by Laura Bates (2020)

2024 reads, 26/22:

“Troll. It’s such a silly little word. It makes it sound like a silly little problem. A ridiculous, pot-bellied, bright-haired ‘90s toy. Or a lumbering, stupid, green oaf, crouching slimily beneath a bridge. Neither one comes close to capturing the truth.”

Who remembers the first image of a black hole?

Okay, now who remembers Katie Bouman, the lead developer for the imaging algorithm used to create said image, who also became the target of online trolls and sexist attacks?

I remember this very well. I was on Reddit a lot more back then, as well as Twitter, and I remember seeing comments from tons of users spewing false facts and comments along the lines of “she claimed 100% of the credit” (she did not) or “it was her male colleague who actually wrote all the code” (he did not). Luckily, I never encountered the actual communities from where this hate was originating, and those types of comments were heavily downvoted when I saw them. But that was one of the first times I had seen “the manosphere” breach from the depths of the internet.

However, this is far from the only type of thing where this happens. Men Who Hate Women is about the genesis, growth, and real-world implications of said “manosphere” and the men who permeate it. It’s a tough read, but important nonetheless, as Bates’ research proves eye-opening in exposing not just what goes on in these communities, but more importantly, how young men and boys are finding themselves there. The rise of algorithms and feeds, tools designed to keep someone online as much as possible, is just as much of a recruiting technique as the actual men in these communities.

I don't tend to vibe with nonfiction, but the subject matter in this book is extremely important, and sadly relevant. Anyone remotely interested in gender equality, feminism, or even learning how seemingly normal men can find themselves in this community should read this; they’ll likely find this book a mixture of interesting, frightening, and eye-opening.

“Of course, it doesn’t all look like terrorism, murder, violence or even misogyny on the surface. It would be easier to catch if it did.”

#readingyear2024 #science

by G. K. Chesterton (1908)

2024 reads, 25/22:

“An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only.”

For this year’s October “spooky” read, I went in a bit of a different direction. Maybe it was because the other horror books on my to-read list were already checked out on Libby, but I decided to tackle something I added to my to-read list years ago. The Man Who Was Thursday, by G. K. Chesterton, is a novel about man who infiltrates a seven-man anarchist group, all with codenames that represent the different days of the week. And honestly, what better story to finish around Halloween, than one of metaphorical masks and anarchistic misbehavior?

A foggy London town sets the backdrop of our two main characters, Lucian Gregory, the anarchist poet, and Gabriel Syme, his foil. You’ve probably immediately clocked the biblical imagery here: Lucian, a play on Lucifer, the fallen angel of light, and Gabriel, representing the archangel and heavenly messenger. But it doesn’t stop there – the Christian allegory is rampant in symbolism and motifs throughout this novel, and I’m sure there were many allusions that I missed.

Early on, Chesterton doesn’t hold back in hitting us with a few reveals and twists, and what starts as a philosophical musing on double identities, and the role of anarchy in society, quickly unfolds into a mysterious thriller. There’s still lots of exposition on these topics, especially when Syme starts to ponder about whatever current situation he’s in, but it is contrasted by witty (and even comical) dialogue. Seriously, I was surprised at how slapstick these characters could be.

“‘Secretary,’ said the President seriously, ‘if you'd take your head home and boil it for a turnip it might be useful. I can't say. But it might.’”

Although published in early twentieth century England, the writing is not terribly dated for a novel of that era (though I did have to look up a few archaic words at times). And there’s enough action to keep things interesting, to keep you wanting to know what happens next. I guess that’s all we can really ask for, right?

“This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face.”

#readingyear2024 #british #philosophy

by Qiu Miaojin (1994)

2024 reads, 24/22:

“Man’s greatest suffering is born of mistreatment by his fellow man.”

Notes of a Crocodile is a coming-of-age novel published in 1994 by Taiwanese author Qiu Miaojin. Having gained a cult following (especially in recent years thanks to this new translation by Bonnie Huie), this book follows the unnamed lesbian narrator, nicknamed Lazi, during her college years in 1980s Taipei. I bring up Lazi’s sexual orientation because Notes of a Crocodile covers themes of LGBT+ struggles, along with mental health, friendship, chosen families, and growing up in an era where it seems everything and everyone is against you.

“I love my own kind–womankind. From the moment my consciousness of love was born, there was no hope of cure. And those four words–no hope of cure–encapsulate my state of suffering to this day.”

Reading this book feels like opening someone’s diary—not as an intrusion but as an invitation from Lazi herself (even writing in the second person point of view at times). Because of this, I felt like an insider, and at times, I even felt like a character she was writing letters to. Qiu writes her characters beautifully – not only are they fleshed out, but the relationships between them feel genuine (even if uncomfortable at times).

“Those wrenching eyes, which could lift up the entire skeleton of my being. How I longed for myself to be subsumed into the ocean of her eyes. How the desire, once awakened, would come to scald me at every turn.”

Conversely, it also feels like I don't know these characters at all. Their experiences are so far removed from my own: a different country, a different time, a different sexual orientation. I’m sure there were references, themes, and motifs I missed out on. But I guess that's why we read, right? To gain insight into different experiences that transcend time and space.

I want to keep this review fairly short because I feel so far out of my depth talking about the symbolism, and I won’t pretend to comprehend what the LGBT+ community goes through; yet I loved this book so much. I really would recommend just reading it and getting a feel for the words Qiu paints on the page. If it interests you, I also highly recommend checking out some of the reviews/analyses I’ve linked below that I’ve found helpful in appreciating her work. Qiu is putting her all into this book, which hit even harder when I found out this novel gained recognition posthumously. I’m not exaggerating when I say this may be one of the most important books I’ve read this year.

“The two of us walked down the center of a deserted road. With all human commotion at a standstill, we heard the scattered sounds of nature, the passing cry of a bird overhead. Soaked from head to toe, we found our way to the lush greenery of Wenzhou Street. The trees that lined the street appeared to have been reborn in shades of emerald. No need to be silent. Are you sinking into some corner of your melancholy? In my heart, I called out to you.”

Further Reading:

An Interview with Bonnie Huie, Translator (Neocha)

Consider the Crocodile: Qiu Miaojin’s Lesbian Bestiary (Los Angeles Review of Books)

“Notes of a Crocodile” by Qiu Miaojin (Asian Review of Books)

#readingyear2024 #physicallyowned #nyrb

by Arkady & Boris Strugatsky (1972)

2024 reads, 23/22:

“Over the pile of ancient trash, over the colorful rags and broken glass, drifts a tremor, a vibration, just like the hot air above a tin roof at noon; it floats over the mound and continues, cuts across our path right beside a marker, lingers over the road, waits for half a second—or am I just imagining that? —and slithers into the field, over the bushes, over the rotten fences, toward the old car graveyard.”

I acknowledge that recency bias may be talking here, but – did I just read one of my favorite science fiction books so far?

Science fiction is and has always been about humans in the face of progress, whether forward or backward. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? muses on what it means to be a human. Neuromancer toys with the concept of losing our humanity, and our world, to technology. The Three-Body Problem and its trilogy has humanity rallying together (and splitting apart) in the face of adversity. Even the Hitchhiker’s Guide series has humanity face the ultimate absurdity: itself.

Roadside Picnic continues this pattern of humanity facing itself, and does so extremely well. Short summary: in the wake of an alien visit, multiple “zones” are left around the surface of the earth. These zones are subject to unexplainable physics, rare artifacts, and dangers beyond our comprehension. Furthermore, these zones are illegal to enter. A subclass of criminals called “stalkers” sneak into these zones to retrieve precious objects that can be sold on the black market (and yes, this is the book that inspired Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Stalker).

The premise seems simple, but remember, science fiction is about us. The novel starts ten years or so after “the Visit,” and humanity is no step closer to knowing anything about it – it’s just humans and the Zone. Instead of an alien invasion story, the Strugatskys weave together a novella with philosophical deliberations, fairy tales, and horrific alien technology.

“I lock myself in the stall, take out the flask, unscrew it, and attach myself to it like a leech. I’m sitting on the bench, my heart is empty, my head is empty, my soul is empty, gulping down the hard stuff like water. Alive. I got out. The Zone let me out. The damned hag. My lifeblood. Traitorous bitch. Alive. The novices can’t understand this. No one but a stalker can understand.”

The main character, stalker Red Schuhart, is in my opinion one of the greatest characters ever written. Outside of the Zone, with absolutely no care in the world, he is aloof and hot-headed, careless and an alcoholic. But his skills and concentration in the Zone are unmatched: you feel his focus narrow, his conniving nature, and know that he will stop at nothing to get through this mysterious area. As I write this, I can see how this book may have inspired Annihilation by VanderMeer.

What better way to show how insignificant we are than to have an entire story revolve around the aftermath of a short-lived alien visit. The ending is one of the most bittersweet, and I’ve been thinking about it since I’ve read it. This is a sci-fi classic, and it’s short enough such that I recommend it to anyone even remotely interested.

“Aren’t humans absurd? I suppose we like praise for its own sake. The way children like ice cream. It’s an inferiority complex, that’s what it is. Praise assuages our insecurities. And ridiculously so. How could I rise in my own opinion?”

#readingyear2024 #scifi #dystopia #book2screen #favorites

by Jeff VanderMeer (2014)

2024 reads, 22/22:

“The birds sang as they should; the deer took flight, their white tails exclamation points against the green and brown of the underbrush; the raccoons, bowlegged, swayed about their business, ignoring us. As a group, we felt almost giddy, I think, to be free after so many confining months of training and preparation.”

Kind of funny that my last two books have been in the realm of “ecological sci-fi,” but here we are. However, Annihilation strips away any satire and comedy that may have been in Galapagos, and instead presents an anxiety-ridden atmospheric novel of four scientists who go out to explore the dangerous and unfamiliar “Area X.”

The descriptions of the flora and fauna of Area X are great, and the narrator writes with an unreliable tone while at the same time, sounding like writing a lab report. It’s kind of jarring, but VanderMeer captures the surreal and tense mystery through his Lovecraftian prose very well.

“I took samples as we went, but halfheartedly. All of these tiny remnants I was stuffing into glass tubes with tweezers … what would they tell me? Not much, I felt.”

However, while there was a plot, it didn’t go very far for me. And that’s okay, sometimes things don’t need to happen – I tend to really enjoy books that have no plot line at all. But for this particular brand of sci-fi, I wish for a little more. What might help with this, though, is not reading the blurb on the back of the book. Nothing is spoiled, but some things might hit harder without knowing ahead of time.

Will I finish the trilogy? Maybe. It’s not on the top of my to-read list, but I am curious to learn more about Area X and the world of Southern Reach. But if the genre of eco-horror sci-fi sounds interesting to you, you should pick this one up – and let me know your thoughts.

“You would love it here.”

#readingyear2024 #scifi #environment #spooky #book2screen

by Kurt Vonnegut (1985)

2024 reads, 21/22:

“Does it trouble me to write so insubstantially, with air on air? Well--my words will be as enduring as anything my father wrote, or Shakespeare wrote, or Beethoven wrote, or Darwin wrote. It turns out that they all wrote with air on air.”

Whether through the plot or the writing style, Vonnegut always plays with the concept of time in his novels. In almost every book I’ve read of his, it felt like his idea of “time” was stretched and distorted to his liking, adhering only to his rules. Galapagos is no different.

Although one of Vonnegut’s later works, Galapagos is still incredibly satirical, humorous, and sarcastic. Vonnegut takes on human evolution, survival of the fittest, and the failings of the human brain, from the perspective of an evolved human one million years in the future. This narrator consistently reiterates how the human brain is too big, and as a species, we have become too complex as we generate wars, famines, and any other horsemen of the apocalypse.

“Why so many of us knocked us major chunks of our brains with alcohol from time to time remains an interesting mystery. It may be that we were trying to give evolution a shove in the right direction - in the direction of smaller brains.”

However, the idea of human evolution is such a big one to me, and unfortunately it felt like his satire only brushed the surface of it. Through small-scale vignettes, connected by a single plot line, a cast of characters about to embark on the Nature Cruise of the Century become the only hope for humanity continuing as a species – but I felt that too much time was spent on the backstories of these characters (important, no doubt) rather than how they start anew. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but it felt like a bit of a mismatch with the overarching implications of the human race starting over.

But don’t take my review to be a dislike of this book – if it sounds interesting to you, you should pick it up. Three stars, to me, is a simple “I liked it” with no real sway in either direction. And remember, Vonnegut is like New Jersey pizza: it’s always going to be at least pretty good.

“Some automatic device clicked in her big brain, and her knees felt weak, and there was a chilly feeling in her stomach. She was in love with this man. They don't make memories like that anymore.”

#readingyear2024 #scifi #humor #physicallyowned #environment

by Patrick Radden Keefe (2018)

2024 reads, 20/22:

“Who should be held accountable for a shared history of violence? It was a question that was dogging Northern Ireland as a whole.”

What initially drew me to this book was the TV show Derry Girls, a masterful (and incredibly funny) portrayal of life in 1990s Northern Ireland. The show juxtaposes the realities of the Troubles with the high school “problems” of a group of friends. But since the show is primarily a comedy, I was left wanting to better understand that era of Ireland. Even before Derry Girls, I had only the vaguest idea of what the Troubles were about, admittedly only through songs such as The Cranberries’ Zombie, or U2’s Sunday Bloody Sunday. All I knew was that there was violence in Ireland back then, but there were many gaps in my knowledge.

Generally, I liked Say Nothing – it’s probably closer to 3.5 stars for me, as it did a great job at laying out what had happened during the Troubles. My big takeaway was learning about famous IRA figures such as the Price sisters, Gerry Adams, and Brendan Hughes, and how their stories intertwined and shaped Irish history and independence.

Keefe also spent a lot of time on the aftermath of the 1998 Good Friday Agreement, as the last third of the book focused on the Belfast Project at Boston College. This was interesting, but I would have liked to see more on the background of the conflict between Ireland and the UK (but to be fair, that’s through no fault of the author, as he clearly states the scope of his book).

Overall, I’ve been trying to increase my nonfiction reading, but my problem with nonfiction is that at times, it can feel like a bore to get through. That being said, I ultimately always come out glad I read it. Maybe I’ll get to some more nonfiction on my TBR list soon. If the Troubles, or Irish history/politics (or even journalism) interests you at all, this is a great book to pick up.

“History says, Don’t hope On this side of the grave… But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up, And hope and history rhyme”

-Seamus Heaney, The Cure of Troy

#readingyear2024 #govpol #history #book2screen

by Ted Chiang (2002)

2024 reads, 19/22:

“Despite knowing the journey and where it leads, I embrace it and welcome every moment”

Maybe closer to 3.5 stars, but my score might surprise people with this one. Stories of Your Life and Others is a collection of science fiction short stories written by Ted Chiang from 1990 to 2002, compiled and published in 2002. The most famous story is, of course, Story of Your Lif