their ideas of what is respectable come from, or how much of it is about mimicry and not innate value. The structure of respectability requires adherence, not autonomy, and relies on dominant norms to create a hierarchy of privilege in marginalized communities.”

I often struggle with where to stand on matters of “respectability.” On the one hand, it was the pragmatically utilized used by MLK Jr. and civil rights activists in the 60s to pass civil rights legislation. On the other hand, I have seen firsthand how it can be used to exclude transwomen from LGBTQ circles, lower income women from middle class circles, and other instances of marginalized groups looking down on even more marginalized individuals. It’s an unfortunate cycle that never seems to end. Considering today’s context, I think Kendall has officially convinced me that respectability is a tool of hegemony, and a rather insidious one in that it is enforced by self-shame.

What I loved most about this collection of essays though, is that Kendall never buys into her own hype or sense of excellence. She is successful, but rather than soaking in the myth of her own exceptionalism, she pays homage to the support network that empowered her, and points out that there are numerous other people who could do more if they had the same opportunities. She aims to be an accomplice, not just an ally. Whereas an ally says things of support, an accomplice will actually do supportive things that go beyond lip service. Overcoming adversity means nothing if you do not hold the door open for others to come in after you.

Overall, this is an amazing book. Each essay is well-written, well-argued, and offers great life insight. I absolutely recommend this read, and am looking forward to anything else Kendall writes in the future.

Natalie Diaz offers a unique perspective with [b:Postcolonial Love Poem|44094069|Postcolonial Love Poem|Natalie Díaz|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1566106111l/44094069._SX50_.jpg|68574999], and as a queer Mojave poet she explores a number of topics that I have never seen expressed so eloquently. I feel like it has become kind of trendy these days to write about “decolonizing” the past, or envisioning a “postcolonial” future. I say this not to belittle this expanded movement, but rather acknowledge that this collection is a genuine standout amongst a growing field of insightful cultural criticism and art.

There was one passage in particular that I felt elevated the text in a way that allowed it to make good on the promise of the book’s name:
“Americans prefer a magical red Indian, or a shaman, or a fake Indian in a red dress, over a real Native. Even a real Native carrying the damage and heavy blues of a river in her body.
What threatens white people is often dismissed as myth. I have never been true in America. America is a myth.”

Diaz’s anger is palpable, but the prose is beautiful. “Red, white, and blue” do not invoke patriotic feelings of belonging, and this is due to a lifetime of exclusion. Inclusion can be hollow when it comes in the form of commercialized cultural appropriation or neatly packaged caricatures that elevate stereotype over reality. Inclusion is a myth when a subjected people must still bow down to a larger hegemony, one that inherently devalues other cultures and perspectives.

Overall, I really enjoyed this collection, and would definitely recommend it if you are interested in these topics or this type of art.

Careful what you wish for, as they say. This is an age-old concept that takes center stage in W.W. Jacobs’ [b:The Monkey's Paw|8779896|The Monkey's Paw|W.W. Jacobs|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348984485l/8779896._SX50_.jpg|47306975]. A family comes into possession of a monkey’s paw, one they are told will grant them three wishes, but a great cosmic cost. The father then makes a simple wish for 200 dollars, and things more or less unravel from there. This monkey’s paw is no rabbit’s foot, and there is no benevolent genie to facilitate the magical transaction of these three wishes.

While published in 1902, this cautionary tale is one that retains significance to this day. Nothing in life is free or without consequence, and while this is a super short read, the narrative premise is one that will likely be revisited for years to come.

Rating: 3.5 stars