robertrivasplata's Reviews (631)

Zany time-western, based on the premise (similar to Dark Tower, and some others) of “what if there was a place that connected all times and places?” In this case, instead of Mid-World and the Dark Tower, the place is a road network centered on a freeway running through all time. I gotta wonder how much King's Dark Tower was inspired by Roadmarks. There's abandoned robots and other AIs, ruins, anachronistic and futuristic technologies, people out of place and time wandering through, an occasional inn to stop off in, and finally there's the one forgetful wanderer on a half-remembered quest. All the historical figures anachronistically existing side by side reminds me a bit of the short story “Mozart in Mirrorshades.” If you've read the later Earthsea books, you will be prepared for the ending with the dragons. The road that stretches away out of our perception and the process of finding it kind of reminds me of LeGuin's The Beginning Place. A very fun read. 

Memoir of growing up in and in the shadow of the Japanese Internment camps. Provides many glimses of daily life in Manzanar. Shows the development of Manzanar from a fenced cluster of rough barracks to a something like a community complete with schools, gardens, and farms, and finally to an abandoned spot by the side of Highway 395. Ko Wakatsuki reminds me of a cross between Pa from Little House and my own grandfather. Like Pa, he was always moving the family to start some new scheme or business. Like my granddad, he was a bit of a tyrant and you never knew when he'd roll up in a new car. I was surprised at how early the authorities wanted to close the camp down, considering that Manzanar wasn't officially closed until December 1945. It seems that by 1944, Japanese-Americans could (and were maybe encouraged to?) get permission to leave the camp and move away from the West Coast, and the Dec 1 1945 close date was set by the end of 1944. I like Jeanne's descriptions of Manzanar's progressive state of abandonment throughout 1945. Makes me wonder if JG Ballard ever read Farewell to Manzanar. Makes me want to read more personal accounts and histories of the internment camps, and also visit Manzanar. 

The Message explores the nationalist myths of Black America, White America, and finally Israel, taking us to Dakar, South Carolina, and Palestine (/Israel). Also goes into the importance of marginalized voices in journalism, and the importance of real investigative journalism in general. Coates's tour of Israel's oppression and dispossession of the Palestinians takes up the whole second half of the book. Coates draws parallels between Zionism and American Black Nationalism, suggesting that the ethno-state is not a savior to the stateless and oppressed. Specifically, he compares the Israeli obsession with archaeology and the Black Nationalist invocation of ancient African Civilizations as two examples of seeking recognition as civilized as defined by white colonizers. Makes me want to re-read Rutu Modan's Tunnels, which is a send-up of Israeli archaeology. Joe Sacco's Palestine is another good companion to the Israel/Palestine half of The Message. 

I've always thought that the biography of Nestor Makhno could make a great action movie (or these days, streaming miniseries), and this graphic novel does a pretty good job of showing the benefits and pitfalls of that treatment of his life, work, and adventures. Unfortunately, I was kind of looking for more of a graphical history than an action adventure. For instance, I hoped to find out more about pretty-boy anarchist Fedir Shchus or Green Otaman Nykyfor Hryhoriv (and his old-west style end). Apart from the historicity, it would have been nice if even the fictionalized composite characters had been developed more. This is still a fun read, and I can see that illustrator Roberto Zaghi consulted the Osprey Publishing's Uniforms of the Russian Civil War books. 

Elaborate graphic memoir of growing up, finding love, losing religion, and becoming an artist. Beautiful images from Thompson's bleak childhood. The visit to Raina's family reminds me of The Beginning Place. He leaves behind a dreary life to be welcomed into another family in another town, which he then has to leave behind, from which he keeps a single memento. Reading Blankets makes Habibi make a lot more sense to me. I can see how this dude could get deep into calligraphy, and where a lot of the darkness in that narrative could have come from. Makes me want to read more of Thompson's biographical work. 

Graphic biography of Richard Feynman, physicist, educator, horndog, and guy who was by all accounts, a joy at parties. Uses material from Feynman's famous intro to quantum physics lectures to introduce the field of Quantum Electrodynamics (or QED), for which Feynman is probably best known by physicists. Narrated in the first person by Feynman himself. Pays special attention to the influences that his three wives and his sister had on him and his career. Makes me interested in learning more about his sister Joan. I really thought the part with Richard trying to respond to Joan's postcard written in Chinese was going to turn into an example of Searle's “Chinese Room” thouht experiment. Feynman seems a kind of Heinleinian figure, being enough of an oddball that when the 60s moment rolled around, he acquired a level of pop culture notoriety and a some countercultural cache, while never really fitting in with the hippies. 

Collection of comics mostly about punk, mostly originally printed in Razorcake magazine 2010-2017. Filled with relatable anecdotes, such as the ones about tooth-clacking, and attachment to clunky tech. I love how these comics are informative, but don't take themselves very seriously. A great snapshot of punk/DIY music 1990s-2010s.

History covering the first eight years or so of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, with ruminations on the place of the Puritans and their thinking in the subsequent history and civic philosophy of the United States. Draws heavily on the writings of John Winthrop, Roger Williams, John Cotton, and other Puritan contemporaries. This is the first Sarah Vowell book I've read since I learned that she was on This American Life in the 90s, so it was hard not to imagine the book as a long This American Life episode, with Vowell's voice and delivery, the sound effects, but without the precious This American Life musical choices. I like Vowell's speculation of what John Winthrop would think of Sandra Day O'Connor's callback to his “A Model of Christian Charity” speech (“wondering when did women become magistrates”). 

A history of ancient Rome and its coinage, by a guy who is really into coins. Each chapter is about a particular coin and the economic, artistic, and political forces that created that coin. I was hoping that this book would help me pinpoint the time when the portraits on ancient Roman coins transitioned from high-quality to the more busted look of Byzantine coinage (e.g. Heraclius on the Solidus). I didn't really get a definitive answer, but I did learn a lot about what we know and don't know about ancient minting, the end of the Roman Republic, the Colosseum, and how much I still don't know about ancient Rome. Reading this book, it's good to keep in mind the point that David Graeber made in Debt (the First 5000 Years), that commodity money (e.g. gold coins) usually becomes important in times of instability, because in times of peace it's easier to buy and sell using credit than to lug a bunch of gold around, but in times of uncertainty, business can only be conducted with gold and silver upfront. A History of Ancient Rome in 12 Coins doesn't really say it, but it made me wonder if the Imperial conversion to Christianity was partly driven by the Emperors' need for sources of gold and silver, and the fact that pagan temples held a lot of it. As an American, it is wild to imagine living in a place where one can expect to come across truly ancient artifacts such as coins that you can just take home. The closest thing I can think of in my experience is finding obsidian arrowheads, which I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to disturb (at least on National Park land). 

Collected fragments of an unfinished novel interspersed with nonfiction essays. The collection works really well, as if the author always intended for his novel to be vignettes interspersed with his essays about pop culture, art, and life. The fact that So is dead makes the unfinished novel, the essay about books he didn't finish reading, the chapter about a funeral, the essay about the dead friend, and so much else feel like tragic foreshadowing. Maybe it is or it isn't, but it's hard not to feel it that it is. I think “Duplex” might have made me feel the most sad that he's gone, because of the way he lovingly describes his parents and their interactions. Makes me want to read Difference and Repetition, and A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia by Gilles Delueze, and Instructions for a Funeral by David Means. Also makes me want to listen to Philip Glass's Einstein on the Beach, and also to Pavement. Every time I hear a Pavement song I like, I'll listen to albums by them, thinking I'll like it, but then I never do. Only after I give up on Pavement having more songs I'd like will I hear another good one. Perhaps the element of chance plays a role? Anyhow, I could definitely listen to Frontwards on endless repeat.