Becca

As the pandemic hit, exhausted and strung out on adrenaline, I completely lost my ability to concentrate on books. And yet, Spinning Silver reached me with its deeply evocative setting, weaving together multiple American and Russian faerie tales with a modern sensibility to how to write strong female characters. This is also possibly the first high fantasy novel I've ever read to include Jewish characters.

I loved Miryem, Irina and Wanda, each strong in their own way, each determined to make her own way to bettering her life and that of her family. I liked the Staryk, with their icy alienness, yet truly a sympathetic villain. I liked the foil between the fire demon and the Staryk. Overall, it hit the sweet spot of combining a haunting setting, strong characters and a compelling plot.

As the pandemic picked up, I switched over to almost entirely English reading for daf yomi, and the Noe edition held up to this as well. Rarely did I feel like I was missing something crucial (for wordplay and mnemonic devices the shoreshim are including in the English translation as well.) I wish this volume had more information about the personalities – the superscript P's don't continue on very much for Rabbis discussed in Berakhot and I would have found it helpful to continue to have annotations about who they were. (Aslo, Shabbat is a profoundly dense tractate, often very foreign to the modern reader...or perhaps it's just me who no longer treats jaundice by shaving donkeys, bloodletting them from their head and then anointing patients with the resulting blood. Good thing – you have to really be careful doing that because if the blood gets in the patient's eyes it blinds them. And also it's controversial whether you can do that on Shabbat)

If I promised you a book about Ponzi schemes and ghosts and murder mysteries; about the little things that happen to us in a life that haunt us forever, you'd be psyched, right? You'd think: this book could not possibly be boring. And similarly: I see what St. John Mandel is doing here. I respect what she's trying to do. I love the idea of exploring the things that haunt us throughout our lives; the themes we cannot help but return to. I like the idea of personifying that with magical realism ghosts and graffiti that is disturbing out of proportion to the real world. There's a lot of potential here.

But it's SO boring. Unbelievably boring. Is it me? I can't tell. But all of these characters are so flat, I couldn't care about them at all. I found small snippets I liked: the themes, the descriptions of shipping. But these were buried within ~400 pages of mundane details about mundane characters. Dozens of pages about how tedious shopping is that nevertheless bore details of everything that Vincent bought. Interchangeable characters named Melissa, Miranda, Mirella, Monica and Marie that I had to keep referencing back to the dust jacket to see which one went with which substory.

A close friend accused St. John Mandel of being too pretentious to be willing to write speculative fiction. Once seen it couldn't be unseen: this is overwritten, too shy to lean into its interesting themes. It does not arrive at ghosts, nor Ponzi schemes, nor the ocean, for over 200 pages, instead leaning into day-in-the-life written to the teeth. It felt interchangeable with hundreds of other books trying and failing to be The Modern American Novel

So I had this carefully calibrated to-read list, and then the world ended, and I didn't feel like reading anymore. But in my head, I just kept repeating: “everything changes in a season”, so I figured if I could read anyone, I could read Jemisin.

I had thought that Jemisin was the epic fantasy writer of my generation. I was wrong: I'm pretty sure N.K. Jemisin is THE speculative fiction writer, in general, of my generation. This is an urban fantasy that redefines what it means to be urban fantasy. This is a book about the fantasy of cities. It's a love poem to cities. (a much needed ode, when currently living in a city seems like a death sentence, weaving around masked figures on the sidewalk.). I've never been a fan of New York, but through Jemisin's eyes, I found myself loving it. (Jemisin notes herself: there are NYC people and there are London people; I'm a London person). Even before the fantastic elements, Jemisin's NYC is alive.

And Jemisin's NYC is alive, in one of the most inventive modern fantasies I've read. Full of relatable, human characters, who also manage to slip to just the other side of inhuman. There is a villain who is relatable, understandable and also completely evil. It's the best modern take on Lovecraft: acknowledging and incorporating his racism

I appreciate what R'Abrams is trying to do: show Judaism as a more flexible religion, in which decisions were made as much for historical reasons as religious ones. But this book is kind of a literary failure. R'Abrams gets so deep in her movie analogies (most of which didn't age well), that I had to google movies I'd never seen to understand her point at times. I found them jarring, unignorable and completely disruptive to the flow.

Looking past the bulky cinematic digressions, The Other Talmud also struggles with just being a massive stretch at times. R'Abrams argues the Yerushalmi had more roles for women and was in general more liberal, but I think she's cherry-picking. I haven't read much of Bavli: just daf yomi for ~6 months, so 1/15th of it, but I could find lines from the Bavli, too, to make many of the same points. I think this was a good idea, poorly executed. 2.5 stars.

I'm not going to give stars to the talmud, because that would be weird. What I will say is that I switched to the Koren Noe edition for Daf Yomi about a dozen dapim in and I'm glad I did – the commentary provides a lot of necessary context. R'Steinsaltz' (z'‘l) translations are thoughtful and extremely helpful. I did read this primarily in the aramaic, and although my language skills mostly held up the original text is elliptic and full of unclear allusions, and I was very grateful for the side-by-side translation.

I've lost too many patients in the last year. I love them, and I lose them and I feel like I keep losing little pieces of my soul. I don't know how long I can keep doing this. I tell myself my love for them matters, and my care matters even if they die, but I don't know if I still believe it.

That's how I opened my spiritual check-in this year. The rabbi nodded, and then said: “Read Tiny Beautiful Things.” He handed me a copy to browse. “Can I borrow it?” I asked. “No, I need it too often.” I found the advice perplexing and a little out of left field. But, sure, why not.

Reader, it was good advice. Very good advice. Cheryl Strayed knows bad things happen. She knows bad things happen to good people and we have to keep on living and loving, anyway. And she loves us all and calls us Sweet Pea when we're hurt or burning out. This is that book. I cried reading the letters about the ways in which the world was bad to people and was salved by Strayed's radical empathy. I've never read Dear Sugar. I don't know if these letters are representative. What I do know is through them, Strayed (ironically operating under a nom de plume) is not just radically empathetic, but also radically honest. She talks about her own life, her mom's death, the dissolution of her first marriage, the times that she couldn't be the person she wanted to be. She has a way of talking about herself as a means to make other people feel seen and more human.

Reading it was profoundly cathartic. I felt the protective shell I'd built up dissolving. I felt returned to the person I wanted to be. People came to me with the stories of the way the world had been bad to them and I felt ready again to be there with them, holding the badness, and then moving forward.

You can't borrow my copy. I'm going to need it too often.

About a hundred years ago, Daf Yomi was invented. “The world's oldest book club,” my rabbi called it, before adding sardonically “except the [torah portion of the week]. I'm not totally sure why we need two.” The goal is reading a page of talmud a day. At that breakneck pace, it only takes 7.5 years to complete. I tried it picking up in the middle of last cycle (13) and lasted about a month of dense discussion about where birds would be sacrificed in the temple before giving up. Ilana Kurshan was on the leading edge: this is her autobiography about the 7.5 years of her life doing the 12th daf yomi cycle from ~2005-2013. I wanted to read it because I committed to cycle 14, which began this January. Unlike cycle 13 (and very unlike cycle 12), apparently the idea of progressive daf yomi has ripened. There are facebook groups and slack channels filled with women and heterodox Jews of all strips.

But Ilana Kurshan did it before us. Back when it was shockingly unusual for a non-Orthodox Jew or a woman to do it. Back when there was no framework for how to do it outside of a bet mikdash. So Kurshan shows us how to take the talmud, learn from the nearly impenetrable mutterings about fruit growth and apply it to modern life. The talmud bridges her from her divorce to her second marriage, and the births of her children. She tells us about her studying on planes, in labor, in Jerusalem, in New York, in the times where she had no idea where her life was going. It's a deeply vulnerable and relatable memoir.

When people ask me about the Jewish calendar, I point out that yes, it's a lunar calendar but also inextricably linked to the solar seasons. Unlike Islam, we always celebrate holidays at the same time of year, born out of the fundamental agricultural underpinings of the religion. We always celebrate Passover in Spring, and the High Holidays in fall, and the holidays resonate with seasonal themes. At 7.5 years the daf yomi cycle is unmoored in time (honestly, I think the tannaim & amoraim would be horrified). It was unsettling to me when she read a tractate strolling through the Jerusalem shuk in summer that I'll read in Philadelphia winters. I struggled with this a lot when I started daf yomi - who knows what the context of my life will be when I read any particular tractate? Kurshan set the example of how to choose to set each page within the firmament of her life.

Jemisin caps off the best fantasy trilogy with a conclusion that is deeply & profoundly personal to the protagonist, and also about changing the world. Jemisin is endlessly imaginative, but her books capture a grittiness about our world, about self-sacrifice and cultural conflicts and about what people in power inflict on others. This is one of the darkest books I've read in ages and I was sitting on a friend's floor trying to convince her to read it anyway: “When Jemisin's characters die, it's about something. She cares about her characters. They aren't forgotten. The other characters don't just magically heal their trauma. They find ways to construct meaning to move forward.” This is a story about being in community and how we do that, despite hurting each other, despite being unable to save each other. This is a story about unconventional loves (and more about Alabaster and Essun) including platonic and familial. I loved every page.

Dr. Zuk sets out to explore all of the ways that our preconceptions of the Paleo era may differ from how people really lived. I found the book as a whole pretty shallow – some theories of paleolithic parenting, diet, etc. were introduced, but mostly it wasn't a very scholarly approach. Yes, it's a pop!sci book, but Dr. Zuk's popular works on entomology were much better.

Wow. NK Jemisin is a force. Every bit as good as the Fifth Season, Jemisin has basically turned the genre on its head to produce something truly original, but with all of the nostalgic resonance deserving of an epic fantasy trilogy.

Keeping a brisk pace in this second book, with tons of plot reveals and twists Nassun taken in by Schaffa! and character development (including a deepening of the relationship between Alabaster and Essun, which may be my favorite relationship in a modern book.) The characters are rich, nuanced, broken (so broken) and really relatable. There's an intimacy to the story, which mostly takes place within the confines of Castrima in this middle book, despite having world-altering consequences.

I think one of the places where Obelisk Gate really shines is exploring the metaphysics of orogeny and depicting how it's much broader than Essun (and we!) have been given to believe from the Fulcrum. I was also really drawn in by Schaffa's story and the deepening of our understanding of Guardians in general.

A cute memoir interspersing one person's life with her learning about and meeting octopuses, primarily in the Boston aquarium, but also learning to SCUBA. It's definitely not an expert work on octopus physiology, and while it touches on consciousness, it's definitely not a philosophical work either. But it's fun, the otcopuses pictures are beautiful, it just overall seems a little shallow. I think I would have preferred a slightly deeper work.

This was fine – what really sticks with me is the imagery of the forest and feral magic. A dark little red riding hood with a powerful female protagonist was a nice twist on a faerie tale retelling. I also really like books that have characters that are morally ambiguous and grow and work through that. But despite that, the characterization is a little shallow and inconsistent. Also, love triangles are Not My Thing.

I love Sam Kean and this pop science accounting of various atmospheric gases does not disappoint. Roughly arranged by contribution to Earth's atmosphere, the chapters bounce from hot air balloons to chemical warfare. Kean focuses on depth rather than breadth, making for memorable and engaging reading.

This kind of was missing the Veronica Mars je ne sais quoi for me. It was kind of a standard mystery, without much that makes the VM franchise. Also, I think it was gutsy for Rob Thomas to take on a rape victim who's an unreliable witness after the reception that Season 3 got. The best parts for me were the sideplots revisiting core VM characters, such as Weevil's arc.

(I also like neither Logan nor dogs, so your mileage may vary.)

I went through a rut where speculative fiction was just not singing to me anymore. Over the last couple of years, some great new scifi (primarily by female authors) recaptured my attention, but I was really struggling to find fantasy that was compelling. The fifth season was perfect to recaptivate me – it was like discovering epic fantasy again for the first time. The setting is complex and unique. The metaphysics were unique and interesting. I loved the idea of the Fifth Season being a canonical phenomenon. I liked how there were so many genre conventions: magic users being discriminated against, the magic school, etc., but they were all a little turned on their head. It was even very well-paced for a trilogy.

I spent a lot of this year reading non-fiction and historical fiction about women in WWI and WWII, resulting in a ridiculous amount of knowledge about the WASPs (and WAVEs and computers in Bletchley and...) So I was very into the concept of alt-fiction NACA recruiting WASPs as astronauts. The climate-based apocalypse hit quite close to home. I think one strength was how Kowal captures a lot of the energy at the time: focused, goal-directed, but still heavily hierarchical and sexist and really portrays a time in the US para-military well. I liked the exploration about how sexism affected white women and women of color differently. Kowal also had very good consultants for the meteorology and astrophysics. Unfortunately, the pacing was a bit off: the first third is compelling and fast, and the back two thirds definitely drags through the same problems, introducing more and more characters

I loved Ancillary Justice SO much and then I desperately needed to take on the rest of the series IMMEDIATELY. I kind of regret rushing through the series rather than savoring it. Nonetheless, I think Sword, while struggling a little with the pacing problems of a middle book in a trilogy, brought a lot of unique strengths to the series. I particularly liked Leckie's take on colonialism. I felt like she captured the ways in which SciFi can be a lens to reflect back on the issues of today, without weakening her own imaginative and unique setting. This is definitely a smaller book than Ancillary Justice – more focused on Breq and her crew, their interpersonal relationships, contrasted with the interpersonal relationships of those on the station and downwell and how those ultimately result in systemic flaws. I liked to have this lull in the series to really bathe in Leckie's universe and its social rules.

I enjoyed the introduction of Presger translators (so very alien in culture). Also, more ships, a conclusion! But reading the trilogy straight through made me feel a little over the Imperial Radch setting, which I think, again is on me, rather than Leckie.

I read this in real time this year: a chapter for Tisha B'Av, a chapter for the rest of Av and so on, through Sukkot. R'Lew had me dead to rights: the holidays had fallen into a rut of tradition and ritual, but I needed to be shaken up and see them anew. And he got to me: I couldn't stop thinking about this book for months. Thinking about why I get angry when I want to be sad or empathetic; about the imagery of being completely unprepared, about mortality, and the books of life we write.

This book is really for all Jews: R'Lew makes clear that he has no expectations on what you believe, or if you believe anything at all. Whether you believe in G-d, whether you participate in any ritual life, whether you even acknowledge the HH, what is real is that we have on fewer day each day; our lives matter, but also will inevitably be forgotten and it is our responsibility to write the books of our lives how we wish them to be. And that we will fail at that responsibility. Those are the undeniable, intolerable facts of life. R'Lew died suddenly at a relatively young age, and that made his work more poignant to me.

(It's not aged perfectly: the passage about what an amazing and virtuous person Giuliani is made me cringe, reading it in 2019.)

This felt like bog-standard fantasy with the exception of the protagonist's magic umbilicus. Yes, see, her navel is a gem that turns hot and cold (and more, but...spoilers, I guess.) Did her umbilical artery run through it? Did it grow once her cord fell off? Is the belly button just decorative in this world? Inquiring minds got too distracted by umbilical anatomy to pay too much attention to the plot, which is good, because again, cliche fantasy + Stockholm syndrome.

OK, to add one more comment: I liked having a heroine who was larger, and the body positivity that went with it. Of course, she lost a ton of weight while being kidnapped and was thrilled with her smaller body...Rae Carson is not exactly svelte herself and this all felt like a very unhealthy weight fantasy situation.

Andy Weir writes fast-paced, engineering-oriented scifi well. This heist on a moon colony, featuring a vaguely Saudi, lapsed Muslim protagonist was a quick and light read. There's welding and problems with low-gravity/zero atmosphere and family bonding and shady business dealings. So, almost perfect.

But look, some people shouldn't be allowed to write books about women, and Andy Weir is one of those people. Also, mostly, I wanted it to be the Martian redux. And by trying to make a convoluted conspiracy plot, Weir has wandered away from what he does best: MacGyvering in Space! books.

I have heard SO much about this book. And it was fine – definitely everything promised: a sweet romance between two non-conventional leads, which brought diversity to the world of YA realistic romance. But the biggest problem I always have with Rowell books is the romance – it's too sappy, too sudden, too forced – and this book is mostly romance. (Also, Eleanor's abusive family, which is very sad and a little over the top.) So, a good book, but not for me.

Not as good or tightly paced as Six of Crows, but the gang's back together for one last heist. And it's cute. I liked the resolution and the character growth. I'm still not a huge fan of the Grishaverse, but I thought Bardugo introduced some interesting new concepts in this one. I was also not a huge fan of all of the female characters being damaged and needing emotional support/rescue.

But it reads fun, they pull off hijinks, the characters are mostly nuanced and well-written, so pretty enjoyable reading experience. Overall, 3.5 stars

Given that many of my closest friendships were forged in the fires of shared literary interests, actually, I have very little overlap in tastes with my real life friends. So despite the fact that my best friend and I both obsessively read science fiction and fantasy, her recommending this to me was not particularly encouraging. She convinced me to read it by pitching the agender society and neurodiversity of the main character, but reading it I found the things that I would have used to pitch it to her in abundance: a deeply created society, such that every utterance of a character was pregnant with meaning, songs and poems that had built up layers of nuance over generations and elaborate rituals. Unlike the sorts of books she typically reads, most of this was implied so that Leckie developed the feel of an intricate created society without the burden of pages and pages of exposition. So I, who hate slow books actually quite enjoyed it.

I liked the exploration of how do very diverse societies clock gender, what does it mean to be an entity (is continuity of consciousness real?) and how do societies change over time