Kelsey

Immediately orders sequel upon completion

I'm usually that annoying type of person who struggles to suspend my disbelief when it comes to fantasy novels. But I was emotionally desperate for this book – after A Little Life followed by a nonfiction about addiction, I told myself it was time for something breezy. City of Brass did not disappoint. I have my qualms (of course, as one must), but they didn't hamper the book's ability to transport me out of my anxiety brain. For that, I am very grateful.

All I wish is that Chakraborty would brainstorm some new ways of expressing “his smile did not reach his eyes”. Might I recommend the following:

“His smile was not compelling”
“He smiled unconvincingly”
“She noticed his smile appeared fake”
Etc, etc, etc.

From pages ~150-300, I had the recurring thought that I should not have read this book.

For one thing, I'm not the appropriate audience for it; I missed 8th grade U.S. history due to relocating from Florida to Georgia (a little besides the point, I know, but still relevant considering how much U.S. history knowledge Mallon expects the reader to have). One might consider me to be quite the idiot when it comes to ‘50s history in particular, and one could certainly say that I know nothing about what it's like to be a gay man in the ‘50s. Or at any point in time for that matter. For a second thing, I think I just found it boring (likely as a result of the aforementioned incompetence).

So having said that, I'll do my best to judge what I was able to understand. Starting with the writing. I thought the writing was quite good, especially when it came to the abundance of dialogue (which, to me, explains why this was turned into a Showtime series despite its dull, slow plot that to any normal person would not warrant 8 episodes). I'd consider reading another book by Mallon if it was based in a different time period and consisted of entirely different thematic elements. Honestly, if I wasn't so busy getting turned around by all the characters being referred to by both their first and last names interchangeably and at varying times, I might have even enjoyed the plot. Thematically, however, I'm hesitant to admit that it wasn't very appealing. Granted, like I said, I'm not the ideal audience for it... but all things considered, your two main characters are still white men in the ‘50s. Despite their quasi-secretive sexual orientation, they still had it pretty good compared to every other character in the book. All the women were secretaries looking to get married, and any mention of any people of color was derogatory and dismissive (as expected of the ‘50s, so I'm not blaming the author for accurately portraying character dynamics... jfyi). I just found it a little hard to sympathize with their plight. But, hey, at least it's self aware! A great line from Mary when responding to a white man asking her to keep him in the loop: “It amazes me that you believe somebody is going to come down the hall to tell me anything other than that the new file boxes I've ordered have come in.”

Great. Now, speaking of Mary... I am delighted to say that she was my favorite part about this whole book. All things considered, she could in some ways be considered the main character (many who have read the book may scoff at that, but I don't care what you think!). Toward the end, she has a revelation that in many ways sums up the whole conflict of the book (non-political conflict anyway): “She was an engine that couldn't turn over; the only state of mind she could fully embrace was hesitation, a conviction that to accept one man or life was to forfeit another.” I guess that takes me back to the good writing. The characters were lovely despite most of them being unlikable. And Mary, most of all, was an excellent character and acted as the glue that brought everything together - she also vocalized what it seemed like all the other men in the book couldn't: I'm unsure, and I'm scared.

Without Mary, the book is unreadable.

Anyways, I guess what I'm trying to say is... meh.

I'd had this book on my shelf for quite a while and was putting it off for fear that it would trigger some sort of emotional response – family trauma stuff, you know – that I wasn't ready for. I'm somehow both delighted and disappointed to report: that was not the case.

As with many research-oriented books, I found that this one in particular was repetitive to the point of becoming unreadable in parts. There was plenty of anecdotal research and no lack of pithy autobiographical stories, but ultimately I thought the scientific backing of the “revolutionary” approach to addiction was lacking. I'm not saying I disagree with most of the arguments in this book (particularly with regard to drug-related policy reform), but if I'm going to read 300 pages about it, I'd hope for a more well-rounded approach that combines both neurological and social evidence.

I have conflicting feelings about this book – mainly I hated it. Before I digress into my disappointment, I'll start with a positive (though wildly underwhelming) opinion.

On the one hand, this book has been the topic of many conversations since I started reading it. It also put me into a deep, dark funk for days (which I think is an impressive feat for any author). And, finally, I can't hate on any book too harshly when I was able to sit down and read it for 3+ hours at a time. So from that perspective... Fine. It was engaging, thought-provoking, well-written, etc, etc.

BUT (this is a big but, requiring all caps) the other hand wanted to throw this book (and myself) out the emergency exit of the airplane where I was reading most of it...

Bear with me as I get a little dramatic (if you liked this book, then I expect you won't take issue with any form of dramatic flare): I mentioned having many conversations about this book. I've also had many conversations about death, international conflict, the gender and race pay gap, sexual assault, etc, etc. Should that mean I'm glad those things exist? Because they give me something to talk about? Sure, I was able to read this book for 3hrs straight; I could also doom scroll on Instagram for 3 hours straight, but I wouldn't recommend that to anyone.

A Little Life was self-indulgent grief porn at best. I will concede that there were descriptions and stories of trauma that I found enlightening; I was surprised at how easy it was to relate to Jude's experience of trauma, despite the exaggerated and deeply disturbing circumstances in which it occurred. However, the hyperbolic display of hardship struck me as cheap in many ways. It seemed like the author spent a week or two contemplating the worst things that could possibly happen to a human. Then rather than attempting to artfully display childhood trauma's effects on adults (which was seemingly her goal), she exploited extreme circumstances to demand an emotional response from the reader.

I would have loved this book if it had left just a sliver of room for the imagination. I'd almost compare it to a movie where the director doesn't believe in the audience to put the pieces together themselves; they give you a montage at the end to over-explain how the heist/murder/escape actually went down, frame by frame. I think readers of this book could have walked away with all the same insights into trauma, friendship, and grief without 140 scenes of pedophilia and abuse.

All that being said, I understand that a lot of people loved this book. I'm open to the possibility that my interpretation was simple-minded, and I'd happily be convinced that all of the shit in this book was necessary.

I'm biased toward Nabokov as he's one of the authors that taught me to love reading in the first place, so take this review with a grain of salt.

I thought King, Queen, Knave was an absolute delight. I'm not giving it 5 stars only because I don't think it holds a flame to the likes of Lolita or Despair. But, in my opinion, Nabokov can do no wrong. He writes some of the most hatable characters I've ever read, including Martha (the titular Queen). She's awful! Don't get me started on spineless Franz either... God, I love him. The best part for me was the fact that the only character worthy of any admiration is Dreyer. Typically the butt of the love triangle in these stories is portrayed as a fool, but Nabokov turns the trope on its head and gives us two cheating idiots who ultimately (it could be argued, anyway) get what they deserve.

Love it.