octavia_cade's Reviews (2.64k)

What an enjoyable collection of stories! Albeit one that makes me hungry... food is a constant background presence here, and everything is described so beautifully. The prose is, I think, my favourite part - it's so gentle and lyrical and lovely. This is the first time I've read Lahiri, and I want to go and find more from her now, simply to luxuriate in the way that she uses words. It's very, very appealing.

The stories themselves are quiet little snapshots of learning to live with absence - either of family or culture. I think "Mrs. Sen's" (which is one of the two I like best) is probably the best example of this. It's absolutely steeped with homesickness, and with the callouses that build up when you don't really have one. The first story in the collection, "A Temporary Matter," about the gradual dissolution of a marriage after the death of a child, also works heavily towards those themes of isolation and loss. In general, then, the book has a strong sense of sadness about it. Though I have to say, the best story here in my opinion, the one I would come back to again and again, is darkly funny, with what is arguably a happy ending - "The Treatment of Bibi Haldar". That one I loved.

I don't very often leave comments concerning covers, but this particular edition is just plain strange. And slightly creepy, in a way that the text itself was absolutely not. (That double-headed ice person looks like it's about to come alive and start eating people.)

But anyway. This has been on my list of things to read for a long time now, and I've finally gotten round to it. It lived up to its reputation as thoughtful and original, and I can very clearly see the influence that being the daughter of an anthropologist has had on Le Guin. It's similar in that respect to Always Coming Home, except that The Left Hand of Darkness is more character-focused and therefore more entertaining (at least to me). But there's still that scholarly sort of distance there, which is something I often find when reading this author. A sort of cool, detached type of prose - and when Le Guin does this, as she does with some of the Earthsea books (particularly the first) it's hard for me to love the outcome. I like it very much, but I simply don't feel emotionally connected to any of the characters. When that connection does come, in Le Guin's work, the characters are inevitably female. Such, clearly, is not the case here, and while I admire what she's done with gender - it's fluid and non-permanent - I can't help but feel that the Envoy's outsider status, especially when it comes to the experience of gender, is contributing to that sense of distance. The chapter "The Question of Sex" is literally field notes from an observer writing up a report, for goodness sake...

I had to add a new shelf for this one: "paranormal". I very nearly called it "woo" but that would have been unfair to Davies, who is certainly not banging about trying to lure in ghosts with headlamps and crystals and whatever those people on ghost-hunter shows use in the middle of the night when they can't see anything clearly anyway. No, this is an academic volume which looks at the history of how people interacted with ghosts - or with the idea of ghosts - in England. It covers things like representations of ghosts on the stage, or various religious responses to ghosts, or how frequently people used to dress up as ghosts to scare the shit out of other people (this last has a long and storied history, and clearly it has been a favourite practical joke for hundreds of years). And mostly it's all mildly interesting, although there's often such a welter of detail it can come across as a little repetitive. There is one chapter, however, which is genuinely very interesting, and I was sorry to see it end. Chapter six, "Imitating the Dead", looks at a lot of those practical jokes. Some were rather less jokey than others, with young people of both genders taking the opportunity to take revenge on others or to manipulate employers, for instance. It upends the idea of both the poorer classes and women and the young as being particularly credulous, and shows them actively exploiting the fears of the people around them for personal gain. Which is not really admirable, of course, but it is interesting.

Really interesting argument for a new utopia. Bregman points out, quite accurately, that from the perspective of most people in history we're living in what amounts to a utopia now - that our lives are safer, richer, more pleasant, and more stable than they've ever been. But it could, he says, be better. Inspiration here has come, I think, from The Spirit Level, which argues that societies with greater equality, and with a shorter distance between the rich and the poor, do better overall. Bregman has taken this and posited some ways in which that could happen - a universal basic income, for instance, as well as getting rid of "bullshit jobs" which add no value, and advocating open borders.

I think the really impressive thing about this is how simply it's written. Economists aren't exactly known for their communication skills, but Bregman's prose is so clear, and so accessible, that normal people can understand what he's going on about. I certainly can - and, albeit that this is largely an introductory text, it seems a convincing one. A lot of what the author argues for has had pilot studies happen before, and these are well-explained and appear, in their results, to bolster his points. As I said, it's largely an introductory text, one designed to make non-economists think about economics, so I'd want to look more closely at some of those proofs before I'd be willing to sign on to these ideas myself. But if all is as Bregman presents it, the case seems to be clear... and abundantly so.

A poor unsuspecting family moves next door the the Aldens, and is quickly made the subject of the nosiest children in the universe. It's pretty standard as these books go, down to Grandfather Alden continuing to quietly build his oligarchy by making sure he has a financial interest in everyone around him, but two things in particular did give me a small laugh. The first was Benny's minor temper tantrum after the two kids next door initially seemed to have no interest in hanging out with him. (I have no interest in you either, Benny.) The second was the number of times Henry and Jessie had plans of their own that took them out of the story. Apparently they're getting lives... Good for them. I hope they keep it up.

Maybe they're sick of Benny too.

As a writer myself, there are times when I read another writer's prose and feel sick with jealousy that mine will never be that good. Then there are the times when the prose is just so good jealousy doesn't even come into it, and I'm simply basking in the words and how beautiful they are. This is one of those times. Don't get me wrong - Rankine's poems do not tackle easy subjects. They are confronting and depressing and infuriating. The constant barrage of rude, racist encounters she has experienced are enormously dispiriting; in fact they are shameful. But these poems are so well-crafted, and so sculptured - not an easy thing to do in prose poem form, as these poems are - that her engagement with this very present, very difficult subject matter slides right into brain like a knife through butter and bursts there.

It's very, very good.

A short, pretty story set a couple of years after Lo's related novel Huntress. It's romance gone wrong on two levels, basically, but it's nicely told and I particularly enjoyed the quiet resolution of it. I haven't read a lot of stories using the kitsune figure before, though I have heard of it, so this was an interesting introduction to the mythology.

Also, that shadow fox on the cover is especially creepy. Just saying.

This is miles better than the other book of George's that I've read recently - The Little Breton Bistro, which I did not care much for - but I'd heard decent things about Bookshop so thought I'd give it a go anyway. I'm glad I did; I liked it. Basically I like books in general, so any story about a canal boat bookshop with an owner who has an almost magical ability to fit book to customer is going to be right up my alley. I do wish that he weren't so hysterical in his reactions, though. Well, perhaps hysterical isn't the right word, but he's not the only one in this book - and I noticed the same thing in Bistro as well. George's characters in general seem to have a yen for wild over-reaction. Take Jean, the bookboat-owning protagonist. A love affair goes bad, so he shuts himself up like a turtle for 20 years, even going so far as to wall off a room in his apartment so that he doesn't have to see a room and a table that reminds him of his ex. (All I could think was "Why didn't you just sell the stupid table, then, or bloody well move?") Still, his re-awakening is nicely done, and extremely sympathetic, even if George's prose does tend to the purple in places... although admittedly, that could be the translator.

I honestly don't know how many times I've read this book; though rereading now I remember why I enjoyed the sequels a little bit more. Anne is imaginative and delightful and charming, but as a child (and I thought this as a child, as I do now) she was also the teensiest bit, well... annoying. Yeah, come at me with your pitchforks, Anne fans. I feel almost guilty saying that about her, so you get one free stab.

I just always felt much closer to the slightly older Anne. Child-Anne is still so much fun to read about, but she's fun in a fictional way, if that makes sense. I think if I knew her in real life I'd get along with her better in small doses - and only when she doesn't diss geometry.

This isn't my favourite of the Anne books, but it's still a likeable enough read. I think the problem lies in the balance of the secondary characters. Anne, to be honest, needs to be surrounded by, and is best set off by, gimlet-eyed practical sorts like Marilla or Rachel Lynde, or those who aren't afraid to challenge her or to think differently - or at least more earthily. She's such an imaginative type that when, as in this book, she's paired so frequently with similar characters such as Paul Irving and Miss Lavender, the constant wittering about birch maidens and violets and saccharine poetic ramblings all comes across as a bit, well, twee. Let's face it, if Montgomery doesn't think in purple prose her protagonist certainly does - and the very purplest. (I wince at the thought of what 16 year old Anne would be submitting to poetry journals today. Much as I like her, it doesn't bear thinking about.)

Also, Davy is a tiresome little shit. If his poor neglected sister Dora ever kills him in his sleep, she would be quite justified and no-one would ever suspect her.