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tachyondecay
I'm flagging this with a spoiler warning because I want to talk about the entirety of The Hate U Give, but with that being said, I don’t think spoiling the plot details of this book will spoil the emotional experience. If anything, you should be able to guess how this book ends. It is, after all, a mirror for our society.
Let’s start by boosting some Black women’s voices in this discussion of The Hate U Give:
* Miss Fabularian at Hype Lit offers some thoughtful critique on the way Thomas presents the Black community of Garden Heights in this book.
* Brittany N. Williams over at Black Nerd Problems has praise for the prose but concerns over Starr’s characterization and the pacing.
* Read in Colour discusses why this book is powerful, particularly as a response or pushback to more white-filtered presentations of movements like Black Lives Matter.
Go read these reviews (I’ll add more as I see them), because it’s important that we listen to Black women talking about books by Black women. In particular, I appreciate reading their critical opinions of the book—I love that The Hate U Give is being celebrated by mainstream reviewers in a way that too few books by Black women and about Black issues are, but at the same time, that doesn’t give it a blank cheque. Miss Fabularian makes a great point about wanting this book to be the start of a discussion, particularly one among youth about their experiences and what they can do to take action.
I can spoil my own review right now by saying it’s not very critical. Look, as I belabour the point to my Indigenous students on the first day of class: I’m white. I can’t speak about this book from a Black perspective and tell you that this book is “so real” or “realistic” or that it represents the people, concerns, or experiences of majority-Black communities. Neither, for the exact same reasons, can I criticize that representation and point out where it’s problematic. I just don’t have the frame of reference to do that, which is why it’s so important to take the time to listen to those who are qualified to critique those parts of this book.
What I can do, however, is talk about what I think my fellow white people could learn from reading The Hate U Give. So, read on, white folks. Alternatively, if you are future!Ben reading this review to remember what you thought of this book (which is really why I write these reviews), then hi! How’d you like the ending of Mass Effect: Andromeda?
The plot summary is so simple it belies the power of this book: Starr is the only witness to a white police officer killing Khalil, her childhood best friend, an unarmed Black teenager. Only 16 herself, Starr ended up in Khalil’s car that night by chance. She hadn’t seen him in ages, and she feels guilty that her life at Williamson Prep, where she goes to school, has her growing apart from the people and friends she had in Garden Heights, the projects where she grew up and where she still lives. As the anger and protests build surrounding Khalil’s murder and the media’s handling of the matter, Starr has to tough choices about how loudly she wants to speak up on Khalil’s behalf. Angie Thomas captures the tension that young Black people with social mobility feel every day as they navigate the minefield that is race relations in the United States of America. Moreover, The Hate U Give pulls no punches and gives zero fucks about white fragility while doing this.
By way of disclaimer, I blew through this in about 24 hours. Partly this is because it’s such an emotional rollercoaster that I just wanted to keep reading it. Partly it’s because I bought it for a birthday present, and if I’m giving a book as a birthday present I like to have read it first so I can honestly recommend it (I kind of figured, going in, from what I’d heard, that I would want to do this). There’s something to be said for mainlining a book, but it might also be worthwhile to read this one more slowly and deliberately. I’m sure there are things I missed I’ll have to pick up next time I read it—oh, I bought two copies so I could keep one and give my friend the other.
The Hate U Give is an important book about how a community navigates racism and police brutality, unquestionably. But it’s so much more than that too. It’s not just a piece of social commentary; it’s a beautifully written piece of social commentary. It’s an exquisite story with dynamic characters. Thomas can write, and from the first few pages I was hooked not just on the premise and conscience of her narrative but on the words themselves:
With a single paragraph, Thomas masterfully establishes Starr’s voice while also giving us a sense of the community of Garden Heights. And she goes on like this. The scene in which One-Fifteen actually kills Khalil is breathtakingly disturbing, but the aftermath is harrowing in a different way. Because now that Starr has to live with what she witnessed, she has to process it against the type of person she thought she was:
Thomas is careful to demonstrate that there is no such thing as the monolithic Black community. There are so many different voices here: the different gangs and their battles; the conflict between Maverick and Mr. Lewis over the appropriate Black icons to celebrate (Huey Newton vs. Martin Luther King, Jr.); Maverick and Carlos’ differing opinions both on childrearing and policing; Maverick and Lisa’s slow journey towards deciding whether or not to move out of Garden Heights for the sake of their children; Seven and Starr’s differing perspectives on Iesha; and, most obviously, the way that people react differently to Khalil’s murder even within Garden Heights.
There’s the fact that Starr is so painfully navigating two worlds. In Garden Heights she feels out of place because she doesn’t spend much time there any more; she is just “Big Mav’s daughter who work in the store”. At Williamson she has to be “the only Black girl in eleventh grade”:
Chris Emdin talks about this code-switching quite extensively in For White Folks Who Want to Teach in the Hood… and the Rest of Y’all Too. This is a big deal, because it’s something white privilege means people like me don’t have to think about. I get to assume that when I say something, no one is assuming I speak for all white people. I don’t have to constantly be on my guard with how I present myself lest I fall into a stereotype about my race (I mean, no, I can’t dance—but I like dancing anyway, damn it, so I won’t let that stop me!).
And this becomes increasingly important for Starr, as she becomes more vocal and reveals herself as the witness, because of the microaggressions she increasingly endures. As a white reader of The Hate U Give, the two major white characters, Chris and Hailey, were most interesting to me, because these are the two characters I am closest to being.
Chris is well-meaning, certainly, and definitely interested in supporting Starr in all her efforts. He still makes mistakes, of course, and navigating the fallout from everything from microaggressions to outright racist remarks or actions is something he and Starr have to deal with together because they’re a couple. Sometimes Starr doesn’t necessarily deal with it as well or as maturely as she could—because she’s 16 and under, you know, just a teensy amount of extra stress—and I like that Thomas makes this relationship a struggle without making the conflict too contrived. The few scenes that feature heated discussions or emotional blowouts come predictably—that is to say, they are believable results of pent-up anger and unaired doubts. Through the character of Chris, Thomas demonstrates how it doesn’t matter if you are a well-intentioned dude who is aware of his white privilege (like, uh, me)—you can still mess up. There is never a point when you are “past” your internalized racism, never a point where one is free of one’s privileges or biases. I appreciate this reminder and a portrayal that emphasizes why it is so important to keep working to understand white supremacy, and one’s place in that system, despite the indelible nature of privilege.
Hailey, on the other hand, is the white person who refuses to acknowledge her privilege. When Starr calls her out, Hailey becomes defensive and pulls out every stop in the white fragility handbook. Everything is about her, and she can’t possibly ever do or say a racist thing because she is so not a racist! She just isn’t, and it’s so hurtful to be accused of such a dreadful thing! At first we’re left to wonder whether or not this is a bump in the road on Hailey and Starr’s friendship. Maybe Hailey will realize she is wrong, own it, and apologize.
Spoiler: she doesn’t.
She really doesn’t:
I have to admit, Hailey’s character makes me really uncomfortable. I kept wanting her to apologize, to come round, to repair the relationship. I kept hoping something would happen such that Starr could forgive her. But that feeling, after some self-examination and with a dose of honesty, is because I’m trying to centre myself and the feelings of white people at such an inappropriate juncture in this narrative. Hailey’s problems are her own; this is not her story. It’s unfortunate that their childhood friendship has to wither because Hailey refuses to confront her privilege and racism, but it does not behove Starr to be the one who guides her through that process. White people need to stop asking Black people to educate them or give them, at least without compensation, time and guidance through this process. Starr’s decision to cut Hailey out of her life is painful but definitely self-compassionate.
After Starr punches Hailey for her racist remarks above, Starr naturally gets into trouble with the school and her own parents. I love the portrayal of Starr’s relationship with her parents. They are so loving, so strong, but not without their own flaws and complications and prejudices. I love that Starr’s family situation is a bit “messy”, what with her and Kenya sharing Seven as a brother despite not being sisters themselves, yet her parents are also together and her home is actually a very stable one.
I love that Starr’s dad is committed to educating his daughter while also keeping her safe:
This paragraph really underscored the entire theme of The Hate U Give for me and reaffirmed this notion that the problem is not individuals being racist but people supporting, intentionally or unintentionally, systems of racism that oppress Black people. And Thomas makes this so clear. younger readers might not have the academic background of my university-trained brain to follow sentences that use terms like “power dynamics” and “systemic oppression of marginalize groups”. But they know what Big Mav’s talking about.
I love that, in the midst of all the tragedy and heavy things happening in this book, Thomas takes the time for conversations like this one between Starr and her mom:
Dying here. This is what I was talking about at the beginning of the review about The Hate U Give being more than social commentary. If it were that and that alone, it would still be worth five stars and most of the hype and praise surrounding it. But it’s not just that. It’s a witty, wonderful, compassionate young adult novel.
I have a favour to ask: please do not “like” this review. I had a difficult time finding those links to Black women reviewers at the top. (Fortunately, Twitter is a powerful force.) When I scrolled through the list of reviews on Goodreads, they were overwhelmingly from white women or POC-non-Black women. This is replicated in the reviews I'm finding on blogs and newspaper and magazine sites all over. There’s nothing wrong with white people reading and extolling The Hate U Give, obviously—but it’s a testament to the bias present in these systems, that white people’s voices are being boosted, amplified, and applauded over the very voices that Thomas seeks to boost in this book.
So don’t “like” my review. While I know it’s not a zero-sum game, and it’s not like my reviews get hundreds of likes or anything, I’d like this to be my way of de-centreing myself and my thoughts on the book. Please comment, by all means, so we can have a discussion. But show your support by not “liking” and by going forth and boosting Black women’s voices instead. Because white people should read The Hate U Give, but merely reading it is not enough if we don’t act afterwards to fight against and dismantle white supremacy.
Let’s start by boosting some Black women’s voices in this discussion of The Hate U Give:
* Miss Fabularian at Hype Lit offers some thoughtful critique on the way Thomas presents the Black community of Garden Heights in this book.
* Brittany N. Williams over at Black Nerd Problems has praise for the prose but concerns over Starr’s characterization and the pacing.
* Read in Colour discusses why this book is powerful, particularly as a response or pushback to more white-filtered presentations of movements like Black Lives Matter.
Go read these reviews (I’ll add more as I see them), because it’s important that we listen to Black women talking about books by Black women. In particular, I appreciate reading their critical opinions of the book—I love that The Hate U Give is being celebrated by mainstream reviewers in a way that too few books by Black women and about Black issues are, but at the same time, that doesn’t give it a blank cheque. Miss Fabularian makes a great point about wanting this book to be the start of a discussion, particularly one among youth about their experiences and what they can do to take action.
I can spoil my own review right now by saying it’s not very critical. Look, as I belabour the point to my Indigenous students on the first day of class: I’m white. I can’t speak about this book from a Black perspective and tell you that this book is “so real” or “realistic” or that it represents the people, concerns, or experiences of majority-Black communities. Neither, for the exact same reasons, can I criticize that representation and point out where it’s problematic. I just don’t have the frame of reference to do that, which is why it’s so important to take the time to listen to those who are qualified to critique those parts of this book.
What I can do, however, is talk about what I think my fellow white people could learn from reading The Hate U Give. So, read on, white folks. Alternatively, if you are future!Ben reading this review to remember what you thought of this book (which is really why I write these reviews), then hi! How’d you like the ending of Mass Effect: Andromeda?
The plot summary is so simple it belies the power of this book: Starr is the only witness to a white police officer killing Khalil, her childhood best friend, an unarmed Black teenager. Only 16 herself, Starr ended up in Khalil’s car that night by chance. She hadn’t seen him in ages, and she feels guilty that her life at Williamson Prep, where she goes to school, has her growing apart from the people and friends she had in Garden Heights, the projects where she grew up and where she still lives. As the anger and protests build surrounding Khalil’s murder and the media’s handling of the matter, Starr has to tough choices about how loudly she wants to speak up on Khalil’s behalf. Angie Thomas captures the tension that young Black people with social mobility feel every day as they navigate the minefield that is race relations in the United States of America. Moreover, The Hate U Give pulls no punches and gives zero fucks about white fragility while doing this.
By way of disclaimer, I blew through this in about 24 hours. Partly this is because it’s such an emotional rollercoaster that I just wanted to keep reading it. Partly it’s because I bought it for a birthday present, and if I’m giving a book as a birthday present I like to have read it first so I can honestly recommend it (I kind of figured, going in, from what I’d heard, that I would want to do this). There’s something to be said for mainlining a book, but it might also be worthwhile to read this one more slowly and deliberately. I’m sure there are things I missed I’ll have to pick up next time I read it—oh, I bought two copies so I could keep one and give my friend the other.
The Hate U Give is an important book about how a community navigates racism and police brutality, unquestionably. But it’s so much more than that too. It’s not just a piece of social commentary; it’s a beautifully written piece of social commentary. It’s an exquisite story with dynamic characters. Thomas can write, and from the first few pages I was hooked not just on the premise and conscience of her narrative but on the words themselves:
Girls wear their hair colored, curled, laid, and slayed. Got me feeling basic as hell with my ponytail. Guys in their freshest kicks and sagging pants grind so close to girls they just about need condoms. My nana likes to say that spring brings love. Spring in Garden Heights doesn’t always bring love, but it promises babies in the winter. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of them are conceived the night of Big D’s party. He always has it on the Friday of spring break because you need Saturday to recover and Sunday to repent.
With a single paragraph, Thomas masterfully establishes Starr’s voice while also giving us a sense of the community of Garden Heights. And she goes on like this. The scene in which One-Fifteen actually kills Khalil is breathtakingly disturbing, but the aftermath is harrowing in a different way. Because now that Starr has to live with what she witnessed, she has to process it against the type of person she thought she was:
I always said that if I saw it happen to somebody, I would have the loudest voice, making sure the world knew what went down.
Now I am that person, and I’m too afraid to speak.
Thomas is careful to demonstrate that there is no such thing as the monolithic Black community. There are so many different voices here: the different gangs and their battles; the conflict between Maverick and Mr. Lewis over the appropriate Black icons to celebrate (Huey Newton vs. Martin Luther King, Jr.); Maverick and Carlos’ differing opinions both on childrearing and policing; Maverick and Lisa’s slow journey towards deciding whether or not to move out of Garden Heights for the sake of their children; Seven and Starr’s differing perspectives on Iesha; and, most obviously, the way that people react differently to Khalil’s murder even within Garden Heights.
There’s the fact that Starr is so painfully navigating two worlds. In Garden Heights she feels out of place because she doesn’t spend much time there any more; she is just “Big Mav’s daughter who work in the store”. At Williamson she has to be “the only Black girl in eleventh grade”:
Williamson Starr doesn’t use slang—if a rapper would say it, she doesn’t say it, even if her white friends do. Slang makes them cool. Slang makes her “hood.” Williamson Starr holds her tongue when people piss her off so nobody will think she’s the “angry black girl.” Williamson Starr is approachable. No stank-eyes, side-eyes, none of that. Williamson Starr is nonconfrontational. Basically, Williamson Starr doesn’t give anyone a reason to call her ghetto.
Chris Emdin talks about this code-switching quite extensively in For White Folks Who Want to Teach in the Hood… and the Rest of Y’all Too. This is a big deal, because it’s something white privilege means people like me don’t have to think about. I get to assume that when I say something, no one is assuming I speak for all white people. I don’t have to constantly be on my guard with how I present myself lest I fall into a stereotype about my race (I mean, no, I can’t dance—but I like dancing anyway, damn it, so I won’t let that stop me!).
And this becomes increasingly important for Starr, as she becomes more vocal and reveals herself as the witness, because of the microaggressions she increasingly endures. As a white reader of The Hate U Give, the two major white characters, Chris and Hailey, were most interesting to me, because these are the two characters I am closest to being.
Chris is well-meaning, certainly, and definitely interested in supporting Starr in all her efforts. He still makes mistakes, of course, and navigating the fallout from everything from microaggressions to outright racist remarks or actions is something he and Starr have to deal with together because they’re a couple. Sometimes Starr doesn’t necessarily deal with it as well or as maturely as she could—because she’s 16 and under, you know, just a teensy amount of extra stress—and I like that Thomas makes this relationship a struggle without making the conflict too contrived. The few scenes that feature heated discussions or emotional blowouts come predictably—that is to say, they are believable results of pent-up anger and unaired doubts. Through the character of Chris, Thomas demonstrates how it doesn’t matter if you are a well-intentioned dude who is aware of his white privilege (like, uh, me)—you can still mess up. There is never a point when you are “past” your internalized racism, never a point where one is free of one’s privileges or biases. I appreciate this reminder and a portrayal that emphasizes why it is so important to keep working to understand white supremacy, and one’s place in that system, despite the indelible nature of privilege.
Hailey, on the other hand, is the white person who refuses to acknowledge her privilege. When Starr calls her out, Hailey becomes defensive and pulls out every stop in the white fragility handbook. Everything is about her, and she can’t possibly ever do or say a racist thing because she is so not a racist! She just isn’t, and it’s so hurtful to be accused of such a dreadful thing! At first we’re left to wonder whether or not this is a bump in the road on Hailey and Starr’s friendship. Maybe Hailey will realize she is wrong, own it, and apologize.
Spoiler: she doesn’t.
She really doesn’t:
“It’s not my fault she can’t get over a joke from freaking freshman year! Just like it’s not my fault you can’t get over what happened to Khalil.”
“So I’m supposed to ‘get over’ the fact he was murdered?”
“Yes, get over it! He was probably gonna end up dead anyway …. The cop probably did everyone a favor. One less drug dealer on the—”
I have to admit, Hailey’s character makes me really uncomfortable. I kept wanting her to apologize, to come round, to repair the relationship. I kept hoping something would happen such that Starr could forgive her. But that feeling, after some self-examination and with a dose of honesty, is because I’m trying to centre myself and the feelings of white people at such an inappropriate juncture in this narrative. Hailey’s problems are her own; this is not her story. It’s unfortunate that their childhood friendship has to wither because Hailey refuses to confront her privilege and racism, but it does not behove Starr to be the one who guides her through that process. White people need to stop asking Black people to educate them or give them, at least without compensation, time and guidance through this process. Starr’s decision to cut Hailey out of her life is painful but definitely self-compassionate.
After Starr punches Hailey for her racist remarks above, Starr naturally gets into trouble with the school and her own parents. I love the portrayal of Starr’s relationship with her parents. They are so loving, so strong, but not without their own flaws and complications and prejudices. I love that Starr’s family situation is a bit “messy”, what with her and Kenya sharing Seven as a brother despite not being sisters themselves, yet her parents are also together and her home is actually a very stable one.
I love that Starr’s dad is committed to educating his daughter while also keeping her safe:
Drugs come from somewhere, and they’re destroying our community…. The Brendas can’t get jobs unless they’re clean, and they can’t pay for rehab unless they got jobs. When the Khalils get arrested for seeling drugs, they either spend most of their life in prison, another billion-dollar industry, or they have a hard time getting a real job and probably start selling drugs again. That’s the hate they’re giving us, baby, a system designed against us. That’s Thug Life.
This paragraph really underscored the entire theme of The Hate U Give for me and reaffirmed this notion that the problem is not individuals being racist but people supporting, intentionally or unintentionally, systems of racism that oppress Black people. And Thomas makes this so clear. younger readers might not have the academic background of my university-trained brain to follow sentences that use terms like “power dynamics” and “systemic oppression of marginalize groups”. But they know what Big Mav’s talking about.
I love that, in the midst of all the tragedy and heavy things happening in this book, Thomas takes the time for conversations like this one between Starr and her mom:
“We had an argument yesterday,” I say. “Really though, things have been weird for a while. She stopped texting me and unfollowed my Tumblr.”
Momma reaches her fork onto my plate and breaks off a piece of pancake. “What is Tumblr anyway? Is it like Facebook?”
“No, and you’re forbidden to get one. No parents allowed. You guys already took over Facebook.”
“You haven’t responded to my friend request yet.”
“I know.”
“I need Candy Crush lives.”
“That’s why I’ll never respond.”
Dying here. This is what I was talking about at the beginning of the review about The Hate U Give being more than social commentary. If it were that and that alone, it would still be worth five stars and most of the hype and praise surrounding it. But it’s not just that. It’s a witty, wonderful, compassionate young adult novel.
I have a favour to ask: please do not “like” this review. I had a difficult time finding those links to Black women reviewers at the top. (Fortunately, Twitter is a powerful force.) When I scrolled through the list of reviews on Goodreads, they were overwhelmingly from white women or POC-non-Black women. This is replicated in the reviews I'm finding on blogs and newspaper and magazine sites all over. There’s nothing wrong with white people reading and extolling The Hate U Give, obviously—but it’s a testament to the bias present in these systems, that white people’s voices are being boosted, amplified, and applauded over the very voices that Thomas seeks to boost in this book.
So don’t “like” my review. While I know it’s not a zero-sum game, and it’s not like my reviews get hundreds of likes or anything, I’d like this to be my way of de-centreing myself and my thoughts on the book. Please comment, by all means, so we can have a discussion. But show your support by not “liking” and by going forth and boosting Black women’s voices instead. Because white people should read The Hate U Give, but merely reading it is not enough if we don’t act afterwards to fight against and dismantle white supremacy.
The Quantum Labyrinth: How Richard Feynman and John Wheeler Revolutionized Time and Reality is a history book masquerading as a physics book, and I like that. I’m just as interested in the history of science as I am in science itself. As the title implies, Paul Halpern focuses on the lives of Feynman and Wheeler, protégés who individually and collectively had their fingers on the pulse of physics for much of the twentieth century. Halpern provides valuable insights into the lives of these two physicists and puts their contributions into the context of their lives and history. That being said, I do feel like this book is incredibly uneven. I received this eARC for free from NetGalley and Perseus Books in exchange for a review … apparently it has been out for a while now though….
Let’s talk some critiques first.
The Quantum Labyrinth doesn’t seem to know who its target audience is. Most physics books start from very basic principles and slowly develop more complicated principles of quantum mechanics on top of that. Halpern doesn’t; he goes hard. Halpern gets very technical in some respects, technical enough that a lay audience not as steeped in physics books as I am would be left wondering about a lot of things. At some points I was wondering if I had skipped an explanation. Just when I was convinced this book is aimed more at an undergrad physics student than anyone else, he’ll hit us with more elementary definitions of a force or a particle or a property—stuff a general audience might know—and I’ll wonder … why.
My related, and main criticism, is that this book is poorly organized and unfocused. The subtitle makes a grand claim, yet Halpern doesn’t pursue this idea of “revolutionizing time and reality” with any kind of direct arguments. He mentions how Feynman and Wheeler bandied about the idea of positrons being electrons travelling back in time (and perhaps all the same electron), yes; he mentions how Wheeler gradually comes around to studying relativity and in fact becomes a leading expert in that field, sure. But these are small details amidst a soup of other small details. Halpern chronicles the physics careers of these individuals, but not in a unified way. If Halpern were sitting in my English class working on an essay I’d remind him that everything needs to explicitly relate back to his thesis….
But there is good here too! Halpern really does include a lot of excellent detail about the lives of these two physicists. I learned so much about these two, who until now were names or the progenitors of concepts I’ve learned about. I learned more about Feynman as a character and a personality, the way he enjoyed the drums, got into stage-acting later in his life, etc. I love hearing these details about historical figures, humanizing them, putting them into the context of their times. Scientists are only, ultimately human, after all, and it’s really important we remember that.
Similarly, this book really made me think about how the theoretical part of science is related to social networking. So much of Feynman and Wheeler’s ideas are the fruit of discussions with each other or other physicists at conferences, impromptu meetings, or chats at one another’s homes. Whether it was a university position or working together on the Manhattan Project, these physicists always influenced each other’s ideas. Whether or not Bohr or another juggernaut liked your idea had a big influence on how many others took it up. A passing comment from Einstein or someone else might give you your next epiphany. Although science has changed a lot over the past century, I think it’s still true that social networks play a role in scientific discoveries and opportunities.
The Quantum Labyrinth is genuinely interesting. If you want to learn more about Feynman or Wheeler, you certainly will do that here. I just think that it won’t be as smooth or straightforward a read as I wanted it to be, reading it during a long work week.
Let’s talk some critiques first.
The Quantum Labyrinth doesn’t seem to know who its target audience is. Most physics books start from very basic principles and slowly develop more complicated principles of quantum mechanics on top of that. Halpern doesn’t; he goes hard. Halpern gets very technical in some respects, technical enough that a lay audience not as steeped in physics books as I am would be left wondering about a lot of things. At some points I was wondering if I had skipped an explanation. Just when I was convinced this book is aimed more at an undergrad physics student than anyone else, he’ll hit us with more elementary definitions of a force or a particle or a property—stuff a general audience might know—and I’ll wonder … why.
My related, and main criticism, is that this book is poorly organized and unfocused. The subtitle makes a grand claim, yet Halpern doesn’t pursue this idea of “revolutionizing time and reality” with any kind of direct arguments. He mentions how Feynman and Wheeler bandied about the idea of positrons being electrons travelling back in time (and perhaps all the same electron), yes; he mentions how Wheeler gradually comes around to studying relativity and in fact becomes a leading expert in that field, sure. But these are small details amidst a soup of other small details. Halpern chronicles the physics careers of these individuals, but not in a unified way. If Halpern were sitting in my English class working on an essay I’d remind him that everything needs to explicitly relate back to his thesis….
But there is good here too! Halpern really does include a lot of excellent detail about the lives of these two physicists. I learned so much about these two, who until now were names or the progenitors of concepts I’ve learned about. I learned more about Feynman as a character and a personality, the way he enjoyed the drums, got into stage-acting later in his life, etc. I love hearing these details about historical figures, humanizing them, putting them into the context of their times. Scientists are only, ultimately human, after all, and it’s really important we remember that.
Similarly, this book really made me think about how the theoretical part of science is related to social networking. So much of Feynman and Wheeler’s ideas are the fruit of discussions with each other or other physicists at conferences, impromptu meetings, or chats at one another’s homes. Whether it was a university position or working together on the Manhattan Project, these physicists always influenced each other’s ideas. Whether or not Bohr or another juggernaut liked your idea had a big influence on how many others took it up. A passing comment from Einstein or someone else might give you your next epiphany. Although science has changed a lot over the past century, I think it’s still true that social networks play a role in scientific discoveries and opportunities.
The Quantum Labyrinth is genuinely interesting. If you want to learn more about Feynman or Wheeler, you certainly will do that here. I just think that it won’t be as smooth or straightforward a read as I wanted it to be, reading it during a long work week.
George R.R. Martin praised Best Served Cold as a “splatterpunk sword ’n sorcery” Count of Monte Cristo. I can kind of see why, but at the same time, The Count of Monte Cristo is a masterpiece and one of my all-time favourites, so that is a tough standard to live up to in my eyes.
Also, I feel like I need to slap a huge disclaimer on this review. Firstly, I haven’t read any of Joe Abercrombie’s other First Law books. I know that this one is a standalone, so that probably shouldn’t matter; I just want to be upfront about my unfamiliarity with this world. Secondly, I started reading this the same day I began playing Mass Effect: Andromeda, and I have spent my meagre free time this past week mostly playing Mass Effect: Andromeda, to the anomalous detriment of my reading time. Embarking on a 650-page book while also playing my most-anticipated video game of the year was a silly decision on my part, but here we are.
I really want to give this book three stars, because it probably deserves it, but I’m going to stick with two for now just because, if it were really that good, it would have demanded my attention despite my Mass Effect addiction. I would have found a way.
Best Served Cold is, as GRRM’s comparison suggests, a revenge plot chilled in the finest wine of the Italian-fictional-analogue Styria, where dukes and armies vie for supremacy backed by foreign powers and banks. Monzacarro Murcatto, or Monza as her friends—well, close allies—know her, is a renowned mercenary. So renowned, in fact, that her employer worries she plans to usurp his dukedom, so he has her and her brother brutally murdered. She survives! (This is not a spoiler; this is all boilerplate.) She vows revenge! She sets off on an unstoppable rampage to kill the seven men involved in her and her brother’s assassination. Along the way, she accumulates a small coterie of comrades who alternatively help and hinder her progress.
I want to like this book more than I did, I swear! By so many metrics, this is a really well done work of fiction. Abercrombie focuses a lot on the minutiae of Renaissance-era warfare, on the practicalities and difficulties of large-scale troop movements, logistics, and mercenary life. Yet he does not get bogged down in these details to the point of forgetting to move the story forward. Best Served Cold takes a kind of episodic route, since it is essentially a series of seven murders on Monza’s way to revenge. Each murder could be thought of as a particular episode, with corresponding caper or infiltration or other gambit, before the party moves on to the next location and the next target. In this way, Abercrombie can change up the scenery, further exposing us to more of his world while keeping the story moving.
Furthermore, I kind of hated Monza … but that might have been the point. Abercrombie makes no bones about portraying Monza as an unsympathetic protagonist. Indeed, most of the people in this story are fairly vile. And I appreciate how he has Monza kind of question and come to terms with the fact that her revenge quest is about as nonsensical and immoral as any other personal vendetta in this world—revenge is not justice, as much as it is tempting to conflate the two. As terrible as these characters are, some of them, like Cosca and Morveer, are delightful in how they are written. Others, like the assassin’s assassin, Shenkt, are more of a cipher—maybe deliberately so—and the part they play in the plot feels very strange.
If Best Served Cold drags in any way, it’s simply through the sheer weight of detail that Abercrombie impresses upon us. And this is coming from someone who not only read but luxuriated within the unabridged edition of The Count of Monte Cristo and will defend (albeit not to the death) the importance of Dumas’ digressions into the lives of the gardener’s daughter’s cousin’s dog. On another week, maybe I would have enjoyed this level of detail more. As I mentioned before, I don’t think Abercrombie gets bogged down by it—but I think I, as a reader, certainly might.
While we’re comparing these books, and mostly because I just want to talk about what a masterpiece The Count of Monte Cristo is for another paragraph or so, there is a key difference between them. Monza is far from the innocent man that Edmond Dantes was. Sure, she wasn’t actually planning to overthrow Orso (although, without spoiling it, there is a cool twist towards the very end that adds some irony to her revenge quest). Nevertheless, at the end of the day she is a cold-blooded killer, a bringer of misery and strife and perpetuator of the Years of Blood that Styria is experiencing. Dantes, on the other hand, was literally just in the wrong place at the wrong time. His is the quest of a righteous person wronged by corrupt people; Monza’s is the quest of a sinful person out-sinned by other sinners.
I totally recommend this book if it sounds like your thing, if you like the really dense, detailed portrayal of fantasy worlds in a very military setting. There is more explicit sex than I’m used to in these books, and it’s not really my thing, so just be aware of that. And the ultimate tone of this novel is, if I’m being honest, somewhat nihilistic in its take on the purpose or outcomes of our lives. So … maybe don’t read it if you need a pick-me-up. I’m probably not going to read more of Abercrombie’s work, at least not in this series, because it isn’t precisely what I’m looking for at this time—that being said, I certainly recognize the talent that has gone into this book and want to acknowledge that rather than pan it.
Correction, November 2018: An earlier version of this review stated “there is no real magic here”. I have been advised that this is inaccurate. Given that I read this book over a year ago, naturally I have zero memory of it. So I can’t explain why I wrote that.
Also, I feel like I need to slap a huge disclaimer on this review. Firstly, I haven’t read any of Joe Abercrombie’s other First Law books. I know that this one is a standalone, so that probably shouldn’t matter; I just want to be upfront about my unfamiliarity with this world. Secondly, I started reading this the same day I began playing Mass Effect: Andromeda, and I have spent my meagre free time this past week mostly playing Mass Effect: Andromeda, to the anomalous detriment of my reading time. Embarking on a 650-page book while also playing my most-anticipated video game of the year was a silly decision on my part, but here we are.
I really want to give this book three stars, because it probably deserves it, but I’m going to stick with two for now just because, if it were really that good, it would have demanded my attention despite my Mass Effect addiction. I would have found a way.
Best Served Cold is, as GRRM’s comparison suggests, a revenge plot chilled in the finest wine of the Italian-fictional-analogue Styria, where dukes and armies vie for supremacy backed by foreign powers and banks. Monzacarro Murcatto, or Monza as her friends—well, close allies—know her, is a renowned mercenary. So renowned, in fact, that her employer worries she plans to usurp his dukedom, so he has her and her brother brutally murdered. She survives! (This is not a spoiler; this is all boilerplate.) She vows revenge! She sets off on an unstoppable rampage to kill the seven men involved in her and her brother’s assassination. Along the way, she accumulates a small coterie of comrades who alternatively help and hinder her progress.
I want to like this book more than I did, I swear! By so many metrics, this is a really well done work of fiction. Abercrombie focuses a lot on the minutiae of Renaissance-era warfare, on the practicalities and difficulties of large-scale troop movements, logistics, and mercenary life. Yet he does not get bogged down in these details to the point of forgetting to move the story forward. Best Served Cold takes a kind of episodic route, since it is essentially a series of seven murders on Monza’s way to revenge. Each murder could be thought of as a particular episode, with corresponding caper or infiltration or other gambit, before the party moves on to the next location and the next target. In this way, Abercrombie can change up the scenery, further exposing us to more of his world while keeping the story moving.
Furthermore, I kind of hated Monza … but that might have been the point. Abercrombie makes no bones about portraying Monza as an unsympathetic protagonist. Indeed, most of the people in this story are fairly vile. And I appreciate how he has Monza kind of question and come to terms with the fact that her revenge quest is about as nonsensical and immoral as any other personal vendetta in this world—revenge is not justice, as much as it is tempting to conflate the two. As terrible as these characters are, some of them, like Cosca and Morveer, are delightful in how they are written. Others, like the assassin’s assassin, Shenkt, are more of a cipher—maybe deliberately so—and the part they play in the plot feels very strange.
If Best Served Cold drags in any way, it’s simply through the sheer weight of detail that Abercrombie impresses upon us. And this is coming from someone who not only read but luxuriated within the unabridged edition of The Count of Monte Cristo and will defend (albeit not to the death) the importance of Dumas’ digressions into the lives of the gardener’s daughter’s cousin’s dog. On another week, maybe I would have enjoyed this level of detail more. As I mentioned before, I don’t think Abercrombie gets bogged down by it—but I think I, as a reader, certainly might.
While we’re comparing these books, and mostly because I just want to talk about what a masterpiece The Count of Monte Cristo is for another paragraph or so, there is a key difference between them. Monza is far from the innocent man that Edmond Dantes was. Sure, she wasn’t actually planning to overthrow Orso (although, without spoiling it, there is a cool twist towards the very end that adds some irony to her revenge quest). Nevertheless, at the end of the day she is a cold-blooded killer, a bringer of misery and strife and perpetuator of the Years of Blood that Styria is experiencing. Dantes, on the other hand, was literally just in the wrong place at the wrong time. His is the quest of a righteous person wronged by corrupt people; Monza’s is the quest of a sinful person out-sinned by other sinners.
I totally recommend this book if it sounds like your thing, if you like the really dense, detailed portrayal of fantasy worlds in a very military setting. There is more explicit sex than I’m used to in these books, and it’s not really my thing, so just be aware of that. And the ultimate tone of this novel is, if I’m being honest, somewhat nihilistic in its take on the purpose or outcomes of our lives. So … maybe don’t read it if you need a pick-me-up. I’m probably not going to read more of Abercrombie’s work, at least not in this series, because it isn’t precisely what I’m looking for at this time—that being said, I certainly recognize the talent that has gone into this book and want to acknowledge that rather than pan it.
Correction, November 2018: An earlier version of this review stated “there is no real magic here”. I have been advised that this is inaccurate. Given that I read this book over a year ago, naturally I have zero memory of it. So I can’t explain why I wrote that.
Self-driving cars, or more broadly, autonomous vehicles (AVs) are really cool. I’m excited to see them become a reality. Nevertheless, there is a lot of hype around this topic. It seems like most of what I read about the subject comes from someone connected to the tech industry or the auto industry (or both), and that always makes me suspicious. No One at the Wheel: Driverless Cars and the Road of the Future is a tonic to that. This eARC was provided by NetGalley and the publisher in exchange for a review, and here it is: Samuel I. Schwartz seems like a smart dude who gets it.
The main draw of this book, for me, is hands down simply this: it is written by a transportation engineer, not an autonomous vehicle evangelist. Schwartz knows what he’s talking about, but he knows it from the perspective of pavement and traffic flow, not AI algorithms or engine efficiency tweaks. He is enthusiastic about the benefits of AVs, and he discusses those at length—but he also has a lot of questions and apprehension, which he lays out in a systematic and thoughtful way as well. In short, No One at the Wheel is a nuanced look at what the future of traffic might be like in a society that uses AVs.
Schwartz opens with a history lesson. I was fascinated by this, and this is why I love reading non-fiction. We are so used to “the way things are” that it’s easy to forget that there was always a transitional period. There was a time when automobiles were new, and people needed radio jingles to be educated not to jaywalk and get hit by a car … wow. More importantly, Schwartz points out how many early traffic laws (and regulations concerning pedestrians) ended up shaped by the automotive industry lobby. Also, he notes that interest in self-driving vehicles started almost as soon as we had automotive vehicles in general.
After the history lesson, Schwartz examines why AVs might be desirable. He notes the mobility and accessibility benefits. As a transportation engineer, though, his main question concerns whether AVs will improve traffic flow, reduce congestion, and generally be better for roads. The evangelists want the answer to be a resounding yes, but Schwartz demonstrates that this is actually a difficult question to answer. For example, AVs should be better drivers, so they can drive in more tightly confined lanes (narrower roads are a win), more closely together—thereby reducing congestion, right? Except that maybe more people will use AVs, which could increase congestion and road deterioration. Or maybe AVs will be so busy stopping and starting for pedestrians who, knowing the AV has to stop for them, step into the middle of the road that the AVs will actually be slower than a human-driven vehicle. So many possibilities to consider.
Schwartz also gets into the ethical ramifications of AVs and collisions, etc. He covers the Trolley Problem. Whatever. That stuff isn’t as interesting to me now—it’s interesting in general, but it’s not what I’m for; I’ve read it before.
The book really picks up whenever Schwartz considers how AVs affect city planning. Drawing again on history, he examines how we went from cities with no cars to cities built around cars and where we might go in the future. I loved his commentary on the differences between cities with “walkable” downtowns and cities without. For example, he points out that while people with cars tend to spend more per visit, pedestrians and cyclists tend to go to more stores because parking is less of an issue. This totally resonates with me: although I have a vehicle, I like to walk to the downtown as much as possible, because I hate finding parking. I’d rather walk down there and walk to each store, even if it takes a little more effort. Except now, it’s winter, so … yeah, no.
Many books in this vein are also relentlessly focused on the United States to the point of tunnel vision. This shouldn’t be notable, but it is: No One at the Wheel takes a more global perspective. Schwartz discusses American traffic, but he also talks about European, Australian, Indian, etc. traffic. He’s very careful to point out that AVs are not going to be adopted at the same pace or in the same way all over the world, and different jurisdictions with different cultures and histories are going to react differently. I appreciate this attention to detail from an American book by an American author.
At the end of the day, Schwartz’s thesis and biases are fairly clear. It isn’t so much about being pro- or anti-AV. Rather, he wants good transportation options for people. He wants AVs to be part of a larger, more holistic traffic strategy, rather than the be-all, end-all strategy, or something thought of as distinct or disjoint from the rest of traffic. Every example he brings up, every anecdote he shares from his experiences as an engineer and traffic commissioner, every point he makes, drives this home (pun intended): if we are to make the most of what AVs can do for us, we must consider how we can use AVs to make transit overall accessible, mobile, and affordable, instead of just letting AVs “happen” to us.
No One at the Wheel is an interesting, dynamic, thoughtful, and compassionate book by someone who knows what they’re talking about. It took my casual interest in autonomous vehicles and educated me, gave me lots to think about, and in some cases actually caused me to rethink a few of my opinions (I have largely been very pro-AV, but Schwartz has helped explain some of the possible negative side-effects of AVs that until now I kind of brushed aside). If this is a topic that you want to learn more about, then this book will help you achieve that goal.
The main draw of this book, for me, is hands down simply this: it is written by a transportation engineer, not an autonomous vehicle evangelist. Schwartz knows what he’s talking about, but he knows it from the perspective of pavement and traffic flow, not AI algorithms or engine efficiency tweaks. He is enthusiastic about the benefits of AVs, and he discusses those at length—but he also has a lot of questions and apprehension, which he lays out in a systematic and thoughtful way as well. In short, No One at the Wheel is a nuanced look at what the future of traffic might be like in a society that uses AVs.
Schwartz opens with a history lesson. I was fascinated by this, and this is why I love reading non-fiction. We are so used to “the way things are” that it’s easy to forget that there was always a transitional period. There was a time when automobiles were new, and people needed radio jingles to be educated not to jaywalk and get hit by a car … wow. More importantly, Schwartz points out how many early traffic laws (and regulations concerning pedestrians) ended up shaped by the automotive industry lobby. Also, he notes that interest in self-driving vehicles started almost as soon as we had automotive vehicles in general.
After the history lesson, Schwartz examines why AVs might be desirable. He notes the mobility and accessibility benefits. As a transportation engineer, though, his main question concerns whether AVs will improve traffic flow, reduce congestion, and generally be better for roads. The evangelists want the answer to be a resounding yes, but Schwartz demonstrates that this is actually a difficult question to answer. For example, AVs should be better drivers, so they can drive in more tightly confined lanes (narrower roads are a win), more closely together—thereby reducing congestion, right? Except that maybe more people will use AVs, which could increase congestion and road deterioration. Or maybe AVs will be so busy stopping and starting for pedestrians who, knowing the AV has to stop for them, step into the middle of the road that the AVs will actually be slower than a human-driven vehicle. So many possibilities to consider.
Schwartz also gets into the ethical ramifications of AVs and collisions, etc. He covers the Trolley Problem. Whatever. That stuff isn’t as interesting to me now—it’s interesting in general, but it’s not what I’m for; I’ve read it before.
The book really picks up whenever Schwartz considers how AVs affect city planning. Drawing again on history, he examines how we went from cities with no cars to cities built around cars and where we might go in the future. I loved his commentary on the differences between cities with “walkable” downtowns and cities without. For example, he points out that while people with cars tend to spend more per visit, pedestrians and cyclists tend to go to more stores because parking is less of an issue. This totally resonates with me: although I have a vehicle, I like to walk to the downtown as much as possible, because I hate finding parking. I’d rather walk down there and walk to each store, even if it takes a little more effort. Except now, it’s winter, so … yeah, no.
Many books in this vein are also relentlessly focused on the United States to the point of tunnel vision. This shouldn’t be notable, but it is: No One at the Wheel takes a more global perspective. Schwartz discusses American traffic, but he also talks about European, Australian, Indian, etc. traffic. He’s very careful to point out that AVs are not going to be adopted at the same pace or in the same way all over the world, and different jurisdictions with different cultures and histories are going to react differently. I appreciate this attention to detail from an American book by an American author.
At the end of the day, Schwartz’s thesis and biases are fairly clear. It isn’t so much about being pro- or anti-AV. Rather, he wants good transportation options for people. He wants AVs to be part of a larger, more holistic traffic strategy, rather than the be-all, end-all strategy, or something thought of as distinct or disjoint from the rest of traffic. Every example he brings up, every anecdote he shares from his experiences as an engineer and traffic commissioner, every point he makes, drives this home (pun intended): if we are to make the most of what AVs can do for us, we must consider how we can use AVs to make transit overall accessible, mobile, and affordable, instead of just letting AVs “happen” to us.
No One at the Wheel is an interesting, dynamic, thoughtful, and compassionate book by someone who knows what they’re talking about. It took my casual interest in autonomous vehicles and educated me, gave me lots to think about, and in some cases actually caused me to rethink a few of my opinions (I have largely been very pro-AV, but Schwartz has helped explain some of the possible negative side-effects of AVs that until now I kind of brushed aside). If this is a topic that you want to learn more about, then this book will help you achieve that goal.
Sara Barnard continues to tell great stories. Her characters are relatable, and their situations have just the right scope. Goodbye, Perfect is about dealing with disruption and discomfort in your life caused by people close to you—especially when part of that disruption is re-evaluating what you know about a person. It’s about the nature of loyalty, family, and friendship. There’s a lot going on with the main character, and even though this is a fairly short novel, Barnard wastes no pages in establishing various subplots and emotional arcs that pay off towards the end.
Trigger warning in this book for sexual relationships with a minor.
Eden McKinley has always looked to her best friend, Bonnie, for stability. Eden has embraced her reputation as the somewhat rebellious or troubled teenager—not to the point of ever really landing in trouble, but certainly hot water here or there. Bonnie, in contrast, is the eponymous “perfect” girl. With GCSEs imminent, everyone expects Bonnie to excel and Eden to scrape by, including the two of them. That is, until Bonnie runs away with their high school’s music teacher. Eden finds herself near the centre of the story, constantly questioned by police, parents, and other people: how could you not know?? Except she didn’t. Bonnie, perfect Bonnie, best-friend-Bonnie who told Eden everything … did not tell her about this relationship, at least not at that level of detail. And that’s eating Eden up inside, even as she struggles with another secret: Bonnie has told Eden where Bonnie is.
As with Holly Bourne’s The Manifesto on How to Be Interesting, Goodbye, Perfect’s portrayal of a relationship between a girl and her teacher was more than a little uncomfortable to read from my point of view as a teacher. It was a little easier here, maybe, just because we didn’t really see the grooming happening first-hand. The book kind of starts with Bonnie and Mr. Cohn as an item, with Bonnie running away with him (“Jack”), and Bonnie constantly defending their “love” to Eden. The other adults in the story regularly remind us that Mr. Cohn has crossed way too many lines, and that’s really helpful. Even Eden herself is fairly set on the idea that Bonnie needs to stop this and come home (although perhaps more because she’s concerned about how Bonnie will do on her exams than about the illicit affair).
So this book isn’t so much exploring why or how teenagers fall prey to these relationships. Rather, it asks us to consider the perspective of a close friend to one of these teenagers. When Bonnie goes missing, what’s it like to be involved in the case? To have people around you constantly asking you if you knew more than you said? Not all of us go through such experiences (thankfully), but I can imagine that for any readers who have been in similar, even if not exactly the same, situations, Eden’s experiences must resonate. It’s really easy for us to say, “Oh, here’s what I would have done…” but I suspect that in the heat of the moment, with other stresses on top of this one, it would not be so easy.
Barnard in her other books has been fantastic at portraying texting/messaging between adolescents in an authentic way, and she continues this in Goodbye, Perfect. From Eden’s incredulous, “HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS” to the staccato, often sporadic types of messages received from Bonnie, Barnard replicates the way teens use these forms of synchronous/asynchronous communication. Sometimes less is more, and all it takes is a single line of text for us to understand more about the relationship between these two friends.
Honestly, though, the Eden–Bonnie dynamic wasn’t the most interesting part of the book to me. I suppose that’s because Bonnie was so definitively wrapped up in her infatuation with Mr. Cohn that it seemed like Eden would never get through to her. I was more interested in Eden’s relationship with the other people around her. I loved learning about (and seeing, in all the little ways) the supportive home life she had with her adoptive parents. Similarly, I wish we had seen more between Eden and Daisy, and even perhaps learned more about their birth mother. These are tantalizing elements of this world that Barnard just doesn’t have time to get into—nevertheless, she does try her best to flesh out these characters’ stories. I am not adopted, myself, but I know some adopted people who crave more stories with adopted characters. Goodbye, Perfect offers that, with a bonus that the story itself isn’t about the character rediscovering their roots, finding their birth parents, etc. Being adopted is just a part of Eden’s life—and certainly a big part, of course, since it informs her relationship with her family, including her adoptive sister, Valerie.
Valerie and Eden, surprisingly, became my favourite part of this story. The road trip they take, the heart-to-heart, the awkwardness of it all … again, it feels real and more powerful for it. There’s actually a moment, prior to that, this exchange between Eden and Carolyn, that I adore:
Carolyn is advising Eden not to push people away just because they aren’t already close, that sometimes that person you’re close to (*cough*, Bonnie) isn’t going to be there for you, and you need other options. Big mood. While I am a somewhat heavy door, as my friend Rebecca likes to call me, and I have a small number of close friends, I like to think I’ve tried to widen my support network sufficiently to get me through those difficult times. This is a crucial lesson to learn.
Really, that’s what Barnards books often remind us: adolescence is a time to learn important things, about ourselves and people in general, before we are out there, in the “real world” of adulthood, where such mistakes might be costlier. The ending of Goodbye, Perfect emphasizes this: Eden and Bonnie don’t speak, even after the latter returns to school to finish her GCSEs. Eden moves on, away from her school and into the next chapter of her life. There is no touching reunion, no make-up scene, and very little closure in the sense of learning how Bonnie deals with this trauma—because it isn’t her story. And, as Eden gradually starts realizing by the end of the book, that isn’t Eden’s story either. Her story isn’t, “I was the best friend of someone who ran off with her teacher,” but rather, “I am my own person who is pursuing a love of plants and a future for myself.”
It can be hard to remember that we are our own people, and not people in someone else’s story.
Goodbye, Perfect certainly has the trademark easy readability that I love about Barnard’s writing. It didn’t quite inspire for me the same emotional highs and lows that Beautiful Broken Things or A Quiet Kind of Thunder did. Those books were phenomenal, and it isn’t this book’s fault if I liked it a little less in comparison to those two. It was still a lot of fun to read, and I love the characterization and dilemmas.
Trigger warning in this book for sexual relationships with a minor.
Eden McKinley has always looked to her best friend, Bonnie, for stability. Eden has embraced her reputation as the somewhat rebellious or troubled teenager—not to the point of ever really landing in trouble, but certainly hot water here or there. Bonnie, in contrast, is the eponymous “perfect” girl. With GCSEs imminent, everyone expects Bonnie to excel and Eden to scrape by, including the two of them. That is, until Bonnie runs away with their high school’s music teacher. Eden finds herself near the centre of the story, constantly questioned by police, parents, and other people: how could you not know?? Except she didn’t. Bonnie, perfect Bonnie, best-friend-Bonnie who told Eden everything … did not tell her about this relationship, at least not at that level of detail. And that’s eating Eden up inside, even as she struggles with another secret: Bonnie has told Eden where Bonnie is.
As with Holly Bourne’s The Manifesto on How to Be Interesting, Goodbye, Perfect’s portrayal of a relationship between a girl and her teacher was more than a little uncomfortable to read from my point of view as a teacher. It was a little easier here, maybe, just because we didn’t really see the grooming happening first-hand. The book kind of starts with Bonnie and Mr. Cohn as an item, with Bonnie running away with him (“Jack”), and Bonnie constantly defending their “love” to Eden. The other adults in the story regularly remind us that Mr. Cohn has crossed way too many lines, and that’s really helpful. Even Eden herself is fairly set on the idea that Bonnie needs to stop this and come home (although perhaps more because she’s concerned about how Bonnie will do on her exams than about the illicit affair).
So this book isn’t so much exploring why or how teenagers fall prey to these relationships. Rather, it asks us to consider the perspective of a close friend to one of these teenagers. When Bonnie goes missing, what’s it like to be involved in the case? To have people around you constantly asking you if you knew more than you said? Not all of us go through such experiences (thankfully), but I can imagine that for any readers who have been in similar, even if not exactly the same, situations, Eden’s experiences must resonate. It’s really easy for us to say, “Oh, here’s what I would have done…” but I suspect that in the heat of the moment, with other stresses on top of this one, it would not be so easy.
Barnard in her other books has been fantastic at portraying texting/messaging between adolescents in an authentic way, and she continues this in Goodbye, Perfect. From Eden’s incredulous, “HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS” to the staccato, often sporadic types of messages received from Bonnie, Barnard replicates the way teens use these forms of synchronous/asynchronous communication. Sometimes less is more, and all it takes is a single line of text for us to understand more about the relationship between these two friends.
Honestly, though, the Eden–Bonnie dynamic wasn’t the most interesting part of the book to me. I suppose that’s because Bonnie was so definitively wrapped up in her infatuation with Mr. Cohn that it seemed like Eden would never get through to her. I was more interested in Eden’s relationship with the other people around her. I loved learning about (and seeing, in all the little ways) the supportive home life she had with her adoptive parents. Similarly, I wish we had seen more between Eden and Daisy, and even perhaps learned more about their birth mother. These are tantalizing elements of this world that Barnard just doesn’t have time to get into—nevertheless, she does try her best to flesh out these characters’ stories. I am not adopted, myself, but I know some adopted people who crave more stories with adopted characters. Goodbye, Perfect offers that, with a bonus that the story itself isn’t about the character rediscovering their roots, finding their birth parents, etc. Being adopted is just a part of Eden’s life—and certainly a big part, of course, since it informs her relationship with her family, including her adoptive sister, Valerie.
Valerie and Eden, surprisingly, became my favourite part of this story. The road trip they take, the heart-to-heart, the awkwardness of it all … again, it feels real and more powerful for it. There’s actually a moment, prior to that, this exchange between Eden and Carolyn, that I adore:
“… You have to be gentler with people. You can’t just choose people you like and push everyone else away.”
“Why not?”
“Because people change, in both directions. Because at some point a person you like will do something you don’t like and it will pull the rug right out from under your whole world,“ she says pointedly. “And that sort of thing is a lot easier to deal with if you have a wider network around you, instead of just a chosen few. Valerie came all the way down here to be here for you, and you’ve practically ignored her since she arrived.”
Carolyn is advising Eden not to push people away just because they aren’t already close, that sometimes that person you’re close to (*cough*, Bonnie) isn’t going to be there for you, and you need other options. Big mood. While I am a somewhat heavy door, as my friend Rebecca likes to call me, and I have a small number of close friends, I like to think I’ve tried to widen my support network sufficiently to get me through those difficult times. This is a crucial lesson to learn.
Really, that’s what Barnards books often remind us: adolescence is a time to learn important things, about ourselves and people in general, before we are out there, in the “real world” of adulthood, where such mistakes might be costlier. The ending of Goodbye, Perfect emphasizes this: Eden and Bonnie don’t speak, even after the latter returns to school to finish her GCSEs. Eden moves on, away from her school and into the next chapter of her life. There is no touching reunion, no make-up scene, and very little closure in the sense of learning how Bonnie deals with this trauma—because it isn’t her story. And, as Eden gradually starts realizing by the end of the book, that isn’t Eden’s story either. Her story isn’t, “I was the best friend of someone who ran off with her teacher,” but rather, “I am my own person who is pursuing a love of plants and a future for myself.”
It can be hard to remember that we are our own people, and not people in someone else’s story.
Goodbye, Perfect certainly has the trademark easy readability that I love about Barnard’s writing. It didn’t quite inspire for me the same emotional highs and lows that Beautiful Broken Things or A Quiet Kind of Thunder did. Those books were phenomenal, and it isn’t this book’s fault if I liked it a little less in comparison to those two. It was still a lot of fun to read, and I love the characterization and dilemmas.
This one of those tales that have percolated down through culture but that most of us have never actually read. I assigned it as a short reading assignment for my sixth form English class, something we could cut our teeth on while we start looking at the possibilities for texts to study this year. They were all familiar with the general idea, though I was surprised to find out that one of them was surprised that Jekyll and Hyde were the same person!
Oh, yeah, oops … spoilers.
Anyway, this is a lovely psychological thriller packaged up in the gloomy philosophical meditations indigenous to Victorian London. Dr Jekyll is a “good man”, in the sense that he is generally an upstanding member of the community, with patients who respect him and friends who look up to him. Yet he yearns for something more, for the ability to give into his vices without all the nasty consequences such a thing would entail. So he turns to science … and science turns on him.
One thing I didn’t realize prior to reading the book is the central role of Utterson as narrator. It’s true that Jekyll predominates in the last act, but for most of the book, Utterson is the main character, observing the actions of Jekyll and Hyde from afar. This is more effective than telling the story purely from Jekyll’s point of view. He gets his chance to be an unreliable narrator towards the end, but Utterson provides a sense of objectivity that Jekyll necessarily can’t. As an outsider, and a layperson, Utterson is the Victorian everyman who can be simultaneously fascinated and disgusted by the mysterious Mr Hyde and his ambiguous connection to Dr Jekyll.
I love how Stevenson puts us through the paces with Utterson as he considers all the possible explanations for the Hyde/Jekyll connection. This is probably just a sign of how much television has gotten to me in my senescence now that I’m 24, but I can imagine this as a short miniseries. (I’m aware numerous films and television adaptations exist, including quite recent efforts, but I’m thinking of something a little more faithful to the plot.) The pacing is pitch-perfect, with Stevenson drawing out the mystery until we can bear it no longer. As Jekyll’s star seems to wax and then wane, Utterson becomes impatient. He seeks Jekyll out, only to be rebuffed at every turn.
The big pay-off comes after the shift in narrator, though, and Jekyll finally explains his reasons for transforming into Hyde. This book is just such a nice, neat bundle of Victorian attitudes towards criminology, science, and philosophy. Hyde’s physical appearance is that of the grotesque, atavistic criminal: shorter in stature, his skull so obviously deformed in all the usual “criminal” ways. The very idea of a potion that could effect such a transformation, though obviously fanciful, plays on the limitless sense of potential prevalent throughout educated people in an era of tumultuous scientific discovery and publication. Finally, Jekyll’s chilling, selfish reasons for undertaking this project speak volumes about Victorian obsessions with morality, with the problems of good and evil and how to control one’s darker impulses.
I can see how this would be a chilling tale in its time, and it remains a chilling tale to this day. Stevenson challenges the idea that there are “good” people and “bad” people, contending instead that we all have evil within us, and that we would very much like to let it out once in a while. This is a morality tale of the dangers of combining moral hubris with scientific hubris. In an era where the possibilities of science suddenly seemed limitless—electricity could bring the dead back to life, the very age of the Earth was in question—Stevenson explored the possibility of using science to suss out morality. The consequences, for Jekyll, are an indictment against such meddling. By giving into his impulses to let his evil side roam free, Jekyll breaks down the barriers that keep those impulses in check, letting Hyde take over more and more often until it becomes impossible to keep him contained.
The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is a classic and timeless tale that speaks volumes about the society of its time while still touching similar fears and ideas in the souls of the present. This is one of Stevenson’s most well-known works, and having finally read it after absorbing its cultural echoes all my life, I understand why.
Oh, yeah, oops … spoilers.
Anyway, this is a lovely psychological thriller packaged up in the gloomy philosophical meditations indigenous to Victorian London. Dr Jekyll is a “good man”, in the sense that he is generally an upstanding member of the community, with patients who respect him and friends who look up to him. Yet he yearns for something more, for the ability to give into his vices without all the nasty consequences such a thing would entail. So he turns to science … and science turns on him.
One thing I didn’t realize prior to reading the book is the central role of Utterson as narrator. It’s true that Jekyll predominates in the last act, but for most of the book, Utterson is the main character, observing the actions of Jekyll and Hyde from afar. This is more effective than telling the story purely from Jekyll’s point of view. He gets his chance to be an unreliable narrator towards the end, but Utterson provides a sense of objectivity that Jekyll necessarily can’t. As an outsider, and a layperson, Utterson is the Victorian everyman who can be simultaneously fascinated and disgusted by the mysterious Mr Hyde and his ambiguous connection to Dr Jekyll.
I love how Stevenson puts us through the paces with Utterson as he considers all the possible explanations for the Hyde/Jekyll connection. This is probably just a sign of how much television has gotten to me in my senescence now that I’m 24, but I can imagine this as a short miniseries. (I’m aware numerous films and television adaptations exist, including quite recent efforts, but I’m thinking of something a little more faithful to the plot.) The pacing is pitch-perfect, with Stevenson drawing out the mystery until we can bear it no longer. As Jekyll’s star seems to wax and then wane, Utterson becomes impatient. He seeks Jekyll out, only to be rebuffed at every turn.
The big pay-off comes after the shift in narrator, though, and Jekyll finally explains his reasons for transforming into Hyde. This book is just such a nice, neat bundle of Victorian attitudes towards criminology, science, and philosophy. Hyde’s physical appearance is that of the grotesque, atavistic criminal: shorter in stature, his skull so obviously deformed in all the usual “criminal” ways. The very idea of a potion that could effect such a transformation, though obviously fanciful, plays on the limitless sense of potential prevalent throughout educated people in an era of tumultuous scientific discovery and publication. Finally, Jekyll’s chilling, selfish reasons for undertaking this project speak volumes about Victorian obsessions with morality, with the problems of good and evil and how to control one’s darker impulses.
I can see how this would be a chilling tale in its time, and it remains a chilling tale to this day. Stevenson challenges the idea that there are “good” people and “bad” people, contending instead that we all have evil within us, and that we would very much like to let it out once in a while. This is a morality tale of the dangers of combining moral hubris with scientific hubris. In an era where the possibilities of science suddenly seemed limitless—electricity could bring the dead back to life, the very age of the Earth was in question—Stevenson explored the possibility of using science to suss out morality. The consequences, for Jekyll, are an indictment against such meddling. By giving into his impulses to let his evil side roam free, Jekyll breaks down the barriers that keep those impulses in check, letting Hyde take over more and more often until it becomes impossible to keep him contained.
The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is a classic and timeless tale that speaks volumes about the society of its time while still touching similar fears and ideas in the souls of the present. This is one of Stevenson’s most well-known works, and having finally read it after absorbing its cultural echoes all my life, I understand why.
For a while now I’ve been morbidly fascinated by Doomsday Preppers. I’ll stick an episode on in the background (it’s on Netflix, at least here in Canada) while eating dinner or doing something else. While it’s good to be prepared for emergencies, the preppers and survivalists featured in the show take this idea to extremes that are equal parts fascinating and horrifying (especially when this obsession ultimately affects a loved one or children). And, of course, their disaster scenario of choice is usually so far-fetched as to be unbelievable … yet there is always that lingering question of, if such a breakdown of society occurred, would they really fare as well as they believe?
I know I’d be screwed….
Moon of the Crusted Snow is technically a post-apocalyptic novel, but only in the same sense that Trail of Lightning, by Rebecca Roanhorse, is post-apocalyptic. Waubgeshig Rice makes this point clear when an elder explains, “Our world isn’t ending. It already ended. It ended when the Zhaagnaash [white people] came into our original home down south on that bay and took it from us.” This is a key point to remember in reading this novel: yes, this is a survival story, but within the wider context in that the story of Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island has been a survival story ever since Contact.
Set in a fictional Anishnaabe community in northern Ontario, Moon of the Crusted Snow chronicles the community’s response to the loss of hydro and food deliveries following an unspecified event in the south. The main character, Evan Whitesky, is a fairly solid member of the community. He has been stockpiling meat for the winter, for he prefers it to the expensive Northern store food, and he does well during the crisis. He keeps his head on the shoulders and helps the councillors and chief maintain order and keep people safe, at least at first. But as the cold winter continues, and a disruptive element from the south arrives, Evan’s dreams become more troubling, and he wonders if his community can keep it together until the spring thaw.
Look, I’m a settler, so it’s not my lane to comment on the portrayal of the Anishnaabe characters or their community in this book. This is Rice’s own people/heritage here, bolstered by his conversations with elders and with people who have lived in even more remote communities. I’ve been to a remote community, and I’m familiar with some of the conditions described here from those visits and from what I hear in media and my students who come from those places. Nevertheless, it’s not what I know. It’s not, indeed, what most Canadians know. For settler readers, this book will hopefully be somewhat eye-opening to the realities of life on a reserve.
What can I comment on? I would say this is a very well-crafted suspense novel. Rice starts with the quiet seclusion of Gaawaandagkoong First Nation: the book opens with Evan hunting by himself in the bush, quietly killing and then butchering a bull moose. This quiet shades into the quiet that comes when the hum of power lines and the buzz of telecommunications falls silent. Then the quiet of a winter backed by people desperately trying to conserve food and power, even as the dead begin to mount. Then, atop all of this, looms the spectre of the wendigo and the white man hungry not just for food, but for power…. The question isn’t just who survives this winter but how and whether or not they can live with themselves and their decisions.
I really like the protagonist. I can’t identify much with him: I’m not a parent, not a hunter or outdoorsman of any kind, definitely not as practical as him. Nevertheless, like I said above, he’s solid. He makes decisions based on necessity but also compassion. He’s somewhat of a leader but also happy to back up others—and one of the ways in which Evan grows in this novel is discovering that capacity for leadership. I love the depiction of his loving relationship with his partner, Nicole, and the way they are raising a family together, keeping their traditions alive and contributing to their community. For a novel that is ultimately about survival in extremes, Moon of the Crusted Snow has many positive depictions of everyday Indigenous success and resilience.
I don’t have any complaints about the length (which is fairly short for a novel). It works well; the pacing is great. My enjoyment of the ending is marred only by the context of reading it in an emergency room (I wasn’t the one ill), so I was tired and not in a great mood, and this book is not a mood-lifter by any means. My other main criticism would be that Rice’s prose tends towards purple at times; I’m not a huge fan of his descriptive or narrative style. This is largely what prevents me from cheering on the book as much as others might: I liked the story, the plot, the characters, but the writing itself leaves me lukewarm.
Overall, definitely recommended, especially if these types of survival stories are more your thing. You want to be in the right mindset to read this one. I loved it for what it is, and it’s a powerful story. But I’m curious to see if Rice’s other work, or future work, might be even better for me.
I know I’d be screwed….
Moon of the Crusted Snow is technically a post-apocalyptic novel, but only in the same sense that Trail of Lightning, by Rebecca Roanhorse, is post-apocalyptic. Waubgeshig Rice makes this point clear when an elder explains, “Our world isn’t ending. It already ended. It ended when the Zhaagnaash [white people] came into our original home down south on that bay and took it from us.” This is a key point to remember in reading this novel: yes, this is a survival story, but within the wider context in that the story of Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island has been a survival story ever since Contact.
Set in a fictional Anishnaabe community in northern Ontario, Moon of the Crusted Snow chronicles the community’s response to the loss of hydro and food deliveries following an unspecified event in the south. The main character, Evan Whitesky, is a fairly solid member of the community. He has been stockpiling meat for the winter, for he prefers it to the expensive Northern store food, and he does well during the crisis. He keeps his head on the shoulders and helps the councillors and chief maintain order and keep people safe, at least at first. But as the cold winter continues, and a disruptive element from the south arrives, Evan’s dreams become more troubling, and he wonders if his community can keep it together until the spring thaw.
Look, I’m a settler, so it’s not my lane to comment on the portrayal of the Anishnaabe characters or their community in this book. This is Rice’s own people/heritage here, bolstered by his conversations with elders and with people who have lived in even more remote communities. I’ve been to a remote community, and I’m familiar with some of the conditions described here from those visits and from what I hear in media and my students who come from those places. Nevertheless, it’s not what I know. It’s not, indeed, what most Canadians know. For settler readers, this book will hopefully be somewhat eye-opening to the realities of life on a reserve.
What can I comment on? I would say this is a very well-crafted suspense novel. Rice starts with the quiet seclusion of Gaawaandagkoong First Nation: the book opens with Evan hunting by himself in the bush, quietly killing and then butchering a bull moose. This quiet shades into the quiet that comes when the hum of power lines and the buzz of telecommunications falls silent. Then the quiet of a winter backed by people desperately trying to conserve food and power, even as the dead begin to mount. Then, atop all of this, looms the spectre of the wendigo and the white man hungry not just for food, but for power…. The question isn’t just who survives this winter but how and whether or not they can live with themselves and their decisions.
I really like the protagonist. I can’t identify much with him: I’m not a parent, not a hunter or outdoorsman of any kind, definitely not as practical as him. Nevertheless, like I said above, he’s solid. He makes decisions based on necessity but also compassion. He’s somewhat of a leader but also happy to back up others—and one of the ways in which Evan grows in this novel is discovering that capacity for leadership. I love the depiction of his loving relationship with his partner, Nicole, and the way they are raising a family together, keeping their traditions alive and contributing to their community. For a novel that is ultimately about survival in extremes, Moon of the Crusted Snow has many positive depictions of everyday Indigenous success and resilience.
I don’t have any complaints about the length (which is fairly short for a novel). It works well; the pacing is great. My enjoyment of the ending is marred only by the context of reading it in an emergency room (I wasn’t the one ill), so I was tired and not in a great mood, and this book is not a mood-lifter by any means. My other main criticism would be that Rice’s prose tends towards purple at times; I’m not a huge fan of his descriptive or narrative style. This is largely what prevents me from cheering on the book as much as others might: I liked the story, the plot, the characters, but the writing itself leaves me lukewarm.
Overall, definitely recommended, especially if these types of survival stories are more your thing. You want to be in the right mindset to read this one. I loved it for what it is, and it’s a powerful story. But I’m curious to see if Rice’s other work, or future work, might be even better for me.
You all might remember how I raved about the Linesman series of books two years ago (OMG, HAS IT REALLY BEEN THAT LONG ALREADY?). That series from sister act S.K. Dunstall literally reinvigorated my flagging love of space opera, no word of a lie. Go read my reviews for more on that.
Stars Uncharted is a new offering in a new universe, and it too is brilliant in so many ways. Far more ensemble in its casting, Dunstall in this case follows two main protagonists: Nika Rik Terri is a skilled body modder (one of the best of the best) who suddenly has to go on the run from some bad dudes; Josune Arriola is living under an assumed identity after the exploration ship she has lived on for years is destroyed. Their stories intersect quickly and forcefully as they and their newfound allies try to escape from a corporation that needs to silence them, quickly, for the information they couldn’t help but find.
Lots of really cool worldbuilding happening here. As with their previous series, Dunstall has a knack for giving us just enough exposition to help without bogging us down. This is a galaxy run by corporations rather than governments. Nullspace (like hyperspace, I guess) is the main way of jumping around systems, but it’s a touchy technology that requires calibration. Modding one’s body is commonplace enough, if one can afford it, but it too has elements of art in addition to science. And resources remain king: the main plot McGuffin is about finding the location of “Goberling’s lode”, a source of transuranic elements.
Dunstall knows how to open a book with a bang. They waste little time setting anything up. In the case of both viewpoint characters, things go wrong pretty quickly, and from that point out, they have little opportunity to rest or regroup. This works well for almost the entire book. Plans and allegiances shift frequently. I admire that Dunstall isn’t afraid to set something up only for it to go awry, turn pear-shaped, and turn out entirely differently. Less confident or less experienced authors will often create a much more linear plot. Instead, Dunstall is happy to make us think the characters will zig one way, until a new wrinkle gets introduced and they zag instead.
I say this works well for “almost” the entire book because—here’s where you have to lean close while I whisper my dirty fan-boy secret opinion—I’m not a huge fan of this ending. Specifically, at some point around chapter 30 or so, the pacing just went bananas. Too many things began happening at once, too many characters cycling around, people being captured and then being released and then … yeah. Just a lot to keep track of, at least for me, and the book overall felt like it had lost some of the focus it had in the earlier parts of the story. Moreover, I had long ago figured out the twist around Roystan’s identity, and I was just kind of impatient for Nika to figure it out and then reveal it to the others.
Similarly, other elements of Stars Uncharted felt somewhat repetitive or could have been tweaked, in my opinion. The dramatic irony of Snow not knowing Nika’s true identity (it is so obvious, dude), while he keeps mentioning her name, gets old fast. Same with the constant warnings that Josune or Roystan or whoever needs to get into a modding tank ASAP, only for this to get drawn out far longer than it probably should be. At some point, I just found myself wishing for the end … and that’s never something I like in a novel.
Keep in mind, too, that I started this book with high expectations and overall it met them from page one. I curled up on my couch under a blanket on a Saturday night and read the entire first half of Stars Uncharted then and there in one sitting, because I was excited and, more importantly, it was good. It was like a drug, which is my favourite experience when reading a book.
Also, don’t think that just because the ending let me down somewhat, I didn’t enjoy the book overall. I loved most of the characters and their relationships. In particular, I think Nika was my favourite. I liked how she had to set aside a lot of her comforts and her habits in order to make do with this new, imperfect life she was living on the run. Perhaps some of my frustration with the pacing at the end is that, for the reasons of plot and conflict, we never had enough time for these characters to breathe and expand as much as I would like. I think I wanted a bit more “calm before the storm” than Dunstall ever manages to provide … it reminds me of Serenity, which, while an incredible science-fiction movie when viewed as a standalone, is a disappointing Firefly story, if that makes any sense (but that’s a whole other essay).
In the end, Stars Uncharted doesn’t do it for me the way Linesman and its sequels did. There isn’t that same mystery that the alien ship in the Linesman series offers us. The resolution isn’t as good for me. But this is all kind of like saying that the chocolate ice cream isn’t as satisfying as the locally-made chocolate caramel gelato I have in my freezer. It’s still chocolate ice cream, after all.
Stars Uncharted is a new offering in a new universe, and it too is brilliant in so many ways. Far more ensemble in its casting, Dunstall in this case follows two main protagonists: Nika Rik Terri is a skilled body modder (one of the best of the best) who suddenly has to go on the run from some bad dudes; Josune Arriola is living under an assumed identity after the exploration ship she has lived on for years is destroyed. Their stories intersect quickly and forcefully as they and their newfound allies try to escape from a corporation that needs to silence them, quickly, for the information they couldn’t help but find.
Lots of really cool worldbuilding happening here. As with their previous series, Dunstall has a knack for giving us just enough exposition to help without bogging us down. This is a galaxy run by corporations rather than governments. Nullspace (like hyperspace, I guess) is the main way of jumping around systems, but it’s a touchy technology that requires calibration. Modding one’s body is commonplace enough, if one can afford it, but it too has elements of art in addition to science. And resources remain king: the main plot McGuffin is about finding the location of “Goberling’s lode”, a source of transuranic elements.
Dunstall knows how to open a book with a bang. They waste little time setting anything up. In the case of both viewpoint characters, things go wrong pretty quickly, and from that point out, they have little opportunity to rest or regroup. This works well for almost the entire book. Plans and allegiances shift frequently. I admire that Dunstall isn’t afraid to set something up only for it to go awry, turn pear-shaped, and turn out entirely differently. Less confident or less experienced authors will often create a much more linear plot. Instead, Dunstall is happy to make us think the characters will zig one way, until a new wrinkle gets introduced and they zag instead.
I say this works well for “almost” the entire book because—here’s where you have to lean close while I whisper my dirty fan-boy secret opinion—I’m not a huge fan of this ending. Specifically, at some point around chapter 30 or so, the pacing just went bananas. Too many things began happening at once, too many characters cycling around, people being captured and then being released and then … yeah. Just a lot to keep track of, at least for me, and the book overall felt like it had lost some of the focus it had in the earlier parts of the story. Moreover, I had long ago figured out the twist around Roystan’s identity, and I was just kind of impatient for Nika to figure it out and then reveal it to the others.
Similarly, other elements of Stars Uncharted felt somewhat repetitive or could have been tweaked, in my opinion. The dramatic irony of Snow not knowing Nika’s true identity (it is so obvious, dude), while he keeps mentioning her name, gets old fast. Same with the constant warnings that Josune or Roystan or whoever needs to get into a modding tank ASAP, only for this to get drawn out far longer than it probably should be. At some point, I just found myself wishing for the end … and that’s never something I like in a novel.
Keep in mind, too, that I started this book with high expectations and overall it met them from page one. I curled up on my couch under a blanket on a Saturday night and read the entire first half of Stars Uncharted then and there in one sitting, because I was excited and, more importantly, it was good. It was like a drug, which is my favourite experience when reading a book.
Also, don’t think that just because the ending let me down somewhat, I didn’t enjoy the book overall. I loved most of the characters and their relationships. In particular, I think Nika was my favourite. I liked how she had to set aside a lot of her comforts and her habits in order to make do with this new, imperfect life she was living on the run. Perhaps some of my frustration with the pacing at the end is that, for the reasons of plot and conflict, we never had enough time for these characters to breathe and expand as much as I would like. I think I wanted a bit more “calm before the storm” than Dunstall ever manages to provide … it reminds me of Serenity, which, while an incredible science-fiction movie when viewed as a standalone, is a disappointing Firefly story, if that makes any sense (but that’s a whole other essay).
In the end, Stars Uncharted doesn’t do it for me the way Linesman and its sequels did. There isn’t that same mystery that the alien ship in the Linesman series offers us. The resolution isn’t as good for me. But this is all kind of like saying that the chocolate ice cream isn’t as satisfying as the locally-made chocolate caramel gelato I have in my freezer. It’s still chocolate ice cream, after all.
In what might be one of the most efficient stories in the series, The Diversion delivers an emotionally intense blow to the Animorphs as Applegate hammers home to her readers that nothing will ever be the same.
In Tobias’ last solo turn as narrator, we learn that the Yeerks have finally clued into the possibility that these Andalite bandits are actually humans. So they’ve begun a massive project of sifting through DNA samples, trying to find matches that include bits of animal DNA as well. When the Animorphs raid the lab where they believe this is happening, they discover that they might be too late: the Yeerks have already started finding matches. So now it’s a race against the clock to save their families—but if they do that, then it means coming clean about what they have done these past years, and it means everyone, not just Marco, will have to accept a life on the run.
In some ways, this is a book that could only have been told from Tobias’ perspective.
Firstly, it needs to be from Tobias’ perspective in order to include his parent, his mother, Loren, whom we learned about (and actually met) back in The Andalite Chronicles but whose status has been unknown for a long time. Now Tobias has found her, and he makes the bold move of contacting her in order to save her from the Yeerks. This is a monumental moment for Tobias, because up until now, his only human companions have been the other Animorphs. The book opens with a touching scene between Tobias and Rachel after Tobias loses a hunt to a rattlesnake interloper: Rachel brings him a burger, which he appreciates despite the ding to his dignity it entails. Applegate and ghostwriter Lisa Harkrader simultaneously show us Rachel and Tobias’ budding relationship while reminding us of how much Tobias has adapted to life as a red-tailed hawk. But with his mother back in the picture, Tobias suddenly has this other connection—and more to lose.
Secondly, Tobias’ estrangement from both his birth family as well as the family members who “cared” for him while he was a human boy makes his perspective quite unique. This would be such a different book if it were from Jake’s perspective. We get enough, through the dialogue, to learn how torn up Jake feels about what he perceives as bad calls on his part: rushing in to the lab, and it’s a disaster; moving to move their parents too slowly, and it’s a disaster. Tobias finally realizes that Jake isn’t any stronger or better at this than the rest of them. Jake, too, is just a scared boy struggling to keep it together. Tobias has always been an interesting element of the Animorph dynamic for this reason: as an outsider even when he was human, his grasp of the others’ characters hasn’t always been accurate. And he has still kind of been the outsider Animorph, the nothlit, and it’s really fascinating to see how that colours and informs his reactions to the others.
The Diversion also highlights something that, in my opinion, Applegate often underplayed up until this point: how fucking terrifying Visser One can be when he wants. Hear me out. Up until now, Visser One has often come across as a comical kind of antagonist. He reminds me a little of Skeletor. Now and again, we’d get a glimpse of the evil within, the genius mastermind who is ready to take on Earth and then take the Earth. For the most part, though, in his direct encounters with the Animorphs, there has always been this element of bumbling villain that lets them defeat him.
But here, in this book, we finally understand how screwed the Animorphs would have been earlier in the series had Visser One discovered their identities. The moment he figures out they might be human, he turns all these resources onto a clever project to unmask them—and he basically succeeds. The Animorphs have been lucky up to this point.
Running through the entire story, of course, is the constant reminder that we’re coming up on the final battle. I think even the Animorphs themselves recognize it now. Visser One’s promotion means he has the authority to prosecute an open invasion. The gloves are coming off. The Animorphs are being backed into a corner. Even the little things, like giving Loren morphing ability, show us how all the rules that previously held in this series are starting to fall away.
This is a fantastic book, not just for what it is by itself, but for the role it plays within the series. It isn’t filler (which is the worst); it simultaneously manages to set up and hint at the bigger events to come while still delivering a great story on its own merit.
Next time, the Animorphs have to make more hard choices about how they can continue to protect this planet.
My reviews of Animorphs:
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In Tobias’ last solo turn as narrator, we learn that the Yeerks have finally clued into the possibility that these Andalite bandits are actually humans. So they’ve begun a massive project of sifting through DNA samples, trying to find matches that include bits of animal DNA as well. When the Animorphs raid the lab where they believe this is happening, they discover that they might be too late: the Yeerks have already started finding matches. So now it’s a race against the clock to save their families—but if they do that, then it means coming clean about what they have done these past years, and it means everyone, not just Marco, will have to accept a life on the run.
In some ways, this is a book that could only have been told from Tobias’ perspective.
Firstly, it needs to be from Tobias’ perspective in order to include his parent, his mother, Loren, whom we learned about (and actually met) back in The Andalite Chronicles but whose status has been unknown for a long time. Now Tobias has found her, and he makes the bold move of contacting her in order to save her from the Yeerks. This is a monumental moment for Tobias, because up until now, his only human companions have been the other Animorphs. The book opens with a touching scene between Tobias and Rachel after Tobias loses a hunt to a rattlesnake interloper: Rachel brings him a burger, which he appreciates despite the ding to his dignity it entails. Applegate and ghostwriter Lisa Harkrader simultaneously show us Rachel and Tobias’ budding relationship while reminding us of how much Tobias has adapted to life as a red-tailed hawk. But with his mother back in the picture, Tobias suddenly has this other connection—and more to lose.
Secondly, Tobias’ estrangement from both his birth family as well as the family members who “cared” for him while he was a human boy makes his perspective quite unique. This would be such a different book if it were from Jake’s perspective. We get enough, through the dialogue, to learn how torn up Jake feels about what he perceives as bad calls on his part: rushing in to the lab, and it’s a disaster; moving to move their parents too slowly, and it’s a disaster. Tobias finally realizes that Jake isn’t any stronger or better at this than the rest of them. Jake, too, is just a scared boy struggling to keep it together. Tobias has always been an interesting element of the Animorph dynamic for this reason: as an outsider even when he was human, his grasp of the others’ characters hasn’t always been accurate. And he has still kind of been the outsider Animorph, the nothlit, and it’s really fascinating to see how that colours and informs his reactions to the others.
The Diversion also highlights something that, in my opinion, Applegate often underplayed up until this point: how fucking terrifying Visser One can be when he wants. Hear me out. Up until now, Visser One has often come across as a comical kind of antagonist. He reminds me a little of Skeletor. Now and again, we’d get a glimpse of the evil within, the genius mastermind who is ready to take on Earth and then take the Earth. For the most part, though, in his direct encounters with the Animorphs, there has always been this element of bumbling villain that lets them defeat him.
But here, in this book, we finally understand how screwed the Animorphs would have been earlier in the series had Visser One discovered their identities. The moment he figures out they might be human, he turns all these resources onto a clever project to unmask them—and he basically succeeds. The Animorphs have been lucky up to this point.
Running through the entire story, of course, is the constant reminder that we’re coming up on the final battle. I think even the Animorphs themselves recognize it now. Visser One’s promotion means he has the authority to prosecute an open invasion. The gloves are coming off. The Animorphs are being backed into a corner. Even the little things, like giving Loren morphing ability, show us how all the rules that previously held in this series are starting to fall away.
This is a fantastic book, not just for what it is by itself, but for the role it plays within the series. It isn’t filler (which is the worst); it simultaneously manages to set up and hint at the bigger events to come while still delivering a great story on its own merit.
Next time, the Animorphs have to make more hard choices about how they can continue to protect this planet.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #48: The Return | #50: The Ultimate →
Last Cassie book is best Cassie book.
#50: The Ultimate is, quite simply, vicious. In its final arc the Animorphs series discards any pretense that this is anything less than a series about children being at war. Cassie, Jake, and the other Animorphs are the de facto leaders of a resistance comprising some free Hork Bajir, pacifistic Chee, and their parents (and maybe a peaceful group of Yeerks, but we haven’t heard from them lately). With their real identities now known to Visser One, the Animorphs are in hiding and feeling the heat. So they decide the only way to buy themselves, and therefore humanity, more time is to expand their ranks….
Cassie is the ideal narrator for the moral qualms in this book. Are the Animorphs doing the right thing by sharing morphing ability? Are they doing the right thing by putting targets on more childrens’ backs? In the end, they decide to side-step these ethical quandaries by simply saying: we don’t have time to debate this. It’s do or die. Thus Applegate and her ghostwriter demonstrate the brutal calculus that is war.
My friend Julie says it best when she says that “cracks are also starting to show” in the Animorphs’ unity. One of this series’ strengths has always been the diversity of its cast, and I don’t mean that in terms of their ethnicities. Each Animorph has always had distinctive personality traits that inform their decisions, and each of them has grown in different ways over the series. Cassie, while always kind and compassionate, has nevertheless seen her nascent adolescent sense of right and wrong tempered by the morally grey world we inhabit. The Ultimate proves this, well, ultimately: she prevents Jake from killing Tom, allowing the latter to escape with the morphing cube. Rather than sacrificing the few for the many, Cassie privileges her friend’s soul (as she might put it) at the expense of sacrificing a huge tactical asset. Jake resents Cassie, both for making this choice for everyone, and also perhaps for assuming the role of moral compass when he might prefer that she abdicate it and let them sink deeper into oblivion.
For, you see, Jake has decided that he’s not going to come back from this. It’s there in his interactions with Cassie. And who can blame him? His parents have been taken hostage. His brother has long been a hostage, and he was resigned to the fact he would have to kill Tom. And now the generalship of this entire war has been foisted upon him. It’s a heavy burden. And so Jake has decided he will take up that mantle, and he will do whatever needs to be done, but he’s not interested in thinking about a future beyond this war.
This is the ultimate tragedy happening to the Animorphs. It isn’t the potential loss of life, the disruption of their families’ lives, etc. It’s the simple fact that they have reached an event horizon of sorts. Once they cross this horizon, they won’t be able to see a way back. How can they possibly win against the Yeerks? They can only keep resisting, and resisting—what a dreary, dangerous prospect. The Ultimate is brutal not because of its battle scenes, or the Animorphs’ interactions with their new recruits, or Tom and Jake’s conversations: it’s brutal because there is no shred of hope here. There is no suggestion of light at the end of the tunnel. As far as the events in this book suggest, the Animorphs aren’t even beginning to think about taking the war to the Visser and kicking Yeerk butt once and for all. They’re fighting defense, and they’re losing.
And they know it.
Next time, the Animorphs have to foil another Yeerk plot, but it might cost them their secrecy. But is that even a bad thing?
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #49: The Diversion | #51: The Absolute →
#50: The Ultimate is, quite simply, vicious. In its final arc the Animorphs series discards any pretense that this is anything less than a series about children being at war. Cassie, Jake, and the other Animorphs are the de facto leaders of a resistance comprising some free Hork Bajir, pacifistic Chee, and their parents (and maybe a peaceful group of Yeerks, but we haven’t heard from them lately). With their real identities now known to Visser One, the Animorphs are in hiding and feeling the heat. So they decide the only way to buy themselves, and therefore humanity, more time is to expand their ranks….
Cassie is the ideal narrator for the moral qualms in this book. Are the Animorphs doing the right thing by sharing morphing ability? Are they doing the right thing by putting targets on more childrens’ backs? In the end, they decide to side-step these ethical quandaries by simply saying: we don’t have time to debate this. It’s do or die. Thus Applegate and her ghostwriter demonstrate the brutal calculus that is war.
My friend Julie says it best when she says that “cracks are also starting to show” in the Animorphs’ unity. One of this series’ strengths has always been the diversity of its cast, and I don’t mean that in terms of their ethnicities. Each Animorph has always had distinctive personality traits that inform their decisions, and each of them has grown in different ways over the series. Cassie, while always kind and compassionate, has nevertheless seen her nascent adolescent sense of right and wrong tempered by the morally grey world we inhabit. The Ultimate proves this, well, ultimately: she prevents Jake from killing Tom, allowing the latter to escape with the morphing cube. Rather than sacrificing the few for the many, Cassie privileges her friend’s soul (as she might put it) at the expense of sacrificing a huge tactical asset. Jake resents Cassie, both for making this choice for everyone, and also perhaps for assuming the role of moral compass when he might prefer that she abdicate it and let them sink deeper into oblivion.
For, you see, Jake has decided that he’s not going to come back from this. It’s there in his interactions with Cassie. And who can blame him? His parents have been taken hostage. His brother has long been a hostage, and he was resigned to the fact he would have to kill Tom. And now the generalship of this entire war has been foisted upon him. It’s a heavy burden. And so Jake has decided he will take up that mantle, and he will do whatever needs to be done, but he’s not interested in thinking about a future beyond this war.
This is the ultimate tragedy happening to the Animorphs. It isn’t the potential loss of life, the disruption of their families’ lives, etc. It’s the simple fact that they have reached an event horizon of sorts. Once they cross this horizon, they won’t be able to see a way back. How can they possibly win against the Yeerks? They can only keep resisting, and resisting—what a dreary, dangerous prospect. The Ultimate is brutal not because of its battle scenes, or the Animorphs’ interactions with their new recruits, or Tom and Jake’s conversations: it’s brutal because there is no shred of hope here. There is no suggestion of light at the end of the tunnel. As far as the events in this book suggest, the Animorphs aren’t even beginning to think about taking the war to the Visser and kicking Yeerk butt once and for all. They’re fighting defense, and they’re losing.
And they know it.
Next time, the Animorphs have to foil another Yeerk plot, but it might cost them their secrecy. But is that even a bad thing?
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #49: The Diversion | #51: The Absolute →