Eduardo Santiago
Struggling to write down my thoughts: there's a lot packed into 265 pages. It starts with some prehistory and speculation -- so, grain of salt -- but quickly goes into actual history, and you've never seen a perspective like this one. Vigna makes a compelling case, well documented, explaining the global explosion of greed from the end of the Middle Ages through today. Nearly all of it is religion-based, so there's a lot of impenetrable stuff about popes and church politics and this-or-that particular subcult; I skimmed much of it but got the gist.
Informative, surprising, often disturbing and depressing. And convincing. Vigna does not disguise the axe he's grinding, but even with his biases the arguments he proposes are cohesive, insightful, and explanatory. A lot of what we see today makes clear sense in this light. I have some quibbles, but they're all so nitty-gritty -- and so impossible to take action on -- that I'll let them rest. Because in the end this is just academic: useful for learning and understanding, but not for actually doing anything to fix the coming collapse.
Highly recommended, but only for very niche history-and-economy dweebs.
Moving and unexpectedly accessible combination of personal memoir alongside Buddhist teachings and practices. "Unexpectedly," because the life of an Oxford graduate who switched to monastic living at age 21 would seem to be not at all relatable to my life or that of anyone I've ever known... but some basic truths are universal, and Thubten manages to cut to the heart of them.
I gained insights, learned, remembered, and have some exercises to add to my meditation practice. Most importantly, I've seen glimpses of how much work I have left to do, but am recognizing that without any sense of frustration or despondency. His voice is kind and patient, and (mercifully) there's no karma or reincarnation bullshit. Just simple humanity.
Another of those books that should have a Stick With It sticker: starts off very weak but gets progressively, albeit inconsistently, better. All of the stories are beautifully crafted and written; a few of them are touching and memorable but in an oblique way, possibly because I'm not really Sittenfeld's target audience.
Common threads: middle-aged woman (or, in one case, man). Usually—but not always—privileged and shallow. Reminiscing about late teens. And, to wildly varying degrees, demonstrating maturity, kindness, self-awareness, wisdom ... or a stunning absence thereof. Sittenfeld herself understands those, which is one reason I love reading her work, but in this collection those often appear only in the periphery, in side characters, with the main character oblivious. And that just made my heart ache for the people who lead such vapid, lonely lives.
Oh, and communication. Sittenfeld has a hell of a talent for painting the ways we communicate or, more often, fail to. Assumptions and misinterpretations and misreadings. Not farcically, not slapstick, just matter-of-fact which makes her depictions so much more relatable.
Can't decide between two stars and four. Will be generous.
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.
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.
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.
Infuriating. Also humbling and inspiring and powerfully moving. Ghose profiles twenty(ish) twentieth-century(ish) women who made astonishing groundbreaking discoveries despite relentless—and senseless—obstacles at every level. Some of the women we all know: Henrietta Leavitt, Vera Rubin, Lise Meitner. Most of the rest were unknown to me, and that's tragic because without their work and especially their insights we would be decades behind in astronomy, physics, and chemistry. (The obvious next question is too depressing to contemplate: how much farther would we be today if countless women hadn't been stifled? Weren't <i>still</i> being stifled?)
The writing is often simple, perhaps in hopes of attracting middle schoolers? (I'd be in favor of gifting this to a middle or high schooler, though I doubt they'd read it.) Reading level notwithstanding, the content shines. Ghose beautifully illustrates these women's lives and work; their challenges, their grit, and their impact. She complements many chapters with parallels from her experiences as a physicist and educator: things are better today, but not yet better enough. Her passion for learning is palpable and inspiring.
El último cuento, Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego, fenómeno. Horroroso, escalofriante, y tocando incómodamente a la realidad.
El resto me fueron difíciles leer: Enriquez trata con temas de pobreza, ignorancia, abuso, adicción, locura y más, pero (la mayoría de) sus caracteres son huecos, sin vida ni ánimo, rodeados de lo mismo. Pocos tienen inteligencia ni madurez: sus situaciones son banales, sin conección humana. Matrimonios que pelean con gritos. Niños siendo crueles. Nada interesante. Y en la mayoría, en algún momento, aparecen fantasmas o monstros u otro elemento sobrenatural, sin razón alguna y que no contribuye nada a la narrativa.
Pero ese último. Uy.
Sweet... cozy... sometimes to the point of cloying. Preachy... but entirely about values aligned with mine (kindness, community, chosen family, antiracism, resistance to bullying) so that gets a pass. Cringey levels of privilege: the love interests are all physically attractive (and we're constantly reminded of it), the main action takes place in a beautiful seaside estate without concern for anything so pedestrian as money, and all crises -- tense as they are -- get resolved rather more conveniently than is customary in (at least <i>my</i>) real life.
Still.
I liked it. Really liked it. Unashamedly. Not in a guilty-pleasure or bubblegum sort of way, either: it had depth and warmth and tension and a lot of heart.
Contains spoilers
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.
My DNF yesterday was a book that's (probably) great literature that I'm not smart enough to understand. This DNF today (at p.60) gives no indication of being great literature. One main character is a worthless self-absorbed nothing, reminiscent of Bukowski; the other main character is a deeply troubled but shallow person with glimmer of potential but not enough to keep me going. The near-future fascist dystopia is played for yuks, and I'm not in the mood for that right now.
Too difficult to read, and not clear that I'd find it worthwhile. Writing is beyond choppy. Beyond staccato. Ratatat little bursts of impressions. Fragments. Hard to read. Not a comma to be found. Best read quickly maybe. Form a gestalt? Couldn't.
And the gestalt I formed is of a child cowering and trying to survive in an environment of ignorant abusive religious subhumans. Don't need that right now.
Tedious, exasperating, with a few gems embedded. Batchelor seems like a wonderful person, smart and compassionate and well grounded, but omg so pompous and so scattered.
Most of the essays assume a preexisting deep knowledge of Buddhist thought, like knowing the "First Discourse", and lots of names and terms. If you're coming at this with little or no knowledge of Buddhism, find something else. And if you're annoyed by language games, by a twentieth-century Anglo trying to wrest meaning from translations-of-translations of 2500-year-old texts and a cultural context that is impossible for us to imagine, give this a skip.
Good little nuggets about agnosticism, the (religionless!) ethical framework of the Buddha's teachings, and history, but for the most part this is just impenetrable handwaving. The essays are not ordered chronologically, or even in any meaningful order, so concepts he dismisses in an early essay (four "noble truths", religious aspects of Buddhism) are spoken of unquestioningly in later ones.
Mostly cozy, but often felt forced or disjointed. The tone was not cohesive: some essays focused entirely on the sensory aspects of the titular food, some on intimate memories and associations, and some were a distant stretch. Frequent notes of antiracism and antiviolence woven in, all of them powerful and relevant; this bumped it from four stars to five.
One element I found notable, and has me super curious: food familiarity. The vast majority of these foods are ones I know and love, but I was astonished when reading the Kaong chapter at how disconnected I felt: that's a fruit I don't know and had never even heard of, and nothing she wrote gave me even the slightest sense of what it's like. That makes me wonder about Americans who've never tasted sugar cane or apple bananas (manzanos): what must those chapters be like? I also wondered, briefly, about non-foodies, people who don't salivate when reading about mangos pineapple vanilla cinnammmmmmmmon, and I guess this book is not for them.
Oh—the illustrations. Swoon.
Conmovedora historia, pero necesario tomarla con cierta reserva. Nunca pude olvidar que Zamora narra eventos de su niñez, luego de veinte años. Me fue imposible aceptar tanto detalle asi que lo leí como autoficción, y da igual pues lo que importa es la vista grande... y en eso triunfa. Salí con un sentido profundo de dolor, no sólo por la dificultad del viaje de Javiercito sino por el conocimiento, en cada momento, de su buena fortuna. Entendiendo que hay miles que no logran el cruce. Pensando en los parientes que toman riesgos tan espeluznantes con sus propios hij@s. Y, a mediado del 2025, avergonzado de mi país por el tratamiento tan desgraciado de los migrantes. El libro relata, sin intentar resolver, tantas cuestiones morales.
Second reading, still very much worth it. Although in many ways dated, the main gist is even more relevant today than in 2000: our lack of touch and connection is destroying us.
Most interesting to me in July 2025: rereading this so soon after The Master and His Emissary. Limbic vs neocortical, or left hemisphere vs right, there are appealing and useful aspects to each model -- but, like all models, they're incomplete and often wrong. I'm really intrigued by how both books converge on similar conclusions from such different approaches.
Most discouraging to me in July 2025: how much worse the world has become since the book's writing, in ways the authors feared. The system is powerfully stacked against us.
Probably not a book I'll be recommending or passing along: the world has changed too much in 25 years, culturally and in terms of neuroscience knowledge. Unfortunately I can't think of any single recent work that quite covers the same ground so elegantly. So, recommended with reservations?
Life-changing, but I'm still too dazed to quite figure out how. There's so much to process. Not all of it is new if you've been paying attention, but it's the aggregation that has blown my mind. As well as the material that is new (to me). Kimmerer always writes of Plant People, and I've worked on myself to internalize that perspective, but Schlanger makes it resonate deeply and powerfully and I really don't know what to do with this mindset shift. It's overwhelming.
Fascinating and fun blend of philosophy, science, and rumination. No matter how much you've wondered about consciousness, you haven't thought about it nearly as much as Harris and her interviewees. You will learn. You will wonder. You will probably be confused as heck in some of the talks. (If you're not, you are orders of magnitude smarter than me).
There's something slightly uncomfortable, though, about listening to so many smart people espouse their particular hypothesis about consciousness: none of this is even remotely falsifiable (in the foreseeable future). So it's a little like religion, but with curiosity and awe instead of bigotry, hatred, and stupidity. And, unlike religion, pondering consciousness positions us to be better people: more aware of the felt experience of other beings, hence kinder.
Audiobook-only because it's entirely conversational. This makes it much more engaging, but means that polishing is impossible: occasional clarifications are necessary in the preludes to some chapters. Some parts are awkward, some dense, and in some I feel like Harris inserts herself too heavily into the conversation, drowning the interviewee. And, sadly, I can't highlight or bookmark or make annotations. I wish they provided transcripts to purchasers.
Flaws and all, these are conversations worth listening to again. If I last another five years, I'd like to see how they age... and how my thinking has changed. Recommended.
