I finished this book in three hours. From page one, Larry Doyle creates an eerily familiar depiction of high school, specifically that moment when you look back during your graduation and realize you're finally free and have your whole life ahead of you--and it's scary.

Doyle's wit sets us off on a one-night odyssey that originates from the single question, "What if, instead of delivering an average graduation speech, the valedictorian head of the debate team confesses his love for the head cheerleader? What happens then?" Such a question has many answers, so Doyle takes a fresh path.

This is a book that reads like a movie. It's epic and cinematic and paced like it has scenes rather than chapters. Doyle smartly confines himself to a single night (with a short epilogue) and, with a few digressions, a single storyline. I've tried watching Superbad twice and couldn't get through it. This book succeeded for me where Superbad failed because, unlike that movie, this book employs an intelligent, honest-because-it-hurts sort of humour. Each sentence jabs at one's brain, dredging up specific memories of youth and high school.

I Love You, Beth Cooper could be, at first glance, a typical coming-of-age story about the nerdy smart guy who falls for the popular cheerleader (or for his construction of who the popular cheerleader is). To some extent, it is such a story. But it's not only such a story, and that isn't the aspect of this story that makes it awesome. Rather, it's the fact that in spite of employing such a major trope, the story is never trite, and it never tries to force a redeeming theme on the reader. Instead, anything and everything that could possibly go wrong for the protagonist does. And when things go right, they don't always go right in the way one would expect.

If you're seeking some sort of original umbrella wisdom on the truth about graduating high school and entering the world of adulthood, your mileage may vary with this book. But if you just want to be entertained, then I'll agree with Dave Barry's review: "I'm not saying it will make you laugh out loud. But I am saying that if it doesn't, something is wrong with you."

The historicity of Jesus Christ is one of the most controversial and interesting subjects of Christian scholarship. I am also particularly interested in the Council of Nicea in 325 C.E. and its curation of what would eventually become the New Testament. The Betrayal offers a fictional perspective on both, drawing on accumulated evidence to present an historical interpretation of the life and death of Jesus and the shaping of Christianity three centuries later. While its presentation of Jesus and the Church in such a stark, scholarly light is thought-provoking, it's to the detriment of the story, a fatal flaw in any work of fiction.

When it comes to historical fiction, it's easy for the author to claim that his or her research makes the book historically accurate. Bolstering those claims with notes, endnotes, and a bibliography exponentially increases the credibility of one's book--and I don't know about other readers, but I don't care enough to look into the research behind my fiction. Still, I do prefer accuracy, and it certainly helps in this case that the authors are archaeologists. Ultimately, it does not matter whether or not the Gears' depiction of the historical Jesus is accurate (after all, we'll never know). Instead, what matters is that their scenario presents a realistic alternative to the contradictory Biblical testimony. At this, I believe they succeed.

Of the two time periods in which The Betrayal takes place, I far prefer the later one. It concerns three monks--Barnabas, Zarathan, and Cyrus--and a washerwoman from their monastery--Kalay--who flee the monastery after the other monks are murdered. They're protecting books that the Council of Nicea has declared heretical, and Barnabas has an ulterior desire to locate a treasure known only as "the Pearl." We get a standard evasion/treasure quest plot with a wise old man (Barnabas), a soldier with a dark past (Cyrus), a whiny youngster (Zarathan), and a hauntingly beautiful yet capable woman (Kalay). I enjoyed these characters immensely, particularly Zarathan and Kalay. I wanted to kill Zarathan, and Kalay was just deliciously capable. Unfortunately, Barnabas and Cyrus were more two-dimensional, as were the villains.

The earlier time period, set around the time of Jesus' crucifixion, interested me less. Maybe it was the way it was narrated, but the events seemed dry, and I never really empathized with any of the characters or their dilemmas. Still, the Gears debunk a lot of the common stories associated with the crucifixion--Judas, Barrabas, etc.--and the resurrection.

In one respect, [a:Dan Brown|630|Dan Brown|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1206553442p2/630.jpg] trumps the Gears: he can write. [b:The Da Vinci Code|968|The Da Vinci Code (Robert Langdon, #2)|Dan Brown|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1233010738s/968.jpg|2982101] may have been of questionable historical accuracy, but at least it had a compelling story. While I liked The Betrayal's characterization, its plot left much to be desired, particularly the resolution. There's very little drama, most of it suspense created as we watch the pursuers close on our protagonists. Toward the end, as our protagonists try to locate the ambigiously-identified Pearl, we get treated to an increasingly esoteric conversation as to the meaning of various Hebrew words translated into Latin--oh joy. [b:The Name of the Rose|2519|The Name of the Rose (Everyman's Library)|Umberto Eco|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1161054059s/2519.jpg|3138328] this is not.

I praise The Betrayal for portraying a historical, human Jesus while simultaneously preserving his faith. This is not an anti-Christian or anti-Christianity novel. Rather, it expresses a possibility--the aim of any good work of fiction. I'd recommend this to anyone interested in Biblical scholarship, with the caveat that it's a little dry and slightly crispy. A little steak sauce will go nicely.

I won't lie: I plucked this book from the library shelf because it had a blurb from [a:Jim Butcher|10746|Jim Butcher|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1205261964p2/10746.jpg] on the cover. I was not disappointed.

Simon R. Green's created a wonderful milieu in the Nightside, a shady alterna-London where it's eternal night and its supernatural inhabitants fit the mood. His protagonist, John Taylor, is the perfect mix of capable and scary-dangerous. He's not quite as fun as Harry Dresden, but he's got a good sense of humour. In some ways, he also reminds me of the Doctor (but again, not quite).

This book embodies the term "page-turner." I started it this afternoon and finished it tonight. It's true that it's short, but it also packs a punch. Green starts off with a nice piece of action, segues into some exposition and character development, then plunges us into a non-stop mystery adventure that occurs in a single night.

At first I was worried the climax was going to let me down, but that only turned out to be the precursor to the climax. In the end, the mystery component of The Unnatural Inquirer was satisfactory. Not excellent, but good. My least favourite part of the book (and what I suspect I'll dislike about this series in general) is the overabundance of heavy magical types and their impressive array of paranoid powers. It seems like everywhere you turn (i.e., every second page) there's a new flavour of Power hanging around, and Taylor just waves his hand and beats them some way. I realize that's the point of the Nightside, but Green overemphasizes it so it borders on camp.

I'm sure I would have appreciated this book more if I read its seven predecessors. However, don't let that stop you from delving into The Unnatural Inquirer like I almost did--you'll be missing out. Now, however, I'm going back to the beginning so I can get a better sense of John Taylor's history.

Definitely recommend for any fans of urban fantasy private investigator mysteries.

International political thrillers aren't always my cup of tea, but this book was just bad. I don't pretend to hold thrillers to the same standards as great works of art, but one has to draw the line somewhere. David Baldacci's writing isn't the worst I've seen, but it's not great. More worrisome, however, is the absence of an interesting plot or fascinating characters.

The Whole Truth concerns a plot by the head of an arms contractor, Nicolas Creel, to plunge the world into a new Cold War so he can sell more defence contracts to major world powers. He enlists the aid of a PM ("perception management") guru, Dick Pender. Together, he and Pender create a global campaign of fear and terror using a combination of misdirection and blatant lies marketed as the Truth.

On the side of the good guys we've got Shaw, a super-secret spy/assassin; and Katie James, an ex-alcoholic burned out newspaper reporter with a traumatic past. Shaw gets engaged near the beginning of the book, to a super-smart chick named Anna Fischer, but she gets killed by the bad guys. And I think that's where my apathy toward The Whole Truth began its inexorable descent toward dislike.

Very little about the plot is convincing enough to maintain suspension of disbelief. Shaw works for yet another shady international police organization that does the really dark and dirty wetwork that Interpol and the CIA don't want to do or are too incompetent to do. However, said organization is incredibly incompetent in its own right--Baldacci uses them as a scapegoat whenever he needs something to go wrong to put Shaw in peril. Then, toward the end of the book, they have to work with the FBI to arrest Creel on his yacht parked in Italian waters--what?

Baldacci also has a very grating way of describing how new media, such as the Internet and its associated cornucopia of devices, aids Pender and Creel in disseminating their PM campaign. Phrases such as "electronically 'piled on'" are ... well, corny. I'm biased, coming from a generation that lives and breathes the Internet, but Baldacci's descriptions are clunky. Likewise, he relies a great deal on handwaving tracking technology in whatever direction he requires for the plot--sometimes tracking works, other times it doesn't. This is perhaps my least favourite aspect of contemporary thrillers: the inconsistent use of technology as a plot device.

To be fair, there are a couple of interesting moments, but they are few and far between. And the one-dimensional characters don't help. It seems like our protagonists are contractually-obligated to have a "troubled past." I don't see why I'm supposed to like Katie James, and Baldacci's constant reminders that she was an alcoholic made me wonder if there were any other defining characteristics about this person. Shaw, on the other hand, is supposed to be unremarkable, yet he has "amazing eyes." And can apparently survive multiple bullet wounds without blinking. About the only character I actually liked was Anna Fischer, and as I mentioned before, she gets killed off to give Shaw a revenge motive.

The Whole Truth tries too hard, and it shows. The plot and its characters are unrealistic; if Baldacci's writing were better, then maybe it would still be enjoyable. As it is, however, even fans of political thrillers can do better.

Anthologies are always a mixed bag. Often their individual stories will be compelling but not harmonious, making the entire book difficult to read as a whole. Other times, the stories will be harmonious but mediocre. The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2007 avoids both these pitfalls with a strong selection of stories that work well together. It was a pleasure to read.

Some highlights:

- "Best American Names of Television Programs Taken to Their Logical Conclusions" by Joe O'Neill
- "Rock the Junta" by Scott Carrier
- "What Is Your Dangerous Idea?" by the Edge Foundation
- "Selling the General" by Jennifer Egan
- "How to Tell Stories to Children" by Miranda July
- "All Aboard the Bloated Boat: Arguments in Favor of Barry Bonds" by Lee Klein
- Excerpts from [b:Darfur Diaries|97921|Darfur Diaries Stories of Survival|Jen Marlowe|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1171405835s/97921.jpg|94382] (so interesting I've marked that book as to-read)
- "The Big Suck: Notes from the Jarhead Underground" by David J. Morris

The size of the above list should give you an idea of how good this book is; that's a significant percentage of all the stories in the book. And your mileage may vary. But for something that's only 350 pages, this is a very economical investment (in terms of both time and money) and utterly enjoyable.

After discovering Simon R. Green through his Nightside series, I was looking forward to this new series. While The Man With the Golden Torc is occasionally entertaining, overall I was underwhelmed.

The culprit in this case is a repetitiveness on the part of the author. He reuses certain phrases often, and it's not clear whether this is done intentionally, for the sake of irony, or if he's just not that inventive. Also, is this book supposed to be set in the same universe as the Nightside series? If not, then Green's reusing a lot of mythology from that series, which strikes me as unoriginal--for instance, the depiction of demons as creatures that sink their claws into someone and grow fatter the more people listen to their demon. This sends a message to me that Green isn't fully invested in creating an interesting world for his stories if he's just reusing what came before.

Still, I'd overlook it if the story were outstanding. The story comes first. Unfortunately, The Man With the Golden Torc starts with a bang and ends with a whimper. The mystery component of it, in which our protagonist has to discover the secret behind his family, quickly lapses in a repetitive series of "find the next informant" adventures as Eddie and his companion visit fellow rogue members of the Drood family. During the climax, Eddie discovers the awful truth about the Droods and what the source of their power (the requisite mystical object, the Heart) actually is, only to be rescued by a deus ex machina that is ... well, to be frank, creepy. I'm not going to spoil it, but let's just say that if Eddie's new ally turns out to be evil, I won't be surprised, but I'll be disappointed. It's just too predictable.

And that's the downfall of this book: there's very little about it that's special. It's mostly predictable, occasionally quirky enough to make me smile, but seldom did it pull me in and refuse to let me go. I'll continue reading the series to see if it improves, but so far the Secret Histories series isn't living up to what I've expected from Green.

In one sentence: my review of [[book:The Man With the Golden Torc|155459] stands double. In fact, I'm beginning to feel almost as repetitive as Simon R. Green, just by reiterating this! However, there are things I missed in my previous, somewhat-hastily-written review, so I shall address those now.

Firstly, Green has too many characters and doesn't know what to do with them. I wonder if he just can't control his urge to explore every cool concept that wanders across that fantastic imagination of his. For it's clear that most of his characters are intriguing--if not always original--creations; there's just too many of them. Eventually their personalities begin to clash and Green has trouble incorporating them into the plot. This overabundance of characters leads to the second and third problems: lack of character development and horrible pacing, respectively.

The characters in Daemons are Forever don't lack character development so much as consistent development. Much like their magical abilities, which Green amends and ameliorates to suit whatever situation he's dreamt up now, the characters' personalities seem far too mutable for my liking. As a result, most end up as two-dimensional canvases on which a conflict or witty remark can be painted--or rather, painfully grafted.

Daemons are Forever also lacks anything resembling an interesting story. Halfway through the book, my only thought was, "This is so ... dull." The majority of the book is devoted to exposition, either through dialogue or the internal narration of our protagonist, Eddie Drood. It's mostly, "Hmm, invaders from another dimension want to come over here and gobble us up--ideas, anyone?" Occasionally, the plot seems to sense that something is amiss and makes its own halfhearted attempt to rise up and progress in some way, but Green quickly puts a stop to that. He tosses in token action scenes--with those slippery mutable powers that every character has--to satisfy those readers who are easily bribed by such shiny baubles.

The contradictory nature of the magic underpinning Green's Secret Histories series is what irks me the most. For example, at one point Eddie clearly establishes that Merlin's Glass can't teleport him into the Sanctity (a particular room in his home base) itself. Then, only about twenty pages later, he does just that. Fantasy is supposed to be about "anything is possible," but a fantasy story without any magical ground rules, where any magic goes, eliminates the element of risk and completely destroys the enjoyment found in the element of surprise. The best moments of any book come when a character reaches down inside himself or herself to summon up that last bit of determination and come up with a plan, a smart plan, to save the day. It's not simply a matter of one of the supporting characters saying, "Oh, by the way, I can make this problem go away with a wave of my hand."

Daemons are Forever could have benefited from a better editor, one not afraid to mark up the manuscript with massive red pen marks. There's too much fluff, not enough substance.

In Areopagitica, John Milton delivers a finely-honed argument in opposition to the Licensing Order of 1643, which restored strict censorship laws to England. Milton relies primarily on classical references; indeed, the title is an allusion to the Areopagus, a hill in Athens and the name of a council who sat in judgement on that hill. In a single word, Milton links the crux of his argument to the zeitgeist of Hellenic antiquity, which held a great fascination for learned individuals of the seventeenth century.

Milton's main argument concerns the fact that other societies, particularly Greece and Rome, did not employ censorship laws yet flourished nonetheless. In fact, Milton maintains that censorship represses society by stifling innovation and discourse and debate. He goes on to demonstrate that even if one could find incorruptible, pure jurors to study potential works for publication, it would still be a very daunting and unfeasible task.

In addition to his classical references, Milton draws heavily on supporting evidence in the Bible. This method of attack also underscores an important difference between Milton's perspective on "free speech" and what we con temporarily associate with "free speech." Milton's primary concern is the search for knowledge; he's interested in the Truth as an expression of divine purity. As a result, Milton isn't opposed to censorship outright--he remarks, for instance, that books may be burned after publication should they be deemed unfit for public consumption. Rather, Milton merely advocates against pre-judging a work before the public has a chance to judge.

Almost four hundred years old now, Areopagitica is nonetheless still a very relevant document today. Its name, and Milton's very academic tone, may deter some people from trying to read it. However, it's pertinent to several issues in modern culture--freedom of speech is one, as noted above, and it also pertains to the ongoing debate over the role of copyright in digital media. While copyright and censorship are distinct devices, both share in common the need to have control over a work; both, as Milton points out with regards to the latter, have the potential to harm a society even as they supposedly work to protect it. By understanding historical attitudes toward censorship, I have a better respect for the nuances of the issues we face today.

As an argument, Areopagitica is intriguing and valuable. As a composition, it's masterful. Milton employs a very stable structure with a clear introduction, in which he outlines the shape of his argument. In addition to his use of allusion, he goes out of his way to compliment his audience--i.e., the Parliament of England--always punctuating his arguments with, "And surely esteemed men such as yourselves" and so on. This is not a loud-mouthed soapbox rant but a very rational work of art, and that's what makes it so powerful.

Although I enjoyed almost all of Areopagitica, there is one part where I must disagree with Mr. Milton--that is, I would argue that one of his points is flawed. As he approaches the end of his speech, Milton opines for freedom of religion--save popery and superstition, obviously, or any such practices as may be deemed harmful to society--those religions should be "extirpated". He never gives any indication of who may determine what types of religious practice society may tolerate. Since Catholicism is only recently overthrown in England (a few decades is brief compared to its long reign before Henry VIII's intercession), England is no stranger to religious upheaval. It's almost a betrayal of one of Milton's earlier points, where he argues that even the best-intentioned of men may not be able to adequately judge the suitability of a work for print--here he seems content in young Protestantism's ability to judge if a religion is acceptable or not.

It's very interesting reading rational works by religious authors from previous ages, now that we're in an increasingly secular era. Biblical allusions can be a powerful ally, but religions have also been overused for justification of a myriad of Very Bad Ideas. It's a fine line these authors walk; Milton walks it with great skill.

Areopagitica is an excellent piece of rhetoric--a well-reasoned argument can be a pleasure to read, or to listen to, as the case may be.

Nanotechnology is to contemporary society what space flight was to the society of the '50s and '60s--achievable not but not quite viable yet. And just as space flight inspired some of the '50s and '60s most chilling sci-fi horror stories, nanotechnology serves the same role in the 2000s. Alas, while M.M. Buckner's Watermind has an intriguing concept, it fails to deliver anything resembling a good story.

The eponymous Watermind is a semi-sentient, self-emergent neural net that evolved from discarded electronic components washing down the Mississippi River. It's a cool concept; Buckner gets definite points for it. This is the ultimate in "environmental" artificial intelligence--although as the main character points out, it's not very artificial, since it evolved naturally. The Watermind, unlike the disembodied and abstract villain Skynet, exists as a physical slyph-like being, the Mississippi monster who's actually misunderstood.

That's where Watermind drags, unfortunately. Buckner can't sustain a Hollywood-monster-movie-style narrative, nor does she manage to create solid characters. None of her characters are three-dimensional. Some are two-dimensional, but most are one-dimensional caricatures introduced in an offhand way designed to let us know they're supposed to be caricatures. There's religious nuts, evil businessmen, and of course, all white people are out to get the Hispanic people and vice versa. Can't be having any morally ambiguous characters here!

The protagonist, CJ Reilly, isn't particularly likable. And Buckner seems to be obsessed with hormones. Reilly, supposedly an MIT-dropout genius with a trust fund, spends most of the book acting like a spoiled brat, and the rest of it acting like an idiot. She flouts scientific procedure and then cries foul when things don't go her way. She has a lover devoted to her--for reasons I never quite understood, except the sex must have been awesome--yet she uses him when she needs his help and then disregards him otherwise.

Granted, Reilly owns up to this last fact, and Buckner seems to be striving for a flawed heroine here. Toward the end of the book, Reilly thinks Max is dead and attempts to avenge his death--and redeem herself--but it just falls flat because I have absolutely no sympathy for her. Throughout the book, she addresses her dead father and we're given to understand that her relationship with her parents had been strained. I didn't quite follow what happened to her mother, who seems to have shared her name.

Flat characters aside, the other downfall is Buckner's writing. She attempts to convey the scope and majesty of the technological wonders inherent in the independent evolution of nanotechnological life. Unfortunately, it misses the mark and instead feels stilted. Awkward phrases like "her body exuded sexual chemistry" and "his mind went flaccid" made me feel like I was reading [b:Twilight|41865|Twilight (Twilight, #1)|Stephenie Meyer|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41DcKN0STkL._SL75_.jpg|3212258] all over again. Buckner tends to go on at length about the intricate process by which the Watermind develops, but these scientific asides don't ameliorate the actual story.

Thus, while Watermind originates from a very nice idea, its execution fails to live up to the idea's merits. And even if your opinion of it isn't quite as severe as mine, I fail to see how it could ever live up to the hype printed on its dustjacket, with blurbs from the likes of [a:Ben Bova|12407|Ben Bova|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1230227407p2/12407.jpg], [a:C.J. Cherryh|989968|C.J. Cherryh|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1244675150p2/989968.jpg], and [a:Robert J. Sawyer|25883|Robert J. Sawyer|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1224975910p2/25883.jpg]. In fact, why read blurbs by those people? Go read one of their books instead of Watermind.