Jared

I'm late to the game reading Margaret Atwood's "Oryx and Crake." It caught my attention when it was banned here in Utah under HB29 for containing "sensitive materials." I guess that's one outcome of a book ban—it draws more attention to the book.

I started a Book Club here in Salt Lake City at one of Utah's most unique and inviting bookstores, The King's English Bookshop. This book was our first selection.

Being part of this book club was a genuinely inspiring experience. It provided a wonderful place to connect with fellow book lovers and engage in stimulating discussion. The diverse interpretations and perspectives shared during our meeting shed new light on the book and challenged my understanding of the novel.

"Oryx and Crake" is set in a post-apocalyptic landscape. The story follows Snowman, possibly the last human survivor, navigating a world populated by genetically engineered beings.

This was my first Atwood novel, but I know her reputation. Her strength lies in weaving complex themes into a compelling narrative. The book explores genetic engineering, corporate power, environmental collapse, and the consequences of unchecked scientific advancement. Her world-building is intricate and believable, drawing fascinating and alarming parallels to our current society. This may be why it was banned: Too shocking, too close to home. (Although there are references to child pornography and quite a few sexual acts are referenced. I don’t believe this is for a young teenager; I do believe it is for a mature high school student. During our Book Club discussion, parents felt that they would have access to everything in this book if they had a smartphone. At least this book isn’t showing what it references, but it does help spark conversations that should be had between a responsible parent and their teenager).

I also appreciated her use of mixing present tense and flashbacks. This technique aids character development, builds suspense and intrigue, and provides context for present events. You're constantly learning new things about Snowman, Crake, and Oryx and their intertwined pasts that explain their present lives.

Where it fell short for me was Crake's lack of likability. He felt Elon Musk-like to me—but with this written 20+ years ago, Atwood certainly had a sense of things to come. Also, it felt like the pace of the world that was built didn’t match the pace of the book. I wanted it to move along quickly.

Many people felt unsatisfied with the ending's ambiguity. It was the best way to end the novel. Not only does it keep the door open for sequels, but it also left me pondering what might have been versus what was.

As we see headlines of more intense natural disasters, inventors pushing the limits of what's possible, and genetic engineering of food, this book—as "old" as it might be—is prescient and timely. It should be included in great dystopian fiction alongside works like "1984" and "Brave New World." Perhaps it shouldn't be banned because it raises the questions future generations should be considering so they can create a future they want to live in.

I’ve had this book around since it came out and when I saw it staring at me in the stack I sang, “It's our time, breathe it in…Worlds to change and worlds to win.” (Now if you don’t get that reference, maybe this one isn’t for you).

This is a collection of 11 essays analyzing Stephen Sondheim's musicals (each focusing on one musical). While structured as self-help lessons from each show, the book offers insightful analysis of Sondheim's work. Schoch, a drama professor and former director, thoroughly examines Sondheim's compositions, from technical aspects like writing "Send In the Clowns" for Glynis Johns's limited vocal range to thematic elements like authenticity and artifice.

The writing style felt rather academic, with frequent interruptions to quote song lyrics—just as you'd be getting to a point, there'd be another "here's the Sondheim lyric that proves it." While I enjoyed the book, it's not for casual readers. Unless you're a devoted Sondheim enthusiast or serious theater buff, you won't find much entertainment here, nor will it deliver on its promise to show you "How you have to finish the hat."

There is always a dance between the truth and self-justification, between what happened and what we tell ourselves. This dance is central to Mothers and Sons, Adam Haslett’s new novel. This one is for you if you have grappled with personal history and family relationships. And it marks an impressive start to my 2025 reading.

Mothers and Sons focuses on Peter, a gay asylum lawyer, and his estranged mother, Ann, a co-founder of a women's retreat. Through their interweaving narratives, Haslett examines how we construct stories about ourselves and our past—sometimes to heal, sometimes to hide, and sometimes to justify. The novel's genius lies in how it reveals how these personal narratives can simultaneously illuminate and obscure the truth, much like holding a flashlight in a dark room: what we choose to illuminate often leaves other areas in shadow.

The prose is precise and evocative, never wasting a word. Late in the novel, it dawned on me that Peter’s professional work—helping asylum seekers craft their narratives to justify their stay in America—is similar to his struggle to write his own story. Meanwhile, Ann's role as a source of healing for other women while struggling to connect with her son creates a poignant tension that drives the narrative forward. I found myself more drawn to the chapters featuring Peter than Ann, but perhaps that is my bias shining through.

If you are not familiar with Adam Haslett, he is one of the stronger writers out there today. I’d also recommend his last work, Imagine Me Gone. It contains similar themes about the impact of the past and how that shapes the present, family dynamics, and individual struggles. Imagine Me Gone presents a broader family canvas and focuses on a brother-brother relationship; Mothers and Sons—well, the title says it all.

This book will resonate with readers who appreciate nuanced family dramas, those interested in the psychology of relationships, and anyone who has ever struggled to bridge the gap between their perspective and that of a family member. It's also a strong addition to the canon of queer literature, though its universal themes of connection, understanding, and self-discovery transcend any categorization. This book reminds me of my favorites from last year: Hollinghurt’s Our Evenings Rapp’s Wolf at the Table and Attenberg’s A Reason to See You Again. I suppose I have a thing for family dramas since they help me understand my own experiences or at least provide catharsis to process what I've been through.

Bottom Line: This novel not only entertains but also serves as a lesson about our own tendencies to shape and reshape our personal histories. It is an excellent choice to begin the reading year with.

In "Come Fly Away with Me," you'll be intoxicated by the allure of air travel during the jet age. Pan Am wasn't just transportation – flying with them was an event dripping with glamour and possibility. The novel transports us to an era when Pan Am stewardesses embodied both sophistication and liberation, their powder-blue uniforms and perfectly coiffed hair becoming symbols of mid-century modern elegance.

Through the intertwining stories of Beverly and Judy, we witness how Pan Am's strict requirements for its stewardesses – young, single, beautiful, educated – created an elite corps of women who became the face of luxury air travel. The airline's exacting standards, while problematic by today's measures, contributed to an aura of exclusivity that made flying Pan Am feel like joining an exclusive club at 35,000 feet.

The novel weaves together the personal liberation these women sought with the broader cultural context of the 1960s. Pan Am stewardesses were among the most traveled women in the world at a time when most women rarely left their hometowns. They served cocktails in the clouds, spoke multiple languages, and navigated international customs - with ease and grace. Their sophisticated image was carefully cultivated – from their white gloves to their ability to serve a perfect omelet – the detail revealed in this book shows the high standards set by jet-age glamour.

What makes this book particularly compelling is its exploration of the paradox these women lived: they were simultaneously symbols of female empowerment and objects of male fantasy. The author doesn't shy away from showing how Pan Am's stewardesses used this duality to their advantage, leveraging their positions to gain independence, travel the world, and escape societal constraints, all while working within a system commodifying their appearance and youth.

The epistolary elements scattered throughout the narrative add mystery and depth, culminating in a revelation that grounds these glamorous heights in stark emotional reality. This literary device effectively demonstrates how beneath the perfectly maintained exterior of Pan Am's golden age lay complex personal stories of ambition, escape, and reinvention.

For anyone fascinated by the romance of air travel's golden age, this novel is a first-class ticket to an era when flying was sexy, sophisticated, and full of promise (there isn't a screaming TSA agent, X-ray machine, cramped coach seat in sight). It reminds us of a time when Pan Am's stewardesses were more than service providers – they were ambassadors of the jet age, representing American glamour and sophistication across the globe. Through its compelling narrative and rich historical detail (seriously, this is a well-researched novel), "Come Fly Away with Me" celebrates the allure of that era and the remarkable women who helped define it.

Thank you, NetGalley, for an early read.

Christopher Bollen's latest is a significant leap forward for an author who has already proven himself adept at crafting engaging suspense novels. Having read his previous works - A Beautiful Crime and The Destroyers - I was familiar with his talent for creating rich, relatable characters and delivering straightforward thrillers with just the right amount of suspense. However, Havoc takes it to a new level.

At the center of Havoc is Maggie, an 81-year-old protagonist whose unreliability as a narrator gradually becomes one of the story's most compelling elements. Initially presenting herself as a benevolent widow seeking solace in an Egyptian hotel (during the pandemic, which heightens the tension), Maggie's true nature unfolds in increasingly disturbing ways, particularly through her manipulation of a young boy named Otto.

The novel's pacing is exceptional. I found myself at the halfway point one night, ready to turn in, when suddenly the narrative shifted from a simmer to a full boil. The protagonist does something so unexpected, so shocking, that I couldn't put the book down. I had to see it through to its conclusion, even if it meant losing sleep. This is precisely what great suspense writing should do - compel you to keep turning pages despite your bedtime.

What makes this novel different than his others are how he plays with reader sympathy. For much of the novel, you find yourself aligned with Maggie - after all, who wouldn't empathize with an elderly widow? But as the story progresses, this empathy becomes increasingly complicated. The final third of the book reveals just how manipulated we’ve been, forcing us to confront the reality that our protagonist needs help far more than she deserves our sympathy. (I’m finding it hard to write this as to both encourage you to read it, but also not spoil it.)

The Egyptian hotel setting provides an elaborate backdrop for the psychological drama that unfolds, with Bollen's vivid descriptions bringing the location to life in a way that enhances rather than overshadows the central narrative. The author excels at creating an atmosphere of mounting tension, using the exotic setting to amplify the sense of displacement and unease that permeates each page.

The novel's exploration of themes such as grief, manipulation, and the fragility of the human psyche is handled with subtlety and depth. Bollen avoids heavy-handed metaphors in favor of allowing these themes to emerge naturally through the increasingly complex relationship between Maggie and Otto, and through Maggie's own deteriorating grip on reality.

At the end you’ll be wondering what was real and what was Maggie’s own making. I’ve seen this compared to the movies The Bad Seed and Thelma and the television series The White Lotus. And yes, while it incorporates these familiar stories, Bollen elevates the genre by adding his own distinctive touches, crafting a psychological suspense that haunts me long after the final page.