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octavia_cade's Reviews (2.64k)
This is one of those cross-genre books that are poetry and prose, genre and general fiction. Anything with talking animals I tend to class as fantasy, of a sort, which is an anthropocentric view at best, given that they're perfectly capable of communicating with each other, but still. (It's not really fantasy.) Anyway, I can't say that I know much about Kipling other than his dodgy colonial views, but there's an attractive level of eco-consciousness here, an awareness of how dreadful something like seal culling is from the perspective of the seals. It's a read that certainly sympathetic to its animal protagonists, putting them firmly in the forefront, and there's a number of truly memorable images resulting from this - Mother Wolf defending her den from the tiger in the entrance, the abandoned city full of monkeys, the elephant dance...
Everyone thinks of Mowgli when it comes to the Jungle Book, but I remember reading it as a child and being more interested by the big cats, Bagheera and Shere Khan, and that still holds. Admittedly, rereading this for the first time as an adult, the Mowgli stories were all I could remember. The seal story, the elephant story, had quite slipped from my mind, and yet there's some beautiful writing in there. I think my favourite piece in the entire book is the seal lullaby, for instance. "The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee / Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas."
Everyone thinks of Mowgli when it comes to the Jungle Book, but I remember reading it as a child and being more interested by the big cats, Bagheera and Shere Khan, and that still holds. Admittedly, rereading this for the first time as an adult, the Mowgli stories were all I could remember. The seal story, the elephant story, had quite slipped from my mind, and yet there's some beautiful writing in there. I think my favourite piece in the entire book is the seal lullaby, for instance. "The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee / Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas."
I'm so glad I don't have children. Never has motherhood looked so unattractive - and I never thought it an attractive prospect to begin with. Sometimes, no matter what you do, you get a Kevin, and after all the tiresome business of raising a kid, you're deprived of even the tiniest bit of reward.
I was interested to see in the end material - this edition includes an interview with the author - that over the years Shriver's noted two very clear responses to the book. One, that Eva's poor job of motherhood has turned an otherwise unextraordinary boy into a killer. And two, which is the very clear impression I got, that Kevin was somehow wrong from the get-go, and that only his mother had the sense to see it. (Dad the Dupe indeed - the strongest emotional response I experienced while reading this book was the ongoing desire to reach into page and slap the stupid out of Franklin.)
To be honest, that first perception, that it's all Eva's fault, is one I have so little sympathy with because it seems to be rooted in the expectation that motherhood is an unendingly joyous experience and that anyone who disagrees with that is one step short of evil. One of the reasons I've never wanted to be a parent is that it just looks so goddamn tedious - with the best will in the world, having to read Goodnight Moon over and over would drive even the sanest person to drink. No surprise that Eva isn't thrilled to go from international travel and self-fulfilment to changing the diapers of a six year old who refuses to learn to use the loo. She does come across, superficially, as grossly unsympathetic in her experience of motherhood, but that only makes me appreciate her more. Not perhaps a nice character, but one I readily identify with. And I think that the general unsympathy (if that's even a word) that permeates this book is the best thing about it. There's no polite veneer of dishonesty to make the swallowing easier. I do think there are pacing problems in the first third - the book seems to take an age to get going - but over the whole that constant repetition of ruthless honesty becomes enormously compelling.
I was interested to see in the end material - this edition includes an interview with the author - that over the years Shriver's noted two very clear responses to the book. One, that Eva's poor job of motherhood has turned an otherwise unextraordinary boy into a killer. And two, which is the very clear impression I got, that Kevin was somehow wrong from the get-go, and that only his mother had the sense to see it. (Dad the Dupe indeed - the strongest emotional response I experienced while reading this book was the ongoing desire to reach into page and slap the stupid out of Franklin.)
To be honest, that first perception, that it's all Eva's fault, is one I have so little sympathy with because it seems to be rooted in the expectation that motherhood is an unendingly joyous experience and that anyone who disagrees with that is one step short of evil. One of the reasons I've never wanted to be a parent is that it just looks so goddamn tedious - with the best will in the world, having to read Goodnight Moon over and over would drive even the sanest person to drink. No surprise that Eva isn't thrilled to go from international travel and self-fulfilment to changing the diapers of a six year old who refuses to learn to use the loo. She does come across, superficially, as grossly unsympathetic in her experience of motherhood, but that only makes me appreciate her more. Not perhaps a nice character, but one I readily identify with. And I think that the general unsympathy (if that's even a word) that permeates this book is the best thing about it. There's no polite veneer of dishonesty to make the swallowing easier. I do think there are pacing problems in the first third - the book seems to take an age to get going - but over the whole that constant repetition of ruthless honesty becomes enormously compelling.
It's always such a relief, when coming across an academic book on an interesting subject, to find that the book is readable as well as informative. (Academic prose often has such a soporific effect.) Fortunately, Nelson's language is clear and her argument uncluttered, making this an especially useful text for someone like me, who lacks much background in the topic.
The title, More than Medicine, is a direct reference to a feminist perception of health that is particularly broad-based in approach, and encourages the folding-in of social and economic services in addition to what we typically think of as healthcare. If someone lacks the money to buy food, for instance, then the sensible thing to do, so the argument goes, is not only to treat the malnutrition but to ensure that the individual can access sufficient resources in the future to make sure that malnutrition does not recur. In a practical example from my own country, there's been an increase in rheumatic fever in Auckland because of the poor housing available to low-income families. Yes, the affected kids need treatment, but what's the use of sending them to Starship Hospital for treatment if they have to go straight back to that substandard housing afterwards? Treating the result instead of the cause is merely slapping a Band-Aid on until the problem re-occurs... which seems an eminently sensible perception to me.
Nelson argues that this broad-based approach has, historically, been more often found in feminist health and justice organisations run by women of colour. White feminists, who have tended to be better off economically, have prioritised protecting the abortion rights of women. Which is a necessary thing, but is not the only thing. Women of colour feminists, for instance, have been equally if not more concerned with racially-based sterilisation abuses and the disproportionate rate of HIV/Aids in women of colour. How these various groups work together - or don't - is the subject of much of the book, and the conclusion, that multiple groups representing different cultures working alongside each other are often more effective than one big multicultural group, seems reasonable given the evidence presented.
The title, More than Medicine, is a direct reference to a feminist perception of health that is particularly broad-based in approach, and encourages the folding-in of social and economic services in addition to what we typically think of as healthcare. If someone lacks the money to buy food, for instance, then the sensible thing to do, so the argument goes, is not only to treat the malnutrition but to ensure that the individual can access sufficient resources in the future to make sure that malnutrition does not recur. In a practical example from my own country, there's been an increase in rheumatic fever in Auckland because of the poor housing available to low-income families. Yes, the affected kids need treatment, but what's the use of sending them to Starship Hospital for treatment if they have to go straight back to that substandard housing afterwards? Treating the result instead of the cause is merely slapping a Band-Aid on until the problem re-occurs... which seems an eminently sensible perception to me.
Nelson argues that this broad-based approach has, historically, been more often found in feminist health and justice organisations run by women of colour. White feminists, who have tended to be better off economically, have prioritised protecting the abortion rights of women. Which is a necessary thing, but is not the only thing. Women of colour feminists, for instance, have been equally if not more concerned with racially-based sterilisation abuses and the disproportionate rate of HIV/Aids in women of colour. How these various groups work together - or don't - is the subject of much of the book, and the conclusion, that multiple groups representing different cultures working alongside each other are often more effective than one big multicultural group, seems reasonable given the evidence presented.
It's an odd choice for entertainment, a kids' story about boys being maltreated in a desert juvenile detention camp, forced to dig holes over and over to satisfy a sadistic warden. Then you discover they're actually looking for buried treasure, in a kind of brute force shovel brigade, and it becomes quite entertaining... although I can't help wondering why the warden just didn't use a metal detector and be done with it. You'd think it would be a lot simpler, and a lot cheaper, and a lot less evil to take advantage of helpful technology, but no. Evil is stupid. Nonetheless the friendship between Stanley and Zero is well done, and I liked their great escape, fuelled by ancient peach liquor (let's face it, that shit fermented over the generations) hidden under a boat named for a donkey. There's just enough sly ridiculousness in here to offset the really pretty grim setting...
A short essay on feminism, adapted from Adichie's TED talk on the same subject. I haven't seen the talk, so I can't say how they compare, but I've heard it's very popular and I can see why. This isn't academic prose; there's nothing complex about the language used. It's plain speaking and enormously relatable because of it. The examples used are all taken from the author's own life and as such - even though she's from a different culture than I am - they all feel, again, relatable. Simple examples, simple prose, and it hammers over and over the idea of fairness, of treating people on the basis of their interests and abilities rather than their gender.
It also seems a little obvious. A lot obvious, frankly. I can't say that I'm any great feminist scholar, but these are not new ideas Adichie is talking about, not even remotely. Yet looking at a lot of the other Goodreads reviews, there are lots of people saying this is the most convincing argument for feminism they've ever seen. And I want to say Have you been living under a rock? Still, if this approachable, likable essay is getting people previously unsympathetic to the idea of feminism to engage with it, that's a wonderful thing.
It also seems a little obvious. A lot obvious, frankly. I can't say that I'm any great feminist scholar, but these are not new ideas Adichie is talking about, not even remotely. Yet looking at a lot of the other Goodreads reviews, there are lots of people saying this is the most convincing argument for feminism they've ever seen. And I want to say Have you been living under a rock? Still, if this approachable, likable essay is getting people previously unsympathetic to the idea of feminism to engage with it, that's a wonderful thing.
As likeable as the first one, which is mostly due I think to the main character. I'm glad that Pierce has subverted the "not like other girls" trope here, by making the tomboy Alanna, as she ages, increasingly interested in the traditionally feminine while still retaining her ambition of becoming a knight. "I like pretty things," she states, off to get herself fitted for a dress, and why shouldn't she? I'm also pleased to read that the secret's out, regarding her disguise, as although one or two of the brighter characters figured out what was going on, I can't help but question the intelligence of the rest. Mostly I'm interested to see where the rest of the series is going from here. After the first volume, I'd assumed that Duke Roger was going to be the sustained antagonist of the series, but clearly not. I suppose that, now Alanna's a knight, she's expected to deal with a variety of evils, instead of one as representative of all, but it was all wrapped up very quickly... and my kingdom for a YA heroine who's not entangled in a love triangle.
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I wouldn't generally call a book that covers a person's account of their own life from childhood until point-of-writing a memoir - to me that would be an autobiography. Yet I think memoir's the correct term for this, as Gay restricts herself to talking about her relationship with food and weight and trauma, and as a result this has very much the strong, sustained emotional tone that I usually associate with memoirs.
It's also very easy to read. (The skill that's gone into the writing to make this so easy to read is palpable.) I don't mean that the subject matter is easy, because very often it's terrible - Gay was the victim, as a child, of a vicious crime and it's plain horrible to read about. I'm talking about the prose itself. I read this in less than three hours, I think, because that prose is so simple and so smooth and so affecting that I didn't want to put the book down. Gay is painfully honest about her struggles with her weight, about how she's treated by family and friends and lovers and strangers, how it makes her treat herself, and that makes Hunger really enormously compelling. This is the first book of hers that I've read, and I'll definitely be on the look-out for more.
It's also very easy to read. (The skill that's gone into the writing to make this so easy to read is palpable.) I don't mean that the subject matter is easy, because very often it's terrible - Gay was the victim, as a child, of a vicious crime and it's plain horrible to read about. I'm talking about the prose itself. I read this in less than three hours, I think, because that prose is so simple and so smooth and so affecting that I didn't want to put the book down. Gay is painfully honest about her struggles with her weight, about how she's treated by family and friends and lovers and strangers, how it makes her treat herself, and that makes Hunger really enormously compelling. This is the first book of hers that I've read, and I'll definitely be on the look-out for more.
Likeable enough conclusion to the series, though truth be told I was starting to get a little tired of it by the end. With the best will in the world I'm just not that interested in reading battle scenes, and three books in I've yet to move past irritation - or at best indifference - to Mara Jade and Jorus C'Baoth. Honestly, I could have smacked Luke for his endless clinging on to "Oh, but we can get you help, you psychopathic insane person who wants to take over the Galaxy!" Stop wittering and just kill him, you vacuous little shit. I have so little patience with stories like this, that offer endless chances for redemption because the only consequences to failed redemption are to people other than the main heroes. How many minor or nameless characters has C'Baoth tortured or killed, both off and on page? Luke neither knows nor, apparently, cares, as he's all too willing to risk setting this lunatic on them again some time in the future. Yeah, yeah, the Force blah blah, dark side hatred and anger. I know. Don't kill him in anger, then. Be sorry about your necessary actions but get on with it as quickly and compassionately as you can.
Better hurry up and develop those Force powers, Leia, because your idiot twin is going to need someone with an ounce of sense to balance him out in the future.
Better hurry up and develop those Force powers, Leia, because your idiot twin is going to need someone with an ounce of sense to balance him out in the future.
This was one of my favourite series as an adolescent - I thought it much better than the Magician series it spun off, thought I liked that too. Anyway, it's been decades since I read it last, but I still find it enjoyable. There's the odd bit of cringe, for example the lengthy paragraph detailing Mara's physical appearance which is one bare step up from her examining herself in a mirror, but for the most part it's held up very well. That's due, I think, to the protagonist.
I read a lot of fantasy as a kid. After a while the characters can blur together, and lots of them - too many, it seemed sometimes - were warriors or wizards or so on. To this day reading about battles doesn't do that much for me. And attached to these stories of war and magic were women, sometimes, and they were princesses or some such, but they were often on the sidelines by virtue of their tendency not to hack at things with swords. And along comes Mara, who'd planned to spend her life in a temple, but her family dies and suddenly she's the heir to a great house, and what saves her? Trade deals and understanding social traditions, making alliances and out-thinking all her opponents. She's absolutely the centre of the story, and that story makes no apology for prioritising her political nature. She was a very different sort of heroine, basically - one who spent long hours on balance sheets and appreciated art and liked going for coffee-equivalent and chats with the leader of the local insect species. Fantasy being published today has more characters like her, but at the time, in the fantasy that was available to me, she tended to stand out.
I read a lot of fantasy as a kid. After a while the characters can blur together, and lots of them - too many, it seemed sometimes - were warriors or wizards or so on. To this day reading about battles doesn't do that much for me. And attached to these stories of war and magic were women, sometimes, and they were princesses or some such, but they were often on the sidelines by virtue of their tendency not to hack at things with swords. And along comes Mara, who'd planned to spend her life in a temple, but her family dies and suddenly she's the heir to a great house, and what saves her? Trade deals and understanding social traditions, making alliances and out-thinking all her opponents. She's absolutely the centre of the story, and that story makes no apology for prioritising her political nature. She was a very different sort of heroine, basically - one who spent long hours on balance sheets and appreciated art and liked going for coffee-equivalent and chats with the leader of the local insect species. Fantasy being published today has more characters like her, but at the time, in the fantasy that was available to me, she tended to stand out.
Okay, let me start with something good, before I get onto the rant. The first hundred odd pages are genuinely likeable. There's a brief sketch of "The Fall of Númenor", but the real item of interest is the unfinished "The Lost Road", which Tolkien started to write as part of a bet with C.S. Lewis that made him take a shot at a time travel story. Basically a father and son leapfrog back in time, to various historical and mythical (and Middle-earth) father-son relationships, and it's well-written and affecting and I haven't been presented with it ten thousand times before. Alright, that's a slight exaggeration. I'm getting there. My point is if the book had stopped here it would have earned three stars from me.
Following this is a lengthy piece on the development of the Middle-earth languages, to which I am utterly indifferent. Genuine dislike, however, doesn't start to sink in until we get to another fucking version of The Silmarillion. Yes, another 150 pages of this crap. In fairness, it's not Tolkien senior who is responsible for said crap. He surely didn't know that his son and publisher would beat hell out of the thing while he was too dead to prevent it, because, more recent excursions aside, at time of publishing this was the sixth version of this bloody story put out. Yes, the SIXTH. First there was The Silmarillion itself, which once upon a time I actually liked. Then there were Books 1 and 2 of The Lost Tales, giving the background to The Silmarillion, and yes, it was less interesting but still a bit. Then the Lays of Beleriand went over it again. Then The Shaping of Middle-earth. Now it's #6, The Lost Road, and I'd call it barrel-scraping except the barrel doesn't exist any more, because when the bottom of said barrel's been this whittled away it's no longer a barrel, it's a fucking cylinder, and all the interest has leaked out. If it weren't for "The Lost Road" story, this book would get one star and that is being generous.
I've been a fan of Middle-earth since I was a kid. Reading the Histories has been on my reading bucket list for literally decades, yet you know what? I'm going to stop reading it, at least for a long time, and go onto something less irritatingly exploitative. Because as boring and insulting as I find this continual repetition of the same goddamn material, that's nothing compared to the fact that I'm actually starting to genuinely loathe The Silmarillion.
Critical context should not do that, ever.
Following this is a lengthy piece on the development of the Middle-earth languages, to which I am utterly indifferent. Genuine dislike, however, doesn't start to sink in until we get to another fucking version of The Silmarillion. Yes, another 150 pages of this crap. In fairness, it's not Tolkien senior who is responsible for said crap. He surely didn't know that his son and publisher would beat hell out of the thing while he was too dead to prevent it, because, more recent excursions aside, at time of publishing this was the sixth version of this bloody story put out. Yes, the SIXTH. First there was The Silmarillion itself, which once upon a time I actually liked. Then there were Books 1 and 2 of The Lost Tales, giving the background to The Silmarillion, and yes, it was less interesting but still a bit. Then the Lays of Beleriand went over it again. Then The Shaping of Middle-earth. Now it's #6, The Lost Road, and I'd call it barrel-scraping except the barrel doesn't exist any more, because when the bottom of said barrel's been this whittled away it's no longer a barrel, it's a fucking cylinder, and all the interest has leaked out. If it weren't for "The Lost Road" story, this book would get one star and that is being generous.
I've been a fan of Middle-earth since I was a kid. Reading the Histories has been on my reading bucket list for literally decades, yet you know what? I'm going to stop reading it, at least for a long time, and go onto something less irritatingly exploitative. Because as boring and insulting as I find this continual repetition of the same goddamn material, that's nothing compared to the fact that I'm actually starting to genuinely loathe The Silmarillion.
Critical context should not do that, ever.