Eduardo Santiago

Just not my vibe. DNF, page 40.

It was impossible to relate to the narrator: artist type, impulsive, attractive, high drama, poor judgment, completely different life choices and priorities from mine.

It was impossible not to relate to the narrator: King completely drew me in, made me feel immersed in her character's head, care about and for her, even come close to understanding her. At least at the visceral level, so I was shaking my head at her while also rooting for her, and that's an unusual experience for me. The characters are complex, conflicted, inconsistent, human. The relationships are often messy--again, so human. A lot of heart.

This is one of those keep-going books. It got better over time, although the ending felt a little too pat. It's also one of those whoosh books, where I know there's a lot that I'm not smart or talented or educated enough to get but am just aware enough to sense them zooming over my head. And that's OK: this is a book geared toward artists, not engineers; it's just written so beautifully that it resonated... no, not resonated, it affected me. Helped me see the world a little differently.

Informative... at times. But also disjointed, rambling, unclear at times. I did learn: material I never learned in school, and a good bit of filling-in since my departure forty years ago. Overall, though, it was difficult reading in several respects. His timelines meander, making it hard to keep track of track who-what-when. His math is iffy, mixing absolutes and percentages in ways that make little sense ("annual gross national product fell from 7 percent in the 1960s to 2.1 percent in the 1980s" ???). And the wrap-up felt rushed, sloppy.

I did like his focus on social movements and the actors responsible, and on the impact of corruption, cruelty, prejudice, war, and greed on the less powerful populace. So many horrors over so many centuries. Melendez Badillo has a good heart. I do fear that it might blind him to (what I've perceived as) actual problems with puertorican culture: religiosity, willful ignorance, entitlement. (Sound familiar, post-2024 US friends?) Still, his preaching was mostly on target and rarely over the top. I am thankful to have learned about good people who #resisted and still do.

Minor nit that irked me more than it should've: he only refers to PR as "the archipelago." Okay, kudos for including Vieques and Culebra, except he only really talks about them for 2-3 pages so he really just comes off as clumsily pedantic. "PR," "the country," even "la isla" which is what pretty much everyone calls it, would've felt more natural. Not a reason to reject the book, but, why??

[ Note: I read the English edition, because the Spanish one lists a translator credit and this one does not so I assume English is the original. ]

Unexpectedly riveting. What a fascinating, complex man, and what an immense debt we all owe to him. Reading this over Thanksgiving weekend I felt especially grateful; reading it in 2025, though, tinged it with grief.

Judge McKeown writes with great care, unsurprisingly, painting his legacy as admirable while always being mindful of his more questionable choices. I loved her decision to label him "Citizen." I might've chosen "Activist," but her choice is far wiser: it humanizes him, makes his work slightly more relatable and hence inspiring. Not many teens are going to be reading this book but maybe their adult role models will, and set examples?

Readers with an ethical mindset may find the book stimulating. My own thinking flipflopped quite a bit regarding his entanglements and conflicts of interest: from How Could He to But Of Course and back through stages in between. Why would it not be okay for a Justice to have an open, outspoken public life on matters of importance? How is it different from today's (lower-case out of disrespect) justices' pursuits of lavish vacations, beer-fueled rape parties, and christofascism? How can we expect someone to recuse themself in the face of evil? I am thankful for Douglas, for his passion and determination and for saving so much of our country. The world would be a much worse place today without him.

There's Type One Fun and Type Two Fun; this book goes into what must be Type Eight or Nine: absolutely nothing fun about it, not even in retrospect, nor reading about it several stages and decades removed. So, don't read this for the fun aspects, unless you're one of those who enjoy HACE and frostbite and pushing beyond human endurance in alpine storms. Read it for the grit; for the determination and strength these women showed in the face of constant obstacles. By which I mean, misogyny and intentional roadblocks by males everywhere. (The mountain, in some respects, seemed gentler).

Read it for insights into leadership under pressure--and the opposite, how extreme altitude and adverse conditions can transform a poorly-performing team into near disaster. Male teams could pick and choose their members from a large pool, replace when personalities clashed. In 1970 there weren't many elite women climbers; this team didn't have the luxury of kicking out assholes. And although most of the team were good people, some were not (or, to be fair, they were not at that time) and they repeatedly imperiled the lives of the others. I was riveted by the team's decision-making processes, their mistakes and the consequences thereof, their subsequent decisions. I'm someone who is mindful of team dynamics; this book really drove home some important points that, I hope, will make me a better person.

Read it for inspiration. These women were remarkable. It's thanks to them that we now live in a world where woman have equal access and opportunity in all fields. [Ed note: this review made it back via a wormhole, from a future time in which this is true thanks to YOUR efforts. Keep strong!]

Like so many books these days, editing was lax. Repetition and padding galore: did we really need to be reminded yet again what crampons are, thirty pages before the end of the book, or (over and over) that air is thinner at higher elevations? "Arlene, Dana, Margaret, Faye, M.Y., and Grace finished packing": what ambiguity could there be in shortening to "They"? These seem like nits, but they accumulated.

An ingenious premise. Elegantly executed. A delight to read.

The basic idea sounds simple: excerpt the writings of the Stoics, organize by topic and subtopic, add some commentary. The expertise needed to do this, however, and the research and big-picture skills and even hubris ... and then, to pull it off ... I'm in awe.

Farnsworth begins with the most important concept, one pretty much central to Buddhism as well: many events are beyond our control, but we can work to master how we react to those events. He covers this at length and from many perspectives. Subsequent chapters explore other teachings, each with relevant citations and background and clarification; he explains his ordering, and it's quite reasonable, but really chapters 2-11 can be read in any order. Chapter 12, Learning, is lovely: how we continue our practice. He offers overviews and reminders and perspectives gained from the whole book. My favorite part here was how he reconciled detachment and Beginner's Mind (without actually calling it that. He never mentions or acknowledges Buddhism).

I loved reading this with my well-worn translation of the Meditations by my side, to look up and compare interpretations. I loved that he occasionally cites Adam Smith, a much-maligned figure whose philosophy has been coopted by greedmonsters. I loved the occasional Montaigne, reminding me it's been much too long since I've read him. Too long since I've read Seneca, too. The book left me thirsty for more.

Absolutely, unreservedly recommended for anyone with even the slightest interest in living a good moral life.

Manipulative as hell. Moore relies heavily on teasers: not really cliffhangers--although she throws in some of those--more like throwaway sentences referencing something important that pique the reader's interest and then aren't followed up on for another three or four chapters. Fun the first half-dozen times, formulaic the next fifty. Then the villains: not quite mustachio twirlers, but definitely permanent-sneer types, vile, odious, horrid from the get-go. The good characters did have the decency to be a bit complex, less than perfect, but only just so. Finally, it's pretty contrived: improbable interpersonal dynamics, overreliance on red herrings and serendipitous timing.

I really liked it anyway. The narrative jumps all over the place, lots of characters and timelines, and that was effective in maintaining my interest and engagement. It was atavistically fun to loathe the villains, and emotionally tense to worry about the sheroes. I was pleasantly surprised by Moore's accurate depiction of wilderness survival and search strategies; then delighted to see that she cites Lost Person Behavior, the canonical but obscure SAR reference, in her Acknowledgments. Moore did her homework, and I admire that.

Bello tributo a la obsesión, inspiración, al genio y los bordes de la cordura. Encontré fascinante como Labatut juega con la realidad, pero no quiero hablar mucho sobre su estilo, aún en spoiler, pues él lo explica en los Reconocimientos finales. Un truco literario muy efectivo y original.

Mindblowing, riveting. Humbling: there is so much life and beauty all around us that we rarely get to see because we're in our lit homes or cars or carrying our light with us. I'll never get to see fireflies or glowworms or bioluminescent mushrooms, but maybe you will, and if you can, you should. And we can all make efforts to see moonflowers and moths; to listen to owls; to gaze in awe at bats in twilight. And to be much more mindful about our outside lights. Henion feels a deep sense of wonder over all this amazing life, and she conveys it to the reader.

Fascinating and lovely all the way through. Part memoir, part nature guide, and, yes, part manifesto but please don't let that put you off. This is a beautiful work.

Kaishian's nature writing is exquisite. She depicts slugs, crows, mushrooms, eels lovingly: To give someone or something your attention can be a sacred act, she writes, and she does so to every creature she mentions. She blends her memoir effectively into each chapter, acknowledging her trauma (generational and personal) and her healing, her struggles with loneliness, her need for safe spaces, skillfully making each part of herself relevant and strongly tied to the chapter theme.

What I find a stretch is her desire to queerify nature: hermaphroditism in some animals, same-sex couplings in others, fungal sexual permutations, she celebrates them all as "queer" and points them out as counterexamples to cultural heteronormativity. To me, there's a different word that suits them better: "natural." Same with the whole spectrum of humanity. Does she do that as a way of finding belonging? As a way to shock readers into understanding? (Unlikely: the kind of people who think in black-white binary terms, those who need to read this book, are precisely the ones who won't). Or is my cishet privilege coming through in a way I don't recognize? I'd love to hear my queer friends' thoughts on this

(Clarification first: this is not a sequel to The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet. There's a connection, but it's tenuous at best. Don't expect any of the same characters or situations.)

And, with that out of the way, squee again! Not at first — I was slow to catch feelings for these characters — but catch them I did, and it all just kept getting better and better up to the very end. In this book, Chambers speaks to the Broken Ones: those of us with physical and/or psychic trauma, different, weird, hurting. And she writes about grit, compassion, caring, finding one's tribe, one's purpose, one's self. There's a whole lotta love in these books, and okay it can be a little thick at times, but right now I'm A-OK with that. [UPDATE October 2025: reread, and I stand by my earlier comments]

Yes, TB is still a thing. Or is it? On the one hand, over one million people die of it each year and millions more suffer. On the other, most of those millions have skin which is high in melanin. Should we care? John Green, along with health professionals all over the world and countless humans, make a convincing case that we should; attorneys representing the Johnson & Johnson corporation, and a few other members of class Republicania I mean Reptilia, argue otherwise. Who's to say who's right?

Green is perhaps the best person to tackle this difficult subject, to make it accessible, and he's done so. His narrative weaves between tragic single deaths and the incomprehensible mind-numbing statistical millions, and he does so in a way that boosts our compassion for all and our anger at the systems that enable these injustices. I admire how he upends germ theory, asserting that TB is not in fact caused by Mycobacterium tuberculosis but by malnutrition, poverty, and stress. Billions of us carry the bacillus, asymptomatic: it's when we suffer that the disease manifests, in turn begetting more suffering. Fiendish. (I don't mean the bug, I mean the human greed that keeps us from responding to this suffering). It was chilling to read this book so soon after Kinship Medicine: so many common threads, so many shared frustrations.

I don't read many white-male authors these days, but Green is a noble exception. He demonstrates compassion and humility and is using his talent for good. Not quite five stars, but am rounding up because of the human importance of this work.

So much heart. Beautiful flawed characters, running to or running from; some strong, some less so; some demonstrating kindnesses that left me stunned. And grief—so much grief, and bereavement (they’re different), and grit. Klagmann has a gift for depicting loss. Gently, calmly, corner-of-the-eye. The grief we live with every day; that forms us.

Not everything worked for me. Klagmann’s form of magical realism is a challenge: at each introduction of a magical element my first reaction is “no, no, it doesn’t work that way” before I remember to engage my Suspension of Disbelief Engine. (This Impossible Brightness had much the same effect on me. I find my response curious and wonder if others feel similarly.) And halfway through, the parts with the journal, felt a little clunky. Beautiful language, but clearly an exposition tool.

No matter. I am overwhelmingly glad to have kept going, just like with Impossible Brightness. These are characters I wanted to talk to. To listen to. Near the end, thirty pages left to go, I felt myself tensing up: in part wondering how she was going to wind everything up, but then realizing that I was dreading that possibility. I didn’t want the book wrapped up; wanted to live in it a while longer. Still do.

[ Tangent: At the book launch two weeks ago Klagmann remarked on how surprised she felt about the novel's progression, how it went in directions she never imagined when she started writing. After hearing that, it was impossible for me not to read the novel with that in mind: every development had me wondering about paths not taken. It added a thoughtful, but not overly distracting, dimension to my reading. I recommend it. ]

Eleven years ago I mindfully took a large (medicinal) dose of psilocybin and sat down for the ride. The lesson I received—and which has shaped my life since—was to Pay Attention. To focus on What's Important. I see this book as Arnold's journey to the same lesson and, much more importantly, as a gift to the world: for some readers, her words will resonate. Teach. Heal. Maybe through running, but not necessarily: what the book illustrates is that there are paths to wisdom and that we can find ours.

Arnold carries burdens too heavy for her, and writes about them with vulnerability and grace. The book is a fascinating study in human relationships, and Arnold exquisitely paints the dynamics of what is said or unsaid and how. She has an impressive ability to convey nuance. Many of the scenes transported me to ones in my own past - self-recriminations, fears, doubts, loss. The brain chatter we all have but never speak of, each of us fighting with in our own ways until, if we're lucky, we occasionally learn to accept and love and maybe tame.

Recommended for anyone pursuing self-awareness, whether you're a runner or not. Bonus points for vivid depictions of Northern New Mexico.

UPDATE: Second, slower reading. I found it more somber this time around, and it's entirely because of the zeitgeist. Johnson's message has not changed -- connection is how we can heal -- but September 2025 is a much grimmer world than June 2025. On the plus side, this reinforces Johnson's imperative to tackle the issue bottom up; on the down side, grassroots is hard; but then, back to the plus side, challenges bring out the best in us. Let's take this on. Read this, and push to build community. Take a hike. Plant a tree. Sit in comfortable silence with a loved one. And pass it on.

We are sick; we are tired; and we are sick and tired of the increasingly downward spiral we're in. Johnson addresses our unwellness from many perspectives, using a systems-level view to converge on an integrated picture of what ails us, how we got here, and where we need to focus if we want to fix things. She draws from her experiences as a medical practitioner and an acequia community member. She cites up-to-date research, and she's done her homework: the text is well dotted with end notes in all the appropriate places, and those references are current and relevant.

Johnson's argument boils down to the undeniable fact that humans evolved as cooperators, not just with each other but with our environment: awareness of surroundings, and recognition of reciprocal needs and responsibilities, is what kept our ancestors alive and even thriving. The hijacking of social norms by self-absorbed greedy individualists has cost us dearly. This will not come as a surprise to most readers, since we tend to self-select... but it might be news to some of our less aware friends-and-relations, so this is a book to read and then pass along strategically.

What was a surprise to me was Johnson's inspiring final chapters. She asserts that we already have the principal tool we need to address our situation: imagination. Since imagination does not spring ex nihilo, she provides a helping hand: examples of successful (albeit small-scale) cultural shifts that have led to progress. Maybe you, or someone you gift this book to, will envision a step-by-step path to a healthier planet and a healthier us.

I felt uncomfortable in two dimensions. First, the privilege: access to trees and birds and land and silence will never be possible in a planet of N-billion humans. Second, the privilege: the precautionary principle espoused in chapter 11 has a strong anti-development hint to it. Both of these issues are much too complex to go into here; and, to be fair, Johnson acknowledges them to some extent. I can live with my discomfort, because the book's assets—its arguments, evidence, insights, and above all its intriguing final chapters of promise—far outweigh the negatives.

Thank you North Atlantic Books for providing this book for review consideration via NetGalley. All opinions are my own.

Fascinating. Preston compellingly weaves botany, history, adventure, while never losing focus on the humanity of the participants. (Maybe a little too much focus sometimes).

Encyclopedic but highly readable. Microdosing is not new to me, but much of the information here is: different protocols, dose guidelines, and a well-organized catalog of health conditions for which there are promising field reports. (Yes, it's anecdata. Gathered over years from tens of thousands of participants. Standard research is obviously impossible for these medicines.) Conditions like ADHD, depression, Long Covid, migraine, chronic pain. Even with a huge grain of salt, these are remarkable findings. Highly recommended. At a bare minimum, read the ToC and see if any of the conditions apply to your life or that of a loved one.

The energy it must have taken to write this in such a calm, collected voice. The anguish that Winters must be feeling in 2025. I can only barely imagine but I'm trying to do so, to use that energy to fuel me. We have so much work to do.

Many sweet moments, and many funny ones, but overall I found it annoying. The whole way through I kept wanting to DNF, but persevered because two people I love and trust urged me to... and, okay, they were right, it was worth finishing, but what an ordeal. I get that it's a farce, that the irritating characters are played for yuks, but they were too much: too obnoxious, too grating, and JayB (main human character) too much of a doormat. The character with by far the highest EQ and IQ was Clancy, the canine narrator.

Which brings me to my biggest disconnect. One problem with having read Nagel ("What Is It Like to Be a Bat?") is that books like these — written from the PoV of a dog — become exercises in nitpicking. A sentence such as "Alana turned her face away, hiding a smile": the emotional, social, situational, and cultural awareness it takes to observe and write that is beyond the ability of many humans; and we're supposed to believe this is a dog? I'm sorry, I can't buy that. I hate to make accusations without proof, but I'm like 90% sure that Mr. Cameron is not, in fact, a dog.