The Stories of English by David Crystal
534 pages
Published 2004
Read from July 21(?) to July 29
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
This is the first review I'm writing after the great laptop disaster. It is Weird As Hell typing on a keyboard with a working E key. I keep wanting to hit CTRL-V every single time there's an E coming up. My fingers keep fouling each other on the keyboard. It doesn't help that this is a big clacky keyboard of the sort libraries have been using for the last decade or two. Give me a laptop keyboard almost any day. So long as all the keys actually work.
Anyway, this was a pretty good book. Much more informative than Bryson's Mother Tongue, albeit far less entertaining. Crystal doesn't become utterly dry at any point, but it does seem to drag on a bit in spots. As usual with me, I most enjoyed the chapters dealing with the oldest permutations of the language; I annoyed Jen with my constant attempts to sound out the Old English bits sprinkled throughout the first part of the book. But even the post-Tudor material was interesting to me, in part because my knowledge of British history peters out by Elizabeth's time. For a book with the stated goal of "telling the stories" of dialect English, of "non-standard" language, it's really kind of baffling how so little space gets devoted to English overseas; between them, American, Canadian, Australian, Indian, and African Englishes get maybe an entire chapter of coverage.
I'm sure there was a lot more I could have said about this book if I cared to, but I haven't had to write anything on a public library terminal in ages, and between that and this keyboard, the whole situation is not conducive to profound thought.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
2013 read #98: The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman.
The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
307 pages
Published 2008
Read from July 23 to July 24
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
As soon as the character Scarlett was introduced, "dressed in bright colors, yellow and pink and orange," I wondered how closely this one would adhere to the Neil Gaiman novel formula. Thankfully we don't get into that rut, at least not entirely; Scarlett is a relatively grounded everyteen instead of a flaming car crash of a manic pixie dream girl, and Bod assumes the quietly competent role instead of getting caught in the well-meaning but useless Gaiman male protagonist trap. On the other hand, Every Man Jack and the ghouls both fulfill Gaiman's archetypal (contractual?) well-dressed, waggish, faux-cultivated, faux-gentlemanly, slyly sinister villains from the underworld role, which got a bit distracting. But really, you don't read Gaiman books for the main characters (or at least I don't), and you don't read children's books in general for plot twists you don't see coming a mile away. Gaiman's strength is atmosphere and deftly-if-broadly drawn supporting characters, which The Graveyard Book has in spades (get it?).
307 pages
Published 2008
Read from July 23 to July 24
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
As soon as the character Scarlett was introduced, "dressed in bright colors, yellow and pink and orange," I wondered how closely this one would adhere to the Neil Gaiman novel formula. Thankfully we don't get into that rut, at least not entirely; Scarlett is a relatively grounded everyteen instead of a flaming car crash of a manic pixie dream girl, and Bod assumes the quietly competent role instead of getting caught in the well-meaning but useless Gaiman male protagonist trap. On the other hand, Every Man Jack and the ghouls both fulfill Gaiman's archetypal (contractual?) well-dressed, waggish, faux-cultivated, faux-gentlemanly, slyly sinister villains from the underworld role, which got a bit distracting. But really, you don't read Gaiman books for the main characters (or at least I don't), and you don't read children's books in general for plot twists you don't see coming a mile away. Gaiman's strength is atmosphere and deftly-if-broadly drawn supporting characters, which The Graveyard Book has in spades (get it?).
Monday, July 22, 2013
2013 read #97: Tehanu: The Last Book of Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin.
Tehanu: The Last Book of Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin
226 pages
Published 1990
Read from July 21 to July 22
Rating: ★★★½ out of 5
I so called this when I read A Wizard of Earthsea. Well, maybe not so much called it as suspected it: There was no way Le Guin would create a world dominated by male-only magic without eventually addressing the issues of gendered power inherent in her fictional universe. Tehanu gets right to the point, presenting a blunt, broad metaphor for how society marginalizes and subdues women, relegating them to lives as accessories to and dependents of men. Tenar, the central character of The Tombs of Atuan, returns as an older widowed woman, a role seldom encountered in fantasy (or, for that matter, in fiction in general) -- a role of particular powerlessness, a superfluous stage of life after a woman's societal "usefulness" has been exhausted. She's joined by Ged, himself rendered powerless, a man unmanned in a male-dominated society. It's practically textbook gender studies fiction, and the lack of subtlety is driven home by a particularly one-dimensional villain who appears just long enough to subjugate our heroes before being rather inevitably dispatched. (Oops, I guess I should have warned you about spoilers. Oh well.)
Despite this heavyhandedness, I enjoyed Tehanu quite a bit. The story may not be subtle, but Le Guin's prose here has a delicate touch, a melancholy tinge of fading years and a long lifetime behind it, an affecting match for the heavy themes. Above all I enjoyed the novelty of a female protagonist in late middle age. Tehanu isn't quite the breezy fantasy classic that is A Wizard of Earthsea, but all in all I'd say it comes in second best of the Earthsea novels.
226 pages
Published 1990
Read from July 21 to July 22
Rating: ★★★½ out of 5
I so called this when I read A Wizard of Earthsea. Well, maybe not so much called it as suspected it: There was no way Le Guin would create a world dominated by male-only magic without eventually addressing the issues of gendered power inherent in her fictional universe. Tehanu gets right to the point, presenting a blunt, broad metaphor for how society marginalizes and subdues women, relegating them to lives as accessories to and dependents of men. Tenar, the central character of The Tombs of Atuan, returns as an older widowed woman, a role seldom encountered in fantasy (or, for that matter, in fiction in general) -- a role of particular powerlessness, a superfluous stage of life after a woman's societal "usefulness" has been exhausted. She's joined by Ged, himself rendered powerless, a man unmanned in a male-dominated society. It's practically textbook gender studies fiction, and the lack of subtlety is driven home by a particularly one-dimensional villain who appears just long enough to subjugate our heroes before being rather inevitably dispatched. (Oops, I guess I should have warned you about spoilers. Oh well.)
Despite this heavyhandedness, I enjoyed Tehanu quite a bit. The story may not be subtle, but Le Guin's prose here has a delicate touch, a melancholy tinge of fading years and a long lifetime behind it, an affecting match for the heavy themes. Above all I enjoyed the novelty of a female protagonist in late middle age. Tehanu isn't quite the breezy fantasy classic that is A Wizard of Earthsea, but all in all I'd say it comes in second best of the Earthsea novels.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
2013 read #96: Touching the Void by Joe Simpson.
Touching the Void: The True Story of One Man's Miraculous Survival by Joe Simpson
218 pages
Published 1988
Read July 21
Rating: ★★★ out of 5
When I was a 'tween, I had a predilection for books on mountaineering, polar adventure, and anything that involved more or less voluntary misery and the possibility of lost toes. My living situation back then prevented me from ever obtaining and reading more than two or three such books, but they left a mark on me, contributing to highly optimistic fantasies in my teen years of voyages and feats of adventure I would undertake as soon as I was free of my father. Ice and frostbite and oxygen deprivation lost their hold on my imagination, but I still have a soft spot for "pure" mountaineering, for climbs up untested routes and unsummited peaks, for uncomfortable bivouacs in snow caves and the rhythmic chipping of ice axes.
I would have liked this book a lot as a 'tween. Nowadays I read too critically. I look askance at Simpson's decision to imagine climbing partner Simon Yates' perspective in the first person (seriously, that's what third person narration is designed for), and find Simpson's prose mechanical and a bit amateurish. I can't find it all as compelling as I would have twenty years ago.
218 pages
Published 1988
Read July 21
Rating: ★★★ out of 5
When I was a 'tween, I had a predilection for books on mountaineering, polar adventure, and anything that involved more or less voluntary misery and the possibility of lost toes. My living situation back then prevented me from ever obtaining and reading more than two or three such books, but they left a mark on me, contributing to highly optimistic fantasies in my teen years of voyages and feats of adventure I would undertake as soon as I was free of my father. Ice and frostbite and oxygen deprivation lost their hold on my imagination, but I still have a soft spot for "pure" mountaineering, for climbs up untested routes and unsummited peaks, for uncomfortable bivouacs in snow caves and the rhythmic chipping of ice axes.
I would have liked this book a lot as a 'tween. Nowadays I read too critically. I look askance at Simpson's decision to imagine climbing partner Simon Yates' perspective in the first person (seriously, that's what third person narration is designed for), and find Simpson's prose mechanical and a bit amateurish. I can't find it all as compelling as I would have twenty years ago.
2013 read #95: Watership Down by Richard Adams.
Watership Down by Richard Adams
482 pages
Published 1972
Read from July 17 to July 21
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
I always assumed that this book was decades older than it is. The title has a certain Edwardian mustiness that brings to mind the smell of fancy old books and yellow paper in a warm wooden attic. The text itself is thoroughly 1970s, of course, brisk when not heavy with bucolic description, stirring with early signs of modernity but still stained with the odd casual reference to "primitive men" in hot latitudes. The story is hella entertaining, if a bit dry in spots, and it ends satisfyingly. Definitely a good read.
482 pages
Published 1972
Read from July 17 to July 21
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
I always assumed that this book was decades older than it is. The title has a certain Edwardian mustiness that brings to mind the smell of fancy old books and yellow paper in a warm wooden attic. The text itself is thoroughly 1970s, of course, brisk when not heavy with bucolic description, stirring with early signs of modernity but still stained with the odd casual reference to "primitive men" in hot latitudes. The story is hella entertaining, if a bit dry in spots, and it ends satisfyingly. Definitely a good read.
Friday, July 19, 2013
2013 read #94: Six-Gun Snow White by Catherynne M. Valente.
Six-Gun Snow White by Catherynne M. Valente
167 pages
Published 2013
Read from July 18 to July 19
Rating: ★★★★½ out of 5
I am all about this sort of thing; the title alone is enough to tell you why. Fantasy western is hands-down my favorite genre, and fairy tale retellings -- done well and with attention to new detail -- are a reliable font of good times. The only way I would have liked this book any better is if it were longer, more fleshed out, though honestly much of its impact draws from its clipped prose, hard as coffin nails, and any sort of lingering indulgence or excess would probably soften and ruin that.
A minor technical quibble: I have a bit of a pet peeve about books that begin in, say, first person and then shift for no discernible reason into third. Aside from that, I was tempted to give this book an unheard-of perfect score. Not bad for a book I didn't even know existed before I spied it on the shelf the other day.
167 pages
Published 2013
Read from July 18 to July 19
Rating: ★★★★½ out of 5
I am all about this sort of thing; the title alone is enough to tell you why. Fantasy western is hands-down my favorite genre, and fairy tale retellings -- done well and with attention to new detail -- are a reliable font of good times. The only way I would have liked this book any better is if it were longer, more fleshed out, though honestly much of its impact draws from its clipped prose, hard as coffin nails, and any sort of lingering indulgence or excess would probably soften and ruin that.
A minor technical quibble: I have a bit of a pet peeve about books that begin in, say, first person and then shift for no discernible reason into third. Aside from that, I was tempted to give this book an unheard-of perfect score. Not bad for a book I didn't even know existed before I spied it on the shelf the other day.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
2013 read #93: The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury.
The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury
181 pages
Published 1950
Read from July 15 to July 17
Rating: ★★★★½ out of 5
Until now, my only significant exposure to Bradbury consisted of Fahrenheit 451 and Something Wicked This Way Comes. Of the two, Something Wicked lingered with me the most over the years. What I most admire is Bradbury's hand at description, the shadowed fantasy spaces at the edge of childhood awareness and in the chill of autumn nights, the unsettling familiarity and familiar terror of adolescence in memory. My description could never do Bradbury justice.
Only one segment of The Martian Chronicles, the all too brief interlude titled "The Musicians," is suffused with what I would consider the Bradbury magic, the realms of macabre unreal that open when the adults don't know where you are. The rest of the stories and snippets tend to be more or less predictable but still quite excellent samples of late Golden Age sci-fi. My favorite full story in the set, "The Million-Year Picnic," is a hybrid of these two styles, a sharply observed vignette of adolescence in the ruins of two worlds.
Throughout this book Bradbury emphasizes scene and sensory marvel over character; a product of its time, most of the characters in The Martian Chronicles are broad archetypes, rendered vivid through Bradbury's skill but nonetheless lacking some substance, whereas concepts and imagery go all-out.
181 pages
Published 1950
Read from July 15 to July 17
Rating: ★★★★½ out of 5
Until now, my only significant exposure to Bradbury consisted of Fahrenheit 451 and Something Wicked This Way Comes. Of the two, Something Wicked lingered with me the most over the years. What I most admire is Bradbury's hand at description, the shadowed fantasy spaces at the edge of childhood awareness and in the chill of autumn nights, the unsettling familiarity and familiar terror of adolescence in memory. My description could never do Bradbury justice.
Only one segment of The Martian Chronicles, the all too brief interlude titled "The Musicians," is suffused with what I would consider the Bradbury magic, the realms of macabre unreal that open when the adults don't know where you are. The rest of the stories and snippets tend to be more or less predictable but still quite excellent samples of late Golden Age sci-fi. My favorite full story in the set, "The Million-Year Picnic," is a hybrid of these two styles, a sharply observed vignette of adolescence in the ruins of two worlds.
Throughout this book Bradbury emphasizes scene and sensory marvel over character; a product of its time, most of the characters in The Martian Chronicles are broad archetypes, rendered vivid through Bradbury's skill but nonetheless lacking some substance, whereas concepts and imagery go all-out.
Monday, July 15, 2013
2013 read #92: Prospero In Hell by L. Jagi Lamplighter.
Prospero In Hell by L. Jagi Lamplighter
347 pages
Published 2010
Read from July 13 to July 15
Rating: ★★★ out of 5
When I had a dream about this book series the other day, I figured it was about time to crack open book two.
I wish I had taken the time to write down my dream while it was still fresh, because I think I'll have to give the dream a slight edge over this book. There are plenty of set-piece scenes here that made for a memorable, enjoyable read -- apocryphal Christian mysticism, the hierarchies of demons and angels and so forth, is a spectacular fantasy environment, if nothing else. But the first half of Prospero In Hell is dragged down with innumerable repetitions of the same basic mysteries facing the main characters. I swear the same list of mysteries gets rehashed almost every chapter, if not multiple times in the same chapter, every time a slight bit of new information comes to light and revises their understanding of the situation. And then after the halfway point, it's like that list of questions doesn't matter any longer, because Lamplighter goes all out with the "Everything you thought you knew was wrong!" plot twists, which got annoying after a while. I think one character ends up having three different mistaken identities by the end; one character thought returned from the dead had not, while another character thought dead from the beginning of the series was not. It became very soap opera-ish.
Plus I'm troubled by the emphasis on womanly chastity as an important magical/supernatural power. Yeah, I know, that sort of thing is prevalent all over mythology and mysticism, but still, it goes against my grain. Especially with where that leads in this series so far, it has uncomfortable implications. Which is true I guess of the source mythologies, but whatever. This is the 21st century. I'm kind of over that crap.
Overall I think I enjoyed this book more than the rating would indicate, but I do think I should fault it for technical and thematic shortcomings. It really picked up toward the end, finishing with an actual climax and cliffhanger for once, so I have moderate hopes for the conclusion of the trilogy.
347 pages
Published 2010
Read from July 13 to July 15
Rating: ★★★ out of 5
When I had a dream about this book series the other day, I figured it was about time to crack open book two.
I wish I had taken the time to write down my dream while it was still fresh, because I think I'll have to give the dream a slight edge over this book. There are plenty of set-piece scenes here that made for a memorable, enjoyable read -- apocryphal Christian mysticism, the hierarchies of demons and angels and so forth, is a spectacular fantasy environment, if nothing else. But the first half of Prospero In Hell is dragged down with innumerable repetitions of the same basic mysteries facing the main characters. I swear the same list of mysteries gets rehashed almost every chapter, if not multiple times in the same chapter, every time a slight bit of new information comes to light and revises their understanding of the situation. And then after the halfway point, it's like that list of questions doesn't matter any longer, because Lamplighter goes all out with the "Everything you thought you knew was wrong!" plot twists, which got annoying after a while. I think one character ends up having three different mistaken identities by the end; one character thought returned from the dead had not, while another character thought dead from the beginning of the series was not. It became very soap opera-ish.
Plus I'm troubled by the emphasis on womanly chastity as an important magical/supernatural power. Yeah, I know, that sort of thing is prevalent all over mythology and mysticism, but still, it goes against my grain. Especially with where that leads in this series so far, it has uncomfortable implications. Which is true I guess of the source mythologies, but whatever. This is the 21st century. I'm kind of over that crap.
Overall I think I enjoyed this book more than the rating would indicate, but I do think I should fault it for technical and thematic shortcomings. It really picked up toward the end, finishing with an actual climax and cliffhanger for once, so I have moderate hopes for the conclusion of the trilogy.
Friday, July 12, 2013
2013 read #91: The Plantagenets: The Warrior Kings and Queens Who Made England by Dan Jones.
The Plantagenets: The Warrior Kings and Queens Who Made England by Dan Jones
510 pages
Published 2012
Read from July 7 to July 12
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
Another serviceable, competently written kings-and-wars history. It's interesting to contrast the more traditional emphasis here with the avowedly feminist reading of many of the same events in Helen Castor's She-Wolves. Edward II's reputed homosexuality is taken as fact in the latter book, whereas Jones brushes it aside within two paragraphs, saying we'll never know for certain but hinting it was simply pro-Mortimer propaganda. For that matter, Castor makes Isabella the prime actor of her husband's deposition, while Jones relegates her for the most part to an accessory and puppet of Roger Mortimer. Despite the egalitarian tone suggested in The Plantagenets' subtitle, queens and female agency in general are given short shrift in Jones' survey of Plantagenet dramas and battles. But The Plantagenets is a good, absorbing read despite all that.
510 pages
Published 2012
Read from July 7 to July 12
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
Another serviceable, competently written kings-and-wars history. It's interesting to contrast the more traditional emphasis here with the avowedly feminist reading of many of the same events in Helen Castor's She-Wolves. Edward II's reputed homosexuality is taken as fact in the latter book, whereas Jones brushes it aside within two paragraphs, saying we'll never know for certain but hinting it was simply pro-Mortimer propaganda. For that matter, Castor makes Isabella the prime actor of her husband's deposition, while Jones relegates her for the most part to an accessory and puppet of Roger Mortimer. Despite the egalitarian tone suggested in The Plantagenets' subtitle, queens and female agency in general are given short shrift in Jones' survey of Plantagenet dramas and battles. But The Plantagenets is a good, absorbing read despite all that.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
2013 read #90: Candide, or Optimism by Voltaire.
Candide, or Optimism by Voltaire
166 pages
Published 1759
Read July 11
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
I love cynical, bleakly funny works written in the faux-naive voice of Enlightenment satire. Not that I've read many, mind you, but Gulliver's Travels -- once I was old enough to seek out and somewhat digest the unexpurgated version -- was an early favorite, and Candide turns out to be pretty darn good too. At least, the "actual" Candide was satisfyingly acerbic. My edition also had a "Part II," which according to Wikipedia is variously attributed to Thorel de Campigneulles or Henri Joseph Du Laurens. That extra bit of fan-fiction, the authenticity of which is never questioned in my copy, was noticeably inferior, blunting the edge of Voltaire's nasty hilarity and introducing an anti-Enlightenment message in the person of Zenoida, which even as I was reading it felt at odds with Voltaire's attitude in "Part I." I can't entirely despise the non-canon fan service, as the chapter "Candide Meditates Suicide" was one of the funniest portions of the entire book, but on the whole "Part II" was still an odd interlude that diminished the overall effect of the novella.
166 pages
Published 1759
Read July 11
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
I love cynical, bleakly funny works written in the faux-naive voice of Enlightenment satire. Not that I've read many, mind you, but Gulliver's Travels -- once I was old enough to seek out and somewhat digest the unexpurgated version -- was an early favorite, and Candide turns out to be pretty darn good too. At least, the "actual" Candide was satisfyingly acerbic. My edition also had a "Part II," which according to Wikipedia is variously attributed to Thorel de Campigneulles or Henri Joseph Du Laurens. That extra bit of fan-fiction, the authenticity of which is never questioned in my copy, was noticeably inferior, blunting the edge of Voltaire's nasty hilarity and introducing an anti-Enlightenment message in the person of Zenoida, which even as I was reading it felt at odds with Voltaire's attitude in "Part I." I can't entirely despise the non-canon fan service, as the chapter "Candide Meditates Suicide" was one of the funniest portions of the entire book, but on the whole "Part II" was still an odd interlude that diminished the overall effect of the novella.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
2013 read #89: Paradise Found: Nature in America at the Time of Discovery by Steve Nicholls.
Paradise Found: Nature in America at the Time of Discovery by Steve Nicholls
459 pages
Published 2009
Read from July 1 to July 9
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
When I'm feeling bored or uncomfortable during semi-mandatory social occasions, I like to read. This is apparently considered rude, though as I've never grasped (even in the slightest) why this should be so, I tend to forget that. And I tend to be surprised every time by other people's reactions when I read. At the very least, I can expect to process no more than two or three sentences at a time before some nincompoop interrupts me to ask what I'm reading, as if the presence of an actual book is a marvel that must be investigated. Foolishly, I brought this book to a gathering of Jen's white trash family in a trashy gated community in rural Pennsylvania, a veritable halcyon for the sorts of people who think Obama is a Muslim socialist out to take all their guns, so I should have expected much worse than that.
I was sitting on the deserted back deck of this rickety McMansion when some older guy I didn't know stopped to ask what I was reading. Annoyed by the interruptions, I mumbled "Ecology," let him look at the cover (which is apparently a deep-seated need among the "What're you reading?" crowd), and hoped he would go away.
Instead he mused, "Ecology. Niiice. You know there are a lot of opinions in that, right?"
I do this snotty Internet Atheist thing where I cock my eyebrow at idiots and I'm not even aware of it half the time, it's so automatic. But he went away and, thinking no more of him, I stuck my nose back into the book.
He stumped back out onto the deck with a drink in his hand, though, and inched a meaty paw toward my shoulder. Bear in mind he hadn't so much as introduced himself, and here he was, standing over me inside my personal space. "I saw you givin' me a quizzical look when I said ecology had a lot of opinions."
I stared at him, half uncomprehending, half frozen by my social awkwardness, entirely hoping he would simply go away again. He seemed to expect some kind of response, though, so I mumbled something really kind of stupid: "Oh, your degree is in ecology?"
He snorted in disbelief and drew himself into a truculent stance over me. "Waw, I worked thirty years in it. So you're saying you believe there's only one way to do ecology?"
My brain does not work well when I'm accosted by idiots before I even get a chance to prepare. My strength has always been in the written word. Ask me to verbalize a cogent defense of something so fundamental as rationality, and I freeze up. I stared at him like I was bluescreening, then finally managed to snarl, "I didn't come here to interrupt you," or something similarly stupid and childish.
"Oh, excuse me," he said, backing away as if I were a delicate child, making exaggerated careful motions with his hands.
That was on July 4. That encounter has yet to stop rankling me.
One thing that bothers me is that I was such a terrible, absolutely terrible, ambassador of science and reality. For days now I've been coming up with snappy comebacks: "Ecology is a science. In science, opinions don't matter until they've been tested and peer-reviewed." Or "'We all have opinions' is the refuge of those whose worldview is incompatible with reality." Or, when he made the leap to broad generalizations about my "beliefs," I could have calmly stated, "Ah, you're already strawmanning me. Lovely. I'm done with this." Anything but my mumbled hostility. L'esprit d'escalier is forever the bane of the socially awkward.
But on another level, I'm extremely bothered by the mindset that anonymous tool represented. Not just "my opinions are just as good as your science," though that's a big part of it. It's the idea that nature, ecology, the environment, the history of life on Earth, complex feedbacks and interactions, the web and beauty of life -- that none of that matters, not when there's a little bit of money to be made somewhere by some good ol' boys. Yeah, I'm reading a whole lot into that man's remarks, but it's hard to imagine any other worldview that would prompt his eye-rolling over the silly enterprise called "ecology." Such people (and they do exist, regardless of my anonymous interlocutor's sympathies) absolutely baffle me. I just do not understand how someone, anyone, could not be moved by the sheer grandeur of life on this planet, if only they took the time to become informed about it. And there are many people who disdain the mere thought of becoming informed.
This very book I was reading, if approached with an open heart and an open mind, could have illustrated why I find that attitude so incomprehensible. Nicholls approaches his subject fairly and openly, cautioning about the complexity of interpretation and the paucity and possible bias of historical sources, yet no fair account of the diversity and fecundity of North American ecology during the early period of the Columbian Exchange can fail to elicit wonder and awe. The idea that so many Americans embrace an impoverished worldview devoid of such natural wonder is, frankly, depressing as hell. The fact that they tend vote more enthusiastically than the rest of us is worse. Books like this are necessary to help educate, but sadly, only those of us already inclined to listen to its message are likely to pick it up.
459 pages
Published 2009
Read from July 1 to July 9
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
When I'm feeling bored or uncomfortable during semi-mandatory social occasions, I like to read. This is apparently considered rude, though as I've never grasped (even in the slightest) why this should be so, I tend to forget that. And I tend to be surprised every time by other people's reactions when I read. At the very least, I can expect to process no more than two or three sentences at a time before some nincompoop interrupts me to ask what I'm reading, as if the presence of an actual book is a marvel that must be investigated. Foolishly, I brought this book to a gathering of Jen's white trash family in a trashy gated community in rural Pennsylvania, a veritable halcyon for the sorts of people who think Obama is a Muslim socialist out to take all their guns, so I should have expected much worse than that.
I was sitting on the deserted back deck of this rickety McMansion when some older guy I didn't know stopped to ask what I was reading. Annoyed by the interruptions, I mumbled "Ecology," let him look at the cover (which is apparently a deep-seated need among the "What're you reading?" crowd), and hoped he would go away.
Instead he mused, "Ecology. Niiice. You know there are a lot of opinions in that, right?"
I do this snotty Internet Atheist thing where I cock my eyebrow at idiots and I'm not even aware of it half the time, it's so automatic. But he went away and, thinking no more of him, I stuck my nose back into the book.
He stumped back out onto the deck with a drink in his hand, though, and inched a meaty paw toward my shoulder. Bear in mind he hadn't so much as introduced himself, and here he was, standing over me inside my personal space. "I saw you givin' me a quizzical look when I said ecology had a lot of opinions."
I stared at him, half uncomprehending, half frozen by my social awkwardness, entirely hoping he would simply go away again. He seemed to expect some kind of response, though, so I mumbled something really kind of stupid: "Oh, your degree is in ecology?"
He snorted in disbelief and drew himself into a truculent stance over me. "Waw, I worked thirty years in it. So you're saying you believe there's only one way to do ecology?"
My brain does not work well when I'm accosted by idiots before I even get a chance to prepare. My strength has always been in the written word. Ask me to verbalize a cogent defense of something so fundamental as rationality, and I freeze up. I stared at him like I was bluescreening, then finally managed to snarl, "I didn't come here to interrupt you," or something similarly stupid and childish.
"Oh, excuse me," he said, backing away as if I were a delicate child, making exaggerated careful motions with his hands.
That was on July 4. That encounter has yet to stop rankling me.
One thing that bothers me is that I was such a terrible, absolutely terrible, ambassador of science and reality. For days now I've been coming up with snappy comebacks: "Ecology is a science. In science, opinions don't matter until they've been tested and peer-reviewed." Or "'We all have opinions' is the refuge of those whose worldview is incompatible with reality." Or, when he made the leap to broad generalizations about my "beliefs," I could have calmly stated, "Ah, you're already strawmanning me. Lovely. I'm done with this." Anything but my mumbled hostility. L'esprit d'escalier is forever the bane of the socially awkward.
But on another level, I'm extremely bothered by the mindset that anonymous tool represented. Not just "my opinions are just as good as your science," though that's a big part of it. It's the idea that nature, ecology, the environment, the history of life on Earth, complex feedbacks and interactions, the web and beauty of life -- that none of that matters, not when there's a little bit of money to be made somewhere by some good ol' boys. Yeah, I'm reading a whole lot into that man's remarks, but it's hard to imagine any other worldview that would prompt his eye-rolling over the silly enterprise called "ecology." Such people (and they do exist, regardless of my anonymous interlocutor's sympathies) absolutely baffle me. I just do not understand how someone, anyone, could not be moved by the sheer grandeur of life on this planet, if only they took the time to become informed about it. And there are many people who disdain the mere thought of becoming informed.
This very book I was reading, if approached with an open heart and an open mind, could have illustrated why I find that attitude so incomprehensible. Nicholls approaches his subject fairly and openly, cautioning about the complexity of interpretation and the paucity and possible bias of historical sources, yet no fair account of the diversity and fecundity of North American ecology during the early period of the Columbian Exchange can fail to elicit wonder and awe. The idea that so many Americans embrace an impoverished worldview devoid of such natural wonder is, frankly, depressing as hell. The fact that they tend vote more enthusiastically than the rest of us is worse. Books like this are necessary to help educate, but sadly, only those of us already inclined to listen to its message are likely to pick it up.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
2013 read #88: The Farthest Shore by Ursula K. Le Guin.
The Farthest Shore by Ursula K. Le Guin
223 pages
Published 1972
Read from June 30 to July 7
Rating: ★★½ out of 5
Meh.
This one didn't do it for me. I think the problem was with the viewpoint character, a vaguely perfect Prince That Was Promised archetype with no real depth or substance. My interest waned rapidly in the first chapter, and never quite returned until maybe past the halfway mark. And even then the book was mostly a generalized rehash of classical land of the dead mythology with some modern fantasy dragons tossed in. Someone's heart wasn't in this book. Whether it was mine or Le Guin's is for other readers to decide.
223 pages
Published 1972
Read from June 30 to July 7
Rating: ★★½ out of 5
Meh.
This one didn't do it for me. I think the problem was with the viewpoint character, a vaguely perfect Prince That Was Promised archetype with no real depth or substance. My interest waned rapidly in the first chapter, and never quite returned until maybe past the halfway mark. And even then the book was mostly a generalized rehash of classical land of the dead mythology with some modern fantasy dragons tossed in. Someone's heart wasn't in this book. Whether it was mine or Le Guin's is for other readers to decide.
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