A Labyrinth of the Mundane
342577
I don't really approve of this operating system.  My principal objection is to the lack of anything resembling a coherent user interface.  Where, one wishes to know, are the pulldown menus?  Rather than enforce a standard scheme in all applications, Microsoft has abandoned tradition as well as competant administration, and left its operating system in a state of bewildering anarchy.  Not since King Lear has a sovereign committed so grave an abdication of his rightful authority.  Once-familiar commands are now scattered to strange corners of the screen, or concealed within vague iconographies, that, like the private languages of malevolent gods, condemn mortals to perpetual confusion.  To submit to the indiscipline of Windows Vista is to wander lost in a labyrinth of the mundane.
2441847
This is a mildly interesting book that explores aspects of Japanese culture from a Westerner's point of view.  The cover of my edition describes it as an "extraordinarily evocative, at times erotic," story.  Given that the book is ostensibly about the steamy nightlife of the mizu shoubai, one might expect a rather heady description of what goes on after dark in Japan.  Despite the title, the book does not particularly concern itself with the water trade.  When it does, it is often just a description of the author sitting in some little bar or other drinking.  The book does devote lengthy stretches to things like calligraphy and home furnishings, and perhaps it's just me, but I found it rather boring.

It is hard to imagine who the target audience for this book would be.  For those with little knowledge of Japan, many of the descriptions lack enough context to make much sense.  For persons already acquainted with the culture, the long musings are hardly revealing and some of the author's conclusions are questionable.  Ultimately, it feels like the author wrote this as memoir for himself.  It should give hope to diarists everywhere that they too can one day be published.  There are a few genuinely evocative moments in this book (especially notable was a good description of a funeral), but hardly enough to justify the time it takes to read it.
4139749
It isn't a bad read, the sentences and phrasing are sometimes quite lovely.  The setting is idyllic and yet people have all these interior sins/issues that prevent them from matching the exterior beauty they want to project and protect.  This is a study of a small ecosystem that has suffered a major loss, the vacancy which then results in all sorts of personal and community changes to fix or fill this vacancy.  It is an interesting sociological and perhaps pastoral study of how one person's life and death means so much in so many ways to so many people.  However, this is not Harry Potter, the changes are not exciting, they just happen.  No magic, no wizards and no extreme evil to be combated.  Just normal people - evil enough without magic.
395751
This book, by a well-known poser of puzzles, sets out of the order of a thousand logic puzzles in a format loosely styled upon the presentation of Scheherazade, but in a somewhat less entrancing way.  The problem with logic is that there is just so much of it about. Perhaps the axiom 'less is more' might have been applied and some judicious excision of the more mechanical or repetitious examples been performed.  The jewels are lost amongst the glass beads. Obviously by its nature mathematical logic eschews value judgements, but in the present case this seems to have been taken rather too literally.
776452
Dont tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass, Chekhov wrote.

Daphne Kapsalis book 100 days of Solitude - written while in retreat on the beautiful Greek island of Sifnos - does just that.  In articulate and quirky prose, the author captures slices of life by shining her light on the most mundane of objects.
An abandoned blue hairband on a window ledge invokes a moving story about sisterly love and longing; A basket full of aubergines leads to musings on freedom and the surprising state of feeling stressless. The smell of smoke from a communal wood oven gives rise to reflections on camaraderie and the beauty of rituals; and a bathroom light going pop and plunging the author into darkness becomes a pretext for an engaging piece on language and the art of writing.

The authors alter egos in the book are forces to be reckoned with.
We meet the irritating, critical and demanding Antagonist who cant stand the Dippy Hippie in charge of the authors alternative health, positive thinking and overall spiritual wellbeing. The bored and blas City Girl, yearning for the big lights and bright city, is mean and full of sarcasm when it comes to the Sifnos Chick, the enforcer of the rules of the island. Not to mention the Writer, who is mostly seen leaving rooms as the others enter them. Wisely so. The interactions among these alter egos around the kitchen table result in one of the funniest chapters in the book.

100 days of Solitude and its healthy dose of self-mockery is a breath of fresh air.
2409965
This book is how to find an extraordinary G-d in an ordinary life.

To preface this review, I want to disclose that the review copy I received was an advance copy. Therefore, edits may have been made after the manuscript issued to me for review.

The PR group that contracted me for review has this to say about the book:

Today we live with a false separation between sacred and secular that was never meant to be. Work, paying bills, changing diapers . . . when Jesus enters any situation He makes even the most mundane things extraordinary.

Boring enlivens this truth as author Michael Kelley challenges readers: we can give ourselves to ordinary lifeparenting, marriage, workbecause we fully believe in [G-d's] presence and power within those situations. They are no longer boring, but important.
On every page, Michaels writing provides biblical truth that is relatable and engaging to everyone. Youll begin to see every day at work, every relationship, and every moment for what it is: a part of [G-d's] exciting plan for your life.
Kelley writes in such a manner as to capture the readers attention. He begins to tell a tale of daily life, and at each plot point where the persons life could have leapt out of reality and into an action book, the character experiences another part of the everyday mundane life. What would be called boring in a book or movie is what we call regular, casual, expectedyou get the picture. Our lives are ordinary, and that is what Kelley wants to point out. Our lives are doing the dishes, changing dirty diapers, mowing the lawn, taking vacations, reading books, rinse, wash, repeat. Our lives are, by all accounts, seemingly boring. But what if they really werent?

Could we have a secret life? Thats what Hollywood is attempting to explore. Could the everyday mundane transform into a grandiose adventure? Thats what The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is supposed to be about. But my name is not Walter Mitty. And bet your bottom dollar, neither is yours. So what about us? Kelley explores this avenue and points out that while mundane, and sometimes literally boring, our everyday routine is a point of comfort for us. It may be monotonous, but it can be counted on and gives the stability for a family. Isnt that part of the American Dream?

Kelley points out that chasing that dream, going big, doing great things for G-d, all of that  it places a smudge on our regular lives. So, according to the wishful thinking and a Christian perspective, I could judge myself: my working a regular sales job to bring home money to buy nice things, pay rent, and raise our children is failing the Great Commission. Except that it isnt. Kelley focuses on the issue, and that is what makes this book worth reading: the problem is our definition of significance.

Looking for a self-help book? This may fit the bill. But if you're like me, and you live an ordinary life but have that internal craving for something more, then this book might just be what you're looking for. As for readability, Kelley does a good job. Its a simple read that draws you in. And before you know it, your book review is at 550 words because you are so caught up in the hopes that Kelley might get you over that wall of self-defeat.

Disclosure: I was contracted to write an honest review in exchange for a reviewer copy of the product. The opinions stated in this review are solely my own.
2419583
This book is the first in a new and ongoing omnibus publication of Michael Moorcook's fantasy fiction, centering around his seminal presentation of the "Eternal Champion" and the alternating realities of the  "Multiverse."  These concepts have continued to influence fantasy  writers to the present, including, most recently, Robert Jordan's adoption  of a comparitive framework for his "Wheel of Time" series.  A  major figure in the 60's and 70's, especially in the UK, Moorcook is noted  for his innovative exploration and incorporation of metaphysics as well as  ideas more commonly associated with science fiction than fantasy.
The  stories contained herein were all originally published between 1962 and  1970, and while some have since undergone revision, the quality of writing  typifies much of the work produced during that period, both in fantasy and  in science fiction.  Conceptually pregnant, the narrative devotes much of  its energy to the expression and exploration of ideas, or the description  of imaginary landscapes and populations that could be accused as flights of  fancy for invention's sake.  The work is weak when in comes to  characterization, sense of place, or providing background for the  development of the narrative.  The style of writing seems almost  undeveloped and dated when compared to the narrative and descriptive powers  present in some of the better contemporary work available.  Or perhaps it  is simply that Moorcock is more interested in the expression of the  abstract than in the grounding of his notions in good storytelling.
I am  somewhat unclear as to the inclusion of "The Sundered Worlds" in  this volume.  Not only is it the weakest story by far of the four, with a  plot that is disjointed and moves from one event to the next with little  supporting logic, but it is clearly a tale of science fiction set in the  future amid more traditional tales of sword and sworcery, and only tenously  linked to the latter by reference to the multiverse.  Further, it indulges  in some of the worst excesses of science fiction fancy, replete with  creatures that could inhabit the worst of Harryhausen's B-movie efforts.  By itself this confused adrift in space rates only a single star.
The  three other tales - "The Eternal Champion," "Phoenix in  Obsidian," and "To Rescue Tanelorn" - are all traditional  sword and sorcery fare notable for their exploration of the notions of an  often reluctant hero doomed to repeat his life forever in various  incarnations within the alternate realities of Moorcock's multiverse.  And  though he wears the mantle of a champion, the causes he fights for are not  always of his choosing.  All three tales - the last a short story - in  varying degrees exhibit the lack of strong narrative skills noted above,  but remain, nonetheless, intriguing in their conceptual content.  The  strength of these ideas ameliorates somewhat the lack of prose skills in  their rendering.
I would have to say, as far as this book, that for  historical interest it is worth a look.  However, in terms of narrative  power the stories are never fully realised and remain, unfortunately for  all the promise of their ideas, largely stillborn.
4848691
"Requiem" is Antonio Tabucchi's praise for Lisbon. It describes the journey of one man through the Portugalise city, where he meets some people, dead and alive, in the otherwise deserted city.
The peculiarity of the character is the fact that he has lost his superego, with the consequences of his id, the subconscious fludding his contious mind, hence makim him live in a sort of dreamworld. And from that world come the dead of his past.
The book is slightly semi-artistic, and it's message is left to be speculated about. And even if the basic premise of the story is intriquing, it fails to measure up to the potential it contains.
A short, nice read, wich doesn't offer anything to think about.
2495801
I'm not terribly impressed by Patrick O'Bryon's Corridor of Darkness. It has none of the depth of Jonathan Rabb, David Downing, or Philip Kerr, and the prose is plain and inelegant compared to Alan Furst. Which is disappointing given the author's possession of his father's experiences in Nazi Germany. I had expected better.

The story has a lot of telling and very little showing, reading more like an outline of a story than the story itself, as though all the details were missing. You don't feel like you really come to grips with Nazi Germany, despite the appearance of Hermann Goring and Reinhard Heydrich, for example, and the little period flourishes like the names of cigarettes or drinks or night clubs really make up for it. In other words, for such a well-known world, the world-building is deficient.

Combined with a deficiency in story-telling and character development, I read along only because I honestly could not think of anything else to do, through the first ten chapters. After that, I began to look for something else to read and continuing became a chore, as I realized I had no idea where the story was going and really did not care much what happened to the protagonist, Ryan Lemmon, who, despite what the description is, is not a journalist but a student studying history at a German university, who does a little writing on the side.

Save yourself the trouble, and a few dollars, and read those other masters of the genre of Berlin noir, and benefit from the deft hand of the experts.
2838063
Creative non-fiction, as a genre, is starting to bore me. I shouldn't blame Jamison for the features of the genre itself, but the self-reflection mixed with overwrought prose, the requirement that the other immerse herself in increasingly bizarre or obscure environments and situations in order to have something to write about, and the mix of research with rumination is getting old. Jamison's book employs all of these tropes.
4096391
I like a good story as much as the next guy.  But this is not a good story.
This is a compilation of encounters between Hemmingway and various well known figures in Paris during the 1920's and his reflections of his own life and those of others.  Although the author states that it may be considered a work of fiction, it has the feel of an autobiography, sort of.
No, it is not a good story.  As a story goes, it is quite dull.  The plot is non-existent and a seemingly enless train of mostly unrelated mundane anecdotes populate the slim novel.  A day at the races, the fishermen on the Sein, a full description of every meal eaten in a scene (as well as the extensive list of alcohol imbibed) do not make for riveting fiction.  It is brilliant.
Here is a work that is almost all style and no substance.  This is art at its most sublime level.  What Hemmingway did put in this novel was Truth.  Truth with a capital T because I am not referring to the synonym of factual but instead the conveyence of reality.  The rythym of the words set the pace of the city.  The descriptions of things and places are brought to life with hypnotic clarity and with such consumate skill with words that it is difficult to put the novel down; not because you simply must know what will happen to the hero next, but because it seems a jolt to your own reality to be suddenly extricated from Paris.  And yet, the simplistic sparse Hemmingway prose which brings these images to life, seem now as transparent as air.  No flowery phrases, no poetry, just Truth.
For anyone who is curious what Hemmingway thought about Ezra Pound or Gertrude Stein, for anyone who is curious what F. Scott Fitzgerald was like, and wonder about Hemmingway's opinion of him as a person and a writer, this should be the next book on your list.
This is truly a work of literature.
3650363
From early times, men have fantasized about what it would be like to become invisible, as witness medieval stories about cloaks of invisibility, and the like. Wells's novel, placed at the turn of the last century, puts the dream into a modern context, but in it, the dream becomes a nightmare.
The beginning of the book deals with the coming of the man, who has invented a way to become invisible, and used it on himself, to a small English town.  He is essentially a refugee.  The Invisible Man is irritable to the point of homicidal madness, a trait engendered both by secretive overwork on his discovery and by the effects of the decolorizing agent. Because his invisibiity has caused him to go about naked, the Invisible Man has suffered terribly in the English winter, and he has clothed himself in bandages and stolen clothing to hide his newfound status. Still, he is undone by the nosiness of strangers and eventually flees again to find himself in the home of a former acquaintance, one Kemp.
In explaining his dilemma to Kemp, the Invisible Man, an albino scientist named Griffin, discloses that he discovered a compound that decolorized blood, and that as an albino, he was the perfect test case. Discussion of the refractory powers of light dominates this portion of the book, in a manner understandable to anyone.  However, taking the chemical creates great pain, and madness.
Wells's analyses of the problems facing one who has become invisible is extremely thorough, and done in the context of Griffin's narrative.  One must be careful not to go about in the rain, where he would appear as a bubble, or in the fog, where he would appear as an opening in the vapor.  One cannot walk through mud or puddles without his feet becoming visible, and must eat in hidden places, because the food eaten remains visible until digested.  The curiosity of dogs and persons with keen senses is aroused because the Invisible Man still leaves a scent and makes sounds as he moves about.  And the lack of protective garments makes one extraordinarily sensitive to heat, cold, and inclement weather.
Eventually, the Invisible Man turns to murder and arson to cover his "tracks" and, in the end, is undone and killed when he returns to attack Kemp.  The novel bogs down a bit here.
Wells's importance to creating s/f writing as a genre is that he used available science to explain how his fantasies came about.  In this respect, he differs from Verne and other predecessors, as well as a good many successors.  This trait makes his stories possess a veneer of believability uncommon to most s/f.  The Invisible Man is one of Wells's best novels, and I can guarantee that you will enjoy it if you like s/f.  Highly recommended.
4883668
I don't know why, but something about airports makes me pick up books that I would otherwise have skipped, and something about plane trips makes me read them. Maybe the thin air fogs my brain. Whatever the cause, it led me to this story.

The pieces all look familiar: there's an isolated outpost of harmless, helpless naifs, a mad scientist tampering with forces that should never be tamped, and some suitably scary and bloodthirsty monsters of novel  make and model. The story really centers on the first-person narrator and his uncanny contact with beings hidden from the eyes of ordinary people, however. And, just for the heck of it, there's also some NSA super-spy thing floating around the corners. You know the usual.

Its formulaic and forgettable. If you were going to kill a few hours anyway, this won't do anything worse to them. I just hope my personal demon of airport reading has gotten this genre out of its system, though.

-- wiredweird
3426520
G. Willow Wilson knows how to write a sentence. The prose here is lovely (I was particularly caught by one simile describing a windowless prison as "both surreal and alarmingly ordinary, like an office building that had blinked"), and her descriptions of life in the modern Middle East are compelling and incisive. What she doesn't seem to know is how to plot a novel.

Alif the Unseen is several components jumbled together--a thriller about political revolution in an unnamed Middle Eastern city-state, a meditation on Islam, a cyberpunk story about hacking and debugging, and a fairy tale of jinns and other spirits. I use "fairy tale" rather than fantasy for a reason: as in a fairy tale, helpful creatures just keep turning up along every step of the protagonist's way, share their aid or knowledge, and then move on. There's little logic to these encounters or depth to the creatures' characterizations; they exist because the plot requires them and vanish once it no longer does.

That's fine for a fairy tale, which doesn't require realism. I can even enjoy a good fairy tale expanded to novel length (ala Bridge of Birds). But it mixes very poorly with the political and technological aspects of the novel, which are grounded in vivid descriptions of violent oppression and quantified computer specs. Alif is a real person with real problems; those problems deserve real solutions, not coincidence and deus ex machina again and again.

Alif the Unseen also contains one of the most blatant authorial inserts I've seen in or out of fanfiction (the only other one that comes close is Mercedes Lackey's "Myste"). "The convert" (unnamed) is a young, blonde American woman who came to the Middle East while in college, converted, and now wears a head-scarf. Sound familiar? It should, if you've read any of Wilson's biography or journalism. I initially thought the convert was no more than a quick authorial wink, but far from being a cameo she keeps turning up and lecturing the characters (and reader) about the nature of Islam and the divide between West and East. I prefer my fourth wall more unbroken and authorial opinions shown, not told. And the reactions of the initially dismissive other characters toward the convert by the end of the novel--as they are gradually won over by the genuineness of her faith--made me roll my eyes. This, ladies and gentleman, is the definition of a Mary Sue.

So what's to like? The pacing is almost fast enough to disguise that it's one random encounter after another, and there are some very good sections when the book leaves the unseen world behind--most notably the opening, describing Alif's daily life, as well as Alif's time hiding in a mosque and the prison sequence. Even the unseen world occasionally gave me a few laughs with its descriptions of jinn trying (and sometimes failing) to mesh with modernity. If this were cut down to 250 pages, it could be a good light adventure novel. As it is, it's a doorstopper tome that can't support the deeper points it tries to make.
965935
I should profess that I have never read a novel by Don DeLillo before diving into "Cosmopolis." Sure, I have heard of "White Noise," "Underworld," and "Libra" before, but decided to start with this new, short novel about a billionaire stock tycoon and his trip through the wilds of New York City. DeLillo seems to possess many fans in the literary world, rabid readers who devour everything this guy decides to pass off on the public. I usually see him associated with people like Pynchon or Gaddis, post-modern writers who create sprawling works of endless complexity and dubious quality. Since my experiences with the post-modern genre are slight at best, all I have to go on is my experiences with this book.
The plot seems simple enough. Eric Packer, a twenty eight year old Wall Street whiz, decides he wants to get a haircut. Moreover, he sets out on his excursion in a giant, cork lined white limousine with his bodyguards, advisors, doctors, and drivers in tow. Along the way, Packer undergoes a physical examination of a most personal nature, runs into his new wife at various places, witnesses an anarchist protest, gets attacked with a cream pie, becomes emotional about a rapper's funeral, and discovers someone is stalking him with a view to causing serious injury. There is little that ties these events and encounters together, as even the quest for a haircut often drops into the background when Packer bogs down in New York City traffic. Surrounded by computers and an endless flow of information, the billionaire spends most of his time waxing philosophic about the state of the world, the state of his mind, and the state of his attempt to make a killing off the Japanese yen. Ultimately, that is all this novel seems to do: throw out endless noodlings about the emptiness of life in the high tech, over stimulated information age.
DeLillo's writing style is the best thing going for "Cosmopolis." Infused with deep cynicism and a measurable detachment, it still crackles with crisp, short sentences that convey much with little ado. The problem comes when the language puts too much out there, when the reader starts to bog down under the endless litany of Packer's mental ramblings. Although this book is extremely short and can be finished in a day, it still seems too long at times. If there is any point to this tale, or at least where the point seems to assume clarity, it is when Packer and his "advisor on theory" discuss the meaning of the ticker boards with their endless scroll of information and the implications of self-immolating oneself to protest capitalism. Eric's accumulation of information threatens to overwhelm his existence because all he possesses is random bits of information. He cannot seem to tie it all together into any relevant meaning other than making money. There seems to be a germ of hope for him towards the end of the story, but most of the book is merely cerebral gymnastics.
The message of "Cosmopolis," about a man who has everything but wilts under his own inflated ego and goes off on a rampage, is definitely familiar. Bret Easton Ellis did something similar in "American Psycho," and he did it better. Eric Packer and Patrick Bateman are blood brothers, albeit relatives separated by about twenty years. When will these Wall Street archetypes' meltdowns have finality to them? Probably when the capitalist system finally collapses. In the meantime, we have people like Ellis and DeLillo dutifully reporting the carnage of undreamt of riches on the souls of humanity.
Many people out there are quite knowledgeable about DeLillo's body of work and the philosophy that powers them. I can draw no firm conclusions about this author from reading just one of his books. But I strongly suggest thinking twice before plunging into "Cosmopolis." It takes too much effort for too little return.
870923
Sorely lacking in depth and complexity, The Traveler's Gift is an ambitious idea that falls short of satisfaction.  Each visit had great potential, but fell flat from sparse handling. Unfortunately, while the seven decisions are each compelling on their own, I was left unsettled by the characterization of the successful christian life that becomes David Ponder's life at book's end.
4289147
This reads like an imitation of the late Umberto Eco, who taught the (fictional) narrator of this rambling quest. I'll call him Adrian. He's told by a secretive (naturally) cabal nicknamed the Nomo that he's the descendant of the last Byzantine ruler, who fell at Constantinople's conquest by the Ottomans in 1453. This results in a scavenger hunt of sorts that leads him to not only the highlights of Byzantium in Turkey and Greece today but to Western Europe, the Americas, over and over. Those more patient with this set-up may be dazzled by the intricacy of the path, but I was weary.

Annoyingly to me, the mystery writer Selcuk Altun himself appears as a minor character a few times. This self-referential tale telling can seem adept when told by a master, but clumsy when told by an acolyte. Adrian is smug and snobbish. He relates in unnecessary detail the universities, divorces, and careers his interlocutors have tallied up, the hotels he frequents, the meals he eats, the pairs of international prostitutes summoned up. Those he meets rarely gain three-dimensional status, outside of the object of his desire, and even she comes and goes, flickering in and out. Oddly, whatever he does with the prostitutes is never detailed, resulting in an airless, hermetic rendering of luxury. He castigates the lesser tourists (it never occurs that he too is one at a more privileged level) who clog the likes of L.A., Venice, and his native Istanbul. We can't all be him

This noblesse-oblige attitude sours the tale. The author tosses in musings about Beckett, say, out of nowhere, and this novel reads more like a travel diary of an unpleasant, if erudite, aesthete. While his native Galata district in Istanbul in the novel's start and the wonders of Hagia Sophia near its conclusion make for memorable glimpses of the Byzantine resonance, too much of the novel fails to convince. For instance, in one of his many jet-set itineraries, he stays in Lausanne. He says he reads all six volumes of Gibbon's history. Why and how long--six days, weeks, or months, is not indicated, and the reader is left with no clear idea of why this stop happened or the significance of one of the thousands of such factoids that fill these hermetic, self-congratulatory pages. Adrian remains a cipher, a figurehead to channel the past through a dreary narration.