Becca

I...don't know. I might come back and give more points later. But His Dark Materials together are probably the most formative books in my life, and the bar might just be too high. Golden Compass was Just Another Fantasy novel when I read it, about the same time that Subtle Knife came out. But the six months between reading Golden Compass and Subtle Knife were very formative in my life (it was the transition from middle to high school) and so in many ways, reading Subtle Knife is deeply and fundamentally associated with starting to see symbolism in books, starting to ask existential questions about myself. Amber Spyglass was published just after my freshman year of college, and I read it multiple times back-to-back that summer, pondering the purposes of existence. Two years later, I saw each half of the stage production multiple times in the London National Theatre, and did the backstage tour twice. I have signatures of all of the actors. The altheiometer inset is framed on my wall, and it's not a coincidence that my avatar here is an altheiometer. HDM really formed who I am, how I interact with the world and how I read.

La Belle Sauvage, for now, at least, is Just Another Fantasy Novel. I have some specific concerns: the female characters have basically no agency (a major disappointment, after Lyra); the antediluvian portion of the novel really drags, with a few Whizbang!Fantasy moments but no real depth and the opportunity to use Daemons and worldbuilding to make the villain hair-raisingly creepy instead of just lazily using rape to signal moral corruption was passed over. But honestly, I could overlook all of those. My biggest disappointment was that there just wasn't much there there. I don't know if it's me – that I'm older and less malleable by a book – whether this book really is shallow, or whether it's set-building and the best is yet to come...

It's hard to imagine a breezy, funny memoir about OCD and eating disorders, but that seems to be what Traig has written. This slender work is mostly a series of vignettes in the author's childhood plagued by scrupulosity, a religion-tinged variant on classic OCD. If you look too long at any of it, it's hideously sad – the author's starvation as she invents ever stricter kashrut variants, and growing alienation from everyone – but it's basically all played for laughs, without really connecting the dots between the episodes.

So, I was in a bookstore in San Francisco and Abby really wanted to recommend a book to me, but nothing really sounded good. I bought the Rook more out of a sense of wanting to buy a book in that particular moment rather than any hope that this specific book would speak to me. And then, it happened to be in my backpack when I found myself caught on a bus without the book I was reading. I got to “The body you're wearing used to be mine” and found myself completely unable to put the book down for the next 450+ pages.

This is really true perfection: a spy novel-y romp of deception and double-crossing, with some lovely world building (on the heavy side of expository, but well-explained by the protagonist's amnesia) and a female character that's nuanced and has agency and kicks butt and takes names. The sort of book that's like a warm cup of spicy cinnamon tea in my hierarchy of comfort.

I also had many lovely existential conversations prompted by the Rook: Is present Myfanwy the same as past Myfanwy? Just without trauma? Is she a totally new person? What does identity mean, anyway?

I'm so in for the series, but I think the framing device of amnesia really made this book shine, not sure how it'll keep up in the future.

This was an extremely nuanced take of the current foster care system and its highs and lows. From the perspective of a woman who had been a homeless teen after a mentally ill mother kicked her out of the house as well as an (unofficial) foster mother herself, Beam comes largely as an outsider to the system, curious about why it is the way it is. I thought that perspective was very helpful, because the writing was very accessible and unbiased. Beam explores the dynamic laws influencing the foster care system and the political winds that have driven it both towards and away from removal of children from the biological home. Throughout the book she largely sticks with one foster family, Bruce and Alyson Green and their foster kids and explores the issues raised in their family, although she also touches on other families and a therapeutic/group home.

I thought the biggest strength of the book was that Beam is unbiased, and even though she's often writing about her friends, she pulls no punches. She explores the best and the worst about each situation/agency/philosophy/housing situation. By the end of the book it's clear that there are no easy answers, that even the most well-meaning of adults have caused secondary casualties and that even the most protected children don't come out psychically unharmed. I spent a lot of the book alternating between feeling like everyone should sign up to foster and that there was no solution for foster families. That dilemma was not resolved, but I learned a lot in the process.

I loved the setting and the concept of this book – the idea that the thousands of stories of children going to another world and then coming back either like no time had passed, or like years and years had passed in a day are all true. And then exploring what happens, psychologically to those kids. I always love it when a book takes a well-known trope and turns it on its head by asking the questions we all should have been, but took for granted. I also really like books that exist in a dialogue with other books and only really make sense to prolific readers.

Multiple people recommended this to me, and one of them talked mostly about how the main character actively sought to understand and develop empathy for people who were different from her. I don't appreciate that theme as much as she did, but I did like that there was a co-mingling of characters from a bunch of different genres and an exploration of how that works, and how it works if two people both went to The Underworld but it wasn't the same.

Where this fell down for me was the plot. The murder mystery just wasn't super compelling and I felt like the social contract of the book was broken twice, which really broke the metafictional spell for me. The first was when magic turned out to work all along in the real world, when the boy played his bone flute and then again when it turned out that Jack would be capable of resurrecting Jill, kind of making the whole murder mystery thing a little shallow.

Overall, though, I found this a beautiful and atmospheric novella.

I work with people with intellectual disability pretty much all day every day. By doing so, I've learned that there's a the range of people and personalities among those with ID is no smaller than that in the typical population. However, in the public conscious and most media, people with ID are children, or the object of Important Lessons, or benevolent figureheads. So I found Rachel Simon's memoir about the time she spent with her sister Beth, an adult with ID, a beautiful and nuanced story. Beth is passionate about buses, bull-headed, hates racism, is man-crazy and matter-of-fact. And Rachel pulls no punches, being completely transparent with the reader about Beth's peaks and valleys and about Rachel's own flaws in her ability to deal with Beth patiently. I really appreciated Rachel's honesty about her worries, frustrations and impatience with Rachel – I think it's important to share our dark times.

The book is organized into 12 months, each of which has a chapter about Beth and the bus, a chapter about Rachel's introspections and a chapter about their past. The middle of these was by far the weakest, and felt kind of shoehorned in. Examples include one and a half pages about person-first language. A personal revelation that she should make more friends and becomes the Giver of Wisdom to the bus drivers, over two pages. Beth is really the life of the book. But I think this was overall a touchingly sincere book about a rarely discussed topic.

I was initially confused about the decision to start a book that it is ultimately about the apocalypse with a tragic focus on the unrelated death of Arthur Leander. How can a personal tragedy be related to the apocalypse? How can we care when several million people are about to die? But ultimately that's kind of the point of Station Eleven. It's less about the apocalypse and more about everyone ever known to Arthur Leander in the peri-apocalyptic time from his first wife to the paramedic who tried to resuscitate him. It's a very character-focused exploration with some intertwining threads. The intense character study plays nicely with the themes of the book: not how humans survive the apocalypse, but really how humanity survives, with art and culture and museums and language. And in that, how individuals survive with their individuality. This is really a new approach to a pretty tired genre.

Sometimes, St. John Mandel is a little too on the nose, but it still usually hits home. For instance: the motto inscribed on the Symphony's van: “Survival is Insufficient,” or the fact that most of the characters belong to a traveling band of Shakespearean players. It really only rankled when she tried to draw parallels between Arthur having multiple wives (sequentially) being completely accepted in the conventional time line, while the prophet's, Arthur's son (in a plot-twist I saw coming on like, page 2) multiple wives are condemned, perhaps because he has them in parallel and also, a potential wife is 12. Similarly, the ironic cross-cut from Arthur's first wife bemoaning the likelihood that Kirsten will amount to nothing with her extreme competence and self-protection in the post-apocalyptic world. We get it: some people really came into their own in an apocalypse and it provides an opportunity for humanity to be cleansed. Great.

On the whole, I found Station Eleven to be a really unique and interesting take on the post-apocalyptic genre, with some beautiful character portraits.

When I lived in London, we had an assessment to do any leisure activity that you would not have otherwise done. My class partner and I decided to go through her oddities of London book, which landed us in the Jon Snow pub. Ever since, I've been enamored by Jon Snow. His story is not just one of life-saving epidemiology, but also the triumph of good science (germ theory!) over bad (miasmists) and real science (...still germ theory) over social prejudice. Steven Johnson would also have you believe that this story is about urbanism and the way that population density results in vulnerability (I think. More on that later.) So, pretty much no matter what you're into, this is one of the coolest stories in Western history.

And Johnson just destroys it. I spent a lot of time thinking about how this went wrong. I read a lot of popular science, and there's some classical ways to mess it up: oversimplifying to the point of boredom, getting too bogged down in the details, getting attached to a pet theme, etc. Johnson does none of those. In fact, if I were to describe the content of the book, it would seem perfect. In addition to the science, Johnson explores how contemporary science and the politics therein reacted to this discovery and opposed it, how the friendship developed between the disparate Snow and Whitehead and how Whitehead's better social skills improved his ability to really test the hypothesis well. Those sorts of themes were key to my enjoyment of Johnson's the Invention of Air, which is one of the best history of science books I've ever read.

First, I thought there was something innately boring about the discussion of Victorian sewage. But I'm the sort of person who loves pedantic details and I have enough medical training that I am unimpressed by extensive discussion of unmentionable topics. I think there was just no organization to what was happening. And as a result, every 25 pages or so, for no clear reason, Johnson would start repeating one of his key themes, not really apropos of anything but because it had been a long enough time since a central thesis that I think he forgot what he'd already said.The other problem was that the backend of the book was a mess. After an extremely in-depth exploration of very specifically the broad street pump outbreak of cholera, Johnson tries to expand to discussing urbanism in general and his thoughts are completely discombobulated. Included within this chapter are: But urbanism is good for the environment even though no one used to believe that, and Johnson and his family certainly will live in a city and he loves cities and this is the global city, but urbanism is bad if there is terrorism and terrorism is relevant because it could be bioterrorism, but vaccines will work against bioterrorism and they won't work against conventional terrorism, so it'll probably be a bomb and also, there's this idea of mutually assured destruction but what if a lone actor gets their hands on a nuclear bomb? With about that degree of organization between thoughts.All of this disorganization happening at the end of a reasonable chapter about how Jon Snow made a physical map to prove his point, which Johnson used as an opening to discuss how critical graphics are in science and then *did not include said map. And yes, it's 2017 and I had a smart phone handy to google it, but come on.

*(This book is shockingly dry, given that its about a water pump.)

I bought this from Laura Marx Fitzgerald at least year's Princeton Children's Book Festival because it looked intriguing and she promised me that it was like the Westing Game. I think that's a decently fair synopsis – a fun YA romp, with lots of puzzles that are not too clever for the young adult set, but not so juvenile to make the book unreadable to an adult reader.

What really made Under the Egg stand out for me was the way that it made art accessible to an art-naive reader, such as me and most of the YA set. Without being pedantic or preachy, Fitzgerald's evocative descriptions of art, and her loving understanding of how and why paintings are made will stick with me for awhile.

If you read enough (and if you're reading this, you probably do), books become fascinating independent of the stories they tell. Blatt takes a math-y approach to this, quantitating a number of variables to answer different literary questions, such as the percentage of co-written books actually written by the more famous author, the difference between “literary” and genre fiction and the difference in word choice over time. There's some mission creep as chapters also reflect on how male versus female authors write the different genders and what that means, and also an introduction about who really wrote the Federalist Papers. It's mostly just fun – can you deduce from an unbiased statistical approach that Nabakov was obsessed with colors, probably because he was a synesthete? – and pretty light on the math. I'm pretty opposed to frequentist statistics, but it was still pretty bizarre to me to not have a p-value, or really any numbers at all, in a statistics book. Nonetheless, reading about reading is always extra fun and I enjoyed it quite a bit.

The Flavia de Luce books are just SO cute. Is it weird that I find an 11 year old would-be toxicologist and her investigation of murder mysteries adorable? For all the kids who grew up wanting to be detectives with best friends who were obsessed with botanical toxins (spoiler: that's me) there's something really satisfying and really nostalgic about reading Flavia's stories. The spooky Punch and Judy vignette recalled my favorite childhood books, especially The Magicians of Caprona, by Diana Wynne Jones and Mr. Punch, by Neil Gaiman.

I continue to find Flavia a totally plausible child protagonist, and I continue to be completely charmed by seeing the world from her point-of-view (my favorite: her sincere outrage at not being treated with collegiate equality by the police inspector.) Yeah, the mystery is a little thin and the ending is SUPER rushed, but that's not really the reason I read these books.

I think I wish Vance had set out to write a true memoir. Hillbilly Elegy is at its best in those autobiographical moments – you really feel for teenage Vance, his poor sister/surrogate-mother and his matriarch figure of a grandmother. Many memoirs increase their narrative power by adding analysis, but in Vance's case, I think the result is less than the sum of its parts. When he switches to political or socioeconomic commentary he takes an extremely preachy tone, which I think is not necessarily warranted by the narrative.

Although I would consider this book a four-star work (all for the memoir portions), three sentences really detracted for me. It's highly unusual for me to have such a visceral reaction to a single sentence, much less more than once in a book, but here we are:

1. In the very beginning (and then repeatedly throughout), Vance talks about how “Hillbillies” are culturally distinct from African Americans as a way of justifying their poverty behavior, but not that of African Americans...and then thoroughly fails to prove that. Through years of serving the poor urban African American population as a physician, I found everything Vance talked about as unique to Appalachian whites to resonate about the subset of poor, urban African Americans well. I think the two populations are extremely similar in their Protestant ethics, historic participation in the labor portion of the workforce and disenchantment with the American Dream. I don't know why this bothers me so much, except that it really smacks of White exceptionalism – even when we're poor, we're special!

2. Vance talks about how patriotic he is and then says essentially that no one on the “Acela corridor” would ever understand that feeling. First of all, the generalization that the Acela corridor is all wealthy, white liberals needs to stop – I meet plenty of disadvantaged people right here in my Acela-ified city. But secondly, OK, I'm white, I'm Jewish, I've never been working class in my life, I went to a hippy liberal arts college and I'm a doctor, so I'm the epitome of the Acela corridor and I think I've figured out patriotism just fine, thanks.

3. He talks about the loss of American heros. True, the days of astronauts and politicians being the heros instead of teenybopper singers and actors are over (assuming the past was ever truly like that.) but then he brings up Obama. To me, Obama is the American hero of our generation – a brilliant, charismatic, young president, who pulled the economy out of a death spiral, brought healthcare to millions, brought about the legalization of gay marriage, doubled the number of female supreme court justices in the history of the country and did it all while keeping his nose incredibly clean. To Vance, Obama is an “alien.” Not because he's black, Vance hastens, but because he's well-spoken and highly educated. Yes, this is the complaint of someone who less than 50 pages prior said that what the Appalachians need is an American politician hero. But, apparently not a well-spoken, highly-educated (black) one. If you think there's racism between those lines, well, I'm with you.

I kept wondering if I'd cut Vance more slack if I didn't know that he was a Republican, but the fact of the matter is that overall, I felt like he didn't read between his own lines. He talks about his understanding of learned helplessness, but then is dumbfounded when his neighbors won't commit to jobs. He talks about how he believes culture drags down everyone in it, but then says that he thinks the best that can happen is placing a thumb on the scale for disadvantaged kids, rather than the evidence-based practices, like housing-first that's been shown to intervene on culture.

It's not all bad – some of Vance's comments are both critical and point out a recurrent problem I see in my own larger community: especially an unawareness of need-based aid for college by those who actually need it and the way that community college and other less prestigious institutions often cost more, rather than less for the working class and come with less of the unwritten benefits. Overall, I found Vance bracingly honest and reflective about his own experience growing up in the working class, but I wish he would think about generalizing his experience beyond the Appalachians.

I was beyond thrilled to find that there was another, posthumous, DWJ book. Unfortunately, DWJ died before she could finish the book, and to me, it was very, very obvious where she'd left off and her sister had taken over. Most DWJ books have a twist-ending that is built on the seemingly irrelevant facts introduced earlier. In contrast, in The Islands, I found the tail-end rushed and flat. I think her sister found the half-finished manuscript and just tried to get it done as soon as possible. Even in DWJ's very young adult books, there's a sincerity and depth to the plot and character development and especially coming of age that just doesn't shine through in the Islands of Chaldea.

It's still a fun romp. In particular, I enjoyed the alternate history of the UK/Ireland feel. I thought the world-building felt relatively complete. The animals and child protagonists were cute.

Yeah, I don't have that much to say – it just felt shallow and unfinished.

I started medical school only a few years after imatinib was successfully approved by the FDA. One of the most memorable lessons from those first few years was about CML and imatinib's use for it. I was dazzled by the very logical chain from translocation to fusion protein to proto-oncogene to inhibitor to cure. There are only a handful of moments that direct someone's life, and this was one of mine: I decided to do cancer genetics (it wasn't until years later that I would drop the “cancer” half of the career plan.) I spent two years in a cancer genetics lab, got involved in one of the first off-label uses of dasatinib and spent time speculating about all of the tyrosine kinase inhibitors of the future. And I've lived in the future, where even having walked away from cancer, I got myself intertwined with lung cancer and EGFR inhibitors and the disappointing resistance that occurs.

So, the Philadelphia chromosome story is a story that is near and dear to my heart. Nonetheless, I found Wapner's rendition of it particularly fascinating. First of all, she doesn't miss a beat: she starts from the very beginning about how dubious scientists were that the Philadelphia chromosome was a spontaneously occurring, somatic, balanced translocation and goes straight through to the ways in which the TK inhibitors that followed were kind of disappointing with the rapid-onset of resistance and the difficulty of detangling primary causative mutations from carrier mutations. Secondly, she really places each step along the research in the context of where science was at the time, keeping track of each of the details ultimately necessary for drug development (several of which I didn't know). And finally, she tells the story in a way that speaks to the broader picture of drug development – the difficulty of investing in orphan diseases, the tension between industry and academia, the fear of testing a drug that might have unforeseen consequences.

It's rare that a popular science book is equally readable by lay and expert audiences, but I think Wapner's done a great job of making this work accessible but detailed.

My pre-read notes say “Apparently, it's all a surprise, but the author of the Girl with All the Gifts wrote a book NPR describes as ‘[a] supernatural fantasy [that] reads like a marriage between Stephen King and Charles De Lint, with a touch of Orange Is The New Black...'” And, yeah, that's basically it, with a few quibbles: I would describe this as Orange Is The New Black, with a touch of De Lint and Stephen King, rather than the other way around; and I think this book is really hurting itself with the “it's all a surprise” shtick.

Let's start with the un-spoiler-y parts: this is a good book. This is an important book. Those who turn their noses up at speculative fiction don't understand that at its finest it takes a simple question of “what-if” and uses that to deeply explore humanity, our existence and modern living in ways that “literary fiction” cannot. And that's what Carey did with this book: he took the biggest issues of the ‘10's – for-profit prisons, the opiate crisis, human trafficking – and added a tiny “what-if” to cast a new and thought-provoking light on them. And, I guess this is where I'll spoiler tag, although I encourage you to keep reading, because as previously mentioned, I think trying to guess the “mystery” impedes the reading of Fellside.

The what-if is this: what if the protagonist can see a ghost. That's it, not that there are ghosts, or lots of people can see ghosts. One little trait of one main character that really shifts the entire narrative. Through the ghost, who Jess originally thinks is her victim, but who turns out to be Nasreen, a former inmate, Carey gets the chance to say a lot about what it means to be a criminal and what it means to be a hero. One of the core themes of the book is exploring the myth of a "lost-cause" and how by fighting for this ghost, Jess becomes a champion and, in turn, inspires other characters who have given up on themselves. Carey also has a lot to say here about how our current incarceration system inevitably causes recidivism by presenting impossible dilemmas of continued criminality versus victimhood. What I liked the least about Fellside was the ridiculous commitment to mystery. It was abundantly clear to me from the beginning that the ghost wasn't Alex, but was Nasreen and to have the narration pretending otherwise was distracting. In addition, I felt like letting the reader in on that secret would help give insight into Jess' state of mind and the lies that we tell ourselves to try to heal ourselves.

Overall, I could easily see this book ending up in a high school English class curriculum, exploring the interplay of speculative fiction and contemporary events. (I kind of want to write that five paragraph essay now.)

That was actually quite cute. I was pretty sure I would not like it, based on the first 50 pages, which were incredibly twee: second-person present tense; ancient enchanters and arcane duels and a steampunk circus? But I fell into the evocative writing and the enchantment of a mystical place, and I found it just as atmospheric as intended. Yes, there was no plot and no characters to speak of, but those things weren't strictly necessary to the goal, which seemed to be purely setting description. In a lot of ways, I found it most similar to Palimpest, in that the focus was exploring the depth of a physical place, its rules, its sights and sounds and scents, rather than a traditional narrative.

Although we share an alma mater, Alison Bechdel is sufficiently older than me that when I first heard of her, she was already a realtively famous sensation, with a popular webcomic, which was soon to be followed by an eponymous test that would be cited in every feminist movie review for the rest of time. So, thinking about her as an unassuming child, forced into girly clothing was a little odd.

Usually, memoir (especially graphic memoir) is form over substance, as no one's real life is actually very interesting, but Bechdel's childhood may be an exception to that rule. Her early years are dominated by a gothic house, kept to exacting detail; a mortuary that seems to resurface in the narrative at particularly apropos moments and a relationship with her father that is largely dominated by F. Scott Fitzgerald allusions.

Bechdel drops hints along the way that she is not the most reliable of narrators, and I found that although Fun Home is ostensibly about her dad, it's mostly about how Alison Bechdel cast him as a foil in her own life, and then uses that to reinterpret her own.

I've had a growing curiosity about Orthodox Judaism (as I first discussed in my review here: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1785091630) from my continued professional proximity to the frum community. I have friend who's prone to the same flights of curiosity that I am and we sometimes egg each other deeper into bizarre obsessions: we've spent far too many Monday nights browsing the Orthodox fringe of the internet. Far from my previous misguided notion that “Lubavitch” was a synonym for Chasid, I've come to learn that there are dozens of different Chasidic groups, each with their own flavor, mores and mysticism. Shulem Deen joined the strictest and most isolated of them, the Skvers.

This is truly Judaism as I do not know it. A world where children can barely read and write English; teenagers marry people that they've met for only a dozen minutes and books of all stripes are looked at askance unless they're literally siddurim or one of the accepted commentaries. The idea that people could pass into this life as a baal teshuva, or pass back out and come OTD (with good enough English to write a memoir) is basically unthinkable.

But beyond the voyeurism of getting to see a slice of life in the punnily named New Square, I found Deen's memoir haunting. I found his relationship with his wife, Gitty, unspeakably sad. I was touched by his insight into the experiences of his estranged children. And I was moved by his struggle to find a place for himself in Judaism.

What really struck me was the subsistence life Deen was given – his bare kollel stipend, struggling to make ends meet over a perpetually expanding family, the disdain he received for leaving the kollel. And the emotional subsistence: the distinct limitations on with whom he could interact, what he could do for leisure, what he could do for work; every interaction within his marriage carefully scripted. I found it terribly sad, and I found Deen's writing very evocative of his confinement.

I got into a fight with someone on the internet, who said he wished American Jewry were more Israeli: “where the synagogue you don't go to is Orthodox.” Deen's memoir made me think of that – to me, non-Orthodox Judaism is this beautiful place, where there's room for a spiritual and Jewish life, while simultaneously exploring any range of beliefs about the existence of G-d, and gender and math and secular jobs. It made me sad that for Deen his ability to have an identity and existence meant abandoning that.

OTD memoirs are in vogue lately, but it's clear there's a reason that this is the most famous – Deen is a truly gifted writer and his talent with words is matched only by the depth of his soul-baring introspection.

So, I was billed that a “teenager” found an old “How to Be Popular” book and decided to implement it for a year and see what happens. I think only middle schoolers consider 13 year olds to be teenagers. I think this book would have felt quite different if written even by a 14 year old, but the maturity gap between middle school and high school looms large, and I found this too juvenile to appeal to an adult audience. In addition, I found myself really judging the amount of makeup, attempted dating and dieting that occurred. To be fair, I judge the relationship of adult women and makeup, dieting and weird interactions with men, but I simply don't think middle school is the right age for these things.

I also felt really disheartened by the throw-away comment at the end that in her pursuit of popularity, Maya found herself distanced from her actual close friends. She seems overjoyed that she now has lots of friendly acquaintances, but I felt really sad for her. As someone who's been on both sides: a few really close friends, and a lot of friendly acquaintances (the key to being popular in my current life is having an adorable small child, and I succeeded!), it's the few close friends that are worth the long time investment.

So, juvenile book or old-fashioned fuddy-duddy reader? You decide.

One of the central tragedies of adulthood is that virtually no one reaches the childhood potential promised to them. There's simply only a handful of spots to truly be a protagonist in the national narrative. It was a blow to me to learn that I could become a great physician and a pretty decent scientist, but that it's extremely unlikely that I'll ever be known outside of my field. And it's particularly hard because once you make it to a field, you get to rub shoulders with the true giants and feel how little you are.

And that, in a nutshell, is the story of Nora Elridge. Looking at her life in her 30's and realizing that while she's a great teacher and an OK artist, she'll never make a name for herself and other people will always be better and more famous than her. And Nora sacrifices being the protagonist in her own, tiny little story, for being part of something grander. To pretend that this is a novel narrative would be foolish – and indeed, Messud acknowledges that by directly quoting the famous Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock (“No, am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; am an attendant lord, one that will do...”) – but it's such a central narrative to humanity that I think it's worth revisiting.

What makes Messud's take on this tale particularly noteworthy are two things: 1) Messud's command of the English language, which is simply incomparable. She never weighs the story down with prose, but each sentence is precise and beautiful. And 2) telling this narrative from a female lens.

I've learned that women are being asked to do too much, so even when I feel like I'm doing a good job at work, I feel like I'm not being the protagonist in my parenting story (since parenting is supposed to be a narrative of lovingly hand-crafted...everything, every moment); when I feel like I'm doing a good job parenting, I feel like I'm not being the protagonist in the canonical scientist story, where science is in all-consuming passion; and when I'm doing either, I feel like I'm losing the plot of the story of being a part of a community of friends and neighbors, or being a leftist who has time during business hours to call my senators or being a book hobbyist, or or or. And yet, I find very few books that resonate with this tension the way that The Woman Upstairs does.

I also think that reading the reviews for this book on goodreads is a pretty incisive tale on why this book is needed: women who don't make it to becoming the protagonist are expected to be Nice above all things. That, in fact, is Messud's point: women have to either be a central protagonist, or they have to be the Woman Upstairs, who follows gender norms, and is nice and helpful and has no personality or drive. It's biting and true. And yet, many reviewers here seem to fault Nora Elridge for not constraining herself to that role – quite exemplary of how this is a conversation that needs to happen.

I'm a sucker for little chunks of history that mean something in a bigger context; it's probably why I'm addicted to all retellings of the Bletchley Park story. And that's how I feel about the Radium Girls – it's a story I already know from [b:The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York 7054123 The Poisoner's Handbook Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York Deborah Blum https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1442933592s/7054123.jpg 7305202], and found fascinating there, but I find it to have endless depths and nuances, and so I jumped for a more in-depth exploration (and I would again.)With a backdrop of WWI, luminosity of watchfaces is a matter of life and death for soldiers. Fortunately, radioactive elements have recently been discovered, so women are paid to use radium to paint watch dials. Unfortunately, working with radium is a matter of life and death for the dialpainters...but no one seems to notice or care. It's a story about chemistry and the dual roles of chemical utility and chemical toxicity make in our lives. It's a story about feminism, and how women joined the workforce and were let in only around the edges. It's a story about our workplace rights that is still relevant in modern times – after all, it directly led to the development of OSHA. It's a story about medical mysteries and how doctors work through tracing disparate symptoms to a single underlying disease. It's a stunningly apropos tale of a society that does not care for the weak in its ranks and bankrupts them through their efforts to obtain medical care for societal-inflicted wounds.Kate Moore wanted more than that: she wanted a story that was really about the individual dialpainters, and to that end (according to the introduction, at least), she painstakingly interviews the families and friends of dozens of them. She wants them to be real people, rather than symbols. It's a deeply admirable goal. And it completely fell flat for me. By including what feels like at least 100 named dialpainters, I felt the impact was actually lessened, because I never got attached to any of them. Each has a tragic story, but it's really the same tragic story. So reading pages of “Jane Doe was a dialpainter. She loved her beautiful dress and her winning smile. She was dating John Doe. She was friends with other dialpainters, Sarah and Sally. They all lip-pointed, just like they were taught. Then her teeth starting falling out. They thought she had phosphorus jaw, but she didn't. Then she died. Mary Smith was a dialpainter...” got very (very, very) tedious. And then, honestly, I just got inured – once I knew every character introduced would die within 10 pages, I stopped caring who their friends were, or who they were dating.The latter parts of the book were better, especially the last part, where the book really focuses on a core group of painters from the Ottawa factor and the reader gets to know them and their personalities decently well. Even then, though, Moore tells us little about them except that they were “strong.” The women never came alive for me. Overall, I loved the topic. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I learned, and talking to people about radium and how we can reflect on that era. I respect what Moore was trying to do. On the other hand, I didn't actually enjoy reading this book. I spent 8 weeks reading this book. I usually read a book every 10 days, so that says a lot. I dreaded picking it up and treated it like a chore, especially the first half; the back half was better. This may be better as a physical book, where one can skim, but as an un-table-of-contented-eBook, it was pretty painful.Overall, 3.5 stars.

I adored Sam Kean's [b:The Disappearing Spoon: And Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and the History of the World from the Periodic Table of the Elements 7247854 The Disappearing Spoon And Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and the History of the World from the Periodic Table of the Elements Sam Kean https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1438018063s/7247854.jpg 8246153] – it was quirky, educational, fast-paced and filled with both big concepts and tiny little stories of chemistry. So even though genetics is my day job, I figured The Violinist's Thumb was worth a look. And I readily admit that after all, this is what I do all day, every day and the resultant luster loss may bias my opinion. But the Violinst's Thumb lacked the pizzazz of the Disappearing Spoon for me. It hit the genetic high points: The Human Genome Project, Cloning, etc. But what I wanted were the tiny stories; the things that add color and interest to the big stories. There were a couple (yes, I know about DNA and RNA, but not the tons of other *NAs that are not just possible, but exist.) But overall, I found the book a drag to get through. I wish I'd enjoyed it more, but it might be me, not the book.

After the tightly woven Lie Tree, I found this book even more painful than I would have otherwise – Missing, Presumed is basically the opposite: loose ends are left everywhere, including subplots, dropped characters and thematic references.

Look, Missing, Presumed is a perfectly workable beach mystery (although honestly, I think there are better pulp mysteries; I found every twist pretty telegraphed.) But it's clear Steiner's aiming to be the next Tana French with thematic elements woven into the mystery and the life of the investigators paralleling the investigation. However, I found the thematic elements lacked a coherent arc; it's clear that Steiner wants to explore the idea of families of choice (one detective “adopts” an elderly woman with Parkinson's, while another adopts a tween) and independence versus loneliness, but I just didn't find that there were much said other than the repetition of these elements.

But where things really fell flat for me was the lack of coherent narrative. The two major suspects are basically completely coincidentally connected to the case. Tony Wright? Investigated because they are investigating “all criminals in the area with similar MOs” (even though he's the only one ever mentioned) and he has an alibi that feels very pat. I was so confused by the detective's insistence that he was involved that I searched the ebook for his name not once, but twice to try to figure out what he was missing. Similarly, the person who got connected with the case because he was a dead body who turned up in a different area of town at a different time? Meanwhile, an extremely suspicious character that had a physical fling with Edith the night she disappeared is never mentioned or interviewed again. It was clear Steiner started with an ending and worked backwards to introduce her key characters without the theory of mind of how readers would perceive this.

So, ultimately, two stars mean it was readable without being actively painful, but I basically only finished it because I happened to be on vacation and it was on my computer from the library.

I really enjoyed this parable on evolution, emerging feminism and honesty. You'd think that a speculative fiction book about a girl's role in society, the tension inherent in being a natural scientist while being clergy (as most Victorian scientists were), the Victorian obsession with death, and evolution would be pretty scattered. However, I found The Lie Tree to be one of the most tightly woven books I've ever read: no subplot was left unresolved, and barely a sentence was included without being tied back to one of the central themes of the book. This smoothness may be a turnoff for some – in places, it made the book feel a little juvenile to me – but I couldn't help but marvel at the artistry.

And at the end of the day, my favorite themes are women's place in science, the marvel inherent in natural science, the importance of uncomfortable honesty and speculative fiction, so I enjoyed this thoroughly.

In the past, Bregman argues, the problem was people were poor, ugly, sick and stupid. In the present, the problem was that people have lost their dreams. All of the dreams that were possible in the past have been realized, and nowhere is that more true than in the US, where the per capita income and life expectancy have skyrocketed in just the last two hundred years. Per capita income is up 50-fold and life-expectancy has doubled. But instead of settling, we need new dreams of an even brighter future.

Just that message alone is a refreshing antidote to the mounting concern that society is crumbling over the past month and a half. Bregman then pitches the book on providing evidence for three utopian ideas: a universal basic income (UBI), a 15 hour work week and open borders.

Like most probable readers, I was already pretty familiar with UBI (an idea that I thought I invented several years ago before finding out about the Manitoba mincome experiment) and I thought I knew pretty much the basic primer, but I didn't know about Nixon's failed UBI proposal. Bregman also provides the most optimistic statistical analysis of UBI and how its sustainable that I've ever seen (more on that later), making it sound like an actually feasible idea. This section, prima facie, really lives up to the “for realists” segment, focusing on studies supporting the financial sustainability of UBI, and I thought that this was the strongest (and bulkiest) section.

In contrast, the Open Border section is pretty short, basically: countries that accept immigrants make more money than those that don't; immigrants, and in particular refugees are less likely to be involved in crime, and any criminal activity is predicted by socioeconomic status and that immigrants are more likely to return to their home country in open borders (and that the more we've militarized the US-Mexico border, the higher percentage of undocumented immigrants that stay here, so that clearly fits well with the plan for a Wall.) It all makes sense, but is a pretty anemic chapter.

Finally, the fifteen hour work week is more fleshed out, and there's some good thought processes there (i.e. that working longer hours decreases productivity, especially in creative jobs and that there are fewer good jobs than there are people) but there's not a lot of hard data.

Honestly, I thought the book's best ideas weren't the ostensible main ideas but were things that came up in the interstitial pages:
1. Is GDP actually a good measure and what can we use instead that would be more congruent with cultural values? Let's get rid of productivity and efficiency as goals, and concentrate on creativity and innovation, which is less metric-able
2. So many people are doing “bullshit” jobs, where they move around money, but don't do any societal or personal good. 1/3 of Americans think their job is pointless and doesn't bring them satisfaction. Let's get rid of dumb jobs and use the money to subsidize actually important work, like teachers and social workers, paid for by taxes on the financial industry.
3. Social good can be measured, just like anything else, and can be optimized by using randomized controlled trials to try out new ideas and see how much good they bring.

And finally, as a balm to my anxiety about what the best way to respond to the growing decline of political liberalism, Bregman has a strategy: use Politics as a way to move the Overton window to the left: for too long, the Global Right has been moving more and more right, while the progressive parties talk about compromises and being reasonable. But each new rightwing extremist defines deviance down, so what we perceive as moderation shifts further and further right. Bregman encourages readers to use the statistics he presents to calmly and logically argue back in the other direction, and convince politicians to run on truly progressive agenda.

So the downsides? I've hinted at a couple of them: like many books that seem to have started as a collection of essays, I found Utopia for Realists a little disorganized, and at times disjointed. I found I had to read large chunks at a time, or I would get lost because Bergman will revisit ideas that he previously explored without noting that it was discussed in a prior chapter. I thought the three sections were a little artificial – the topics relate to each other, and the information between the Big Ideas, I thought was as worthy of fleshing out, and perhaps one chapter per concept would have provided an internal structure that the book seemed to lack. Finally, and perhaps my biggest criticism is that Bergman told, rather than showed the statistics, and for a book that prides itself on being “for realists” and data-driven, I wanted to see the data. In at least three different spots, Bergman talks about data showing one thing, than being reanalyzed and showing another. That's normal for such highly charged, politicized topics, but as a reader with a strong mathematical background, I wanted more evidence about why I should believe the reanalysis over the original results: what was the statistical error? What other analyses have been done?

Overall, though, I thought Utopia for Realists was a fresh take on the topic of how to make the world a better place. I liked that Bergman focused on some concrete ideas, and looked to bring in evidence for each, within the context of a philosophical idea to dream bigger. Often with books like this, I wonder who the intended audience is, but I think with the stated goal of encouraging liberals to use data to shift the Overton window, Bergman answers that question and it's a good answer: this book isn't intended to change the minds of people who are opposed to UBI or a 15 hour workweek or open borders (or housing first, or direct cash assistance, or randomized controlled trials of social justice), but to change the minds of people who are in favor of all of those things, but afraid to look impractical. I'm still not totally convinced, but I feel better than I did before reading it.