Unlike the Holocaust, which I have learned about in school as long as I can remember, I first learned of the Armenian genocide (and, for the record, I'm totally Team Pope on this one: the systematic murder of a million plus people on the basis of ethnicity is pretty much the textbook definition of genocide) in college. I knew a kid, a friend-of-a-friend, who still carried a bit (or more) of rage about the events of 1915 and readily shared his people's story with all who would listen. (It's from him that I also learned that virtually every person whose last name ends -ian is Armenian, Chris Bohjalian, author of the The Sandcastle Girls included.)
All of which is to say that it's not for naught that Bohjalian refers to the Armenian genocide more than once as the "Slaughter You Know Next to Nothing About." With Sandcastle Girls, he has set out to inform his readers about the genocide, as much as draw them into his story. The story, briefly, is of an American missionary and her father who arrive in Aleppo, Syria, in 1915, to bring relief and aid to the Armenias. Yes, Elizabeth Endicott and her father are among only a tiny handful of Americans to be aware of the events in this corner of the Ottoman Empire, but things are far worse when they arrive than even they expected. (Isn't that always the case.)
Among a string of beaten, starving, sick and - yes, naked - deportees being marched through Aleppo, Elizabeth encounters Nevart and her little charge Hatoun, forming a bond with the woman and girl that is one of the central elements of the story. Also, she is head-over-heels in love with Armen Petrosian, an Armenian engineer whose wife and infant daughter are among the deported and dead. Into this story, which is fairly compelling, is woven the modern day story of their granddaughter, Laura, and her mission to reconstruct their history.
Overall, I felt Sandcastle Girls would have been better if it hadn't tried to do so much. Specifically, I would have rather had more of Elizabeth and Armen and less of Laura. Unlike in Elizabeth is Missing or Villa Triste, the parallel histories here felt forced and gimmicky. Focusing more on the historical story would also have allowed more character development of the minor characters. For example, the character who had the most, excuse me, character was Ryan Martin, the American consul in Aleppo, but the reader gets to see so little of him that he doesn't quite seem real.
Sandcastle Girls is a quick read, and certainly provides a new perspective on an aspect of World War I about which too little is known or written. For those reasons alone, it is worth reading, and all the more so if you can focus on the historic story and accept the Laura narrative at face value, as filler.
Three stars.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Ahab's Wife: Or, The Star-gazer
Una Spenser is Ahab's wife, he of Moby Dick fame. She is also daughter, mother, niece, cousin, friend, and neighbor, determined at every turn to live an interesting life. This was not so easily done in 1830, yet, Sena Jeter Naslund has created just such a life for her protagonist-heroine.
Una journeys from Kentucky to New England on the cusp of adolescence, and then at 16 disguises herself as a boy that she may go a-whaling. Seeking adventure,Una gets far more than she bargained for when her ship is stove and she finds herself adrift in a small whaleboat day-after-unrelenting-day. Lesser "men" than she are broken by the experience, but quietly and unceremoniously, Una moves forth. Later she is Mrs. Captain, with a grand house and a small fortune at her disposal. Here, too, she manages to surround herself with interesting people and interesting passions. One has the feeling she would have liked Hetty Green, another woman made wealthy by the whale.
With Ahab's Wife, Naslund has created a masterful story; she is a reader's writer, with prose that whirls across the pages, tighter and tighter like the dance of a dervish. At times, one might wish the dance would end (at 668 pages, it is certainly long), or at least be re-ordered such that fewer words are spilled on, say, the stars, and more for the characters, relationships, and events that are the true strength of this story. This is a minor criticism, though, and one that should not prevent the prospective reader from cracking the cover. I had a similar criticism of To Serve Them All My Days, which weighs in at an almost-identical 676 pages, but which I also liked very, very much.
Anyone who loves a good story, particularly a story set in a long-ago time and place, will not be disappointed by what Naslund has wrought.
Una journeys from Kentucky to New England on the cusp of adolescence, and then at 16 disguises herself as a boy that she may go a-whaling. Seeking adventure,Una gets far more than she bargained for when her ship is stove and she finds herself adrift in a small whaleboat day-after-unrelenting-day. Lesser "men" than she are broken by the experience, but quietly and unceremoniously, Una moves forth. Later she is Mrs. Captain, with a grand house and a small fortune at her disposal. Here, too, she manages to surround herself with interesting people and interesting passions. One has the feeling she would have liked Hetty Green, another woman made wealthy by the whale.
With Ahab's Wife, Naslund has created a masterful story; she is a reader's writer, with prose that whirls across the pages, tighter and tighter like the dance of a dervish. At times, one might wish the dance would end (at 668 pages, it is certainly long), or at least be re-ordered such that fewer words are spilled on, say, the stars, and more for the characters, relationships, and events that are the true strength of this story. This is a minor criticism, though, and one that should not prevent the prospective reader from cracking the cover. I had a similar criticism of To Serve Them All My Days, which weighs in at an almost-identical 676 pages, but which I also liked very, very much.
Anyone who loves a good story, particularly a story set in a long-ago time and place, will not be disappointed by what Naslund has wrought.
Monday, April 20, 2015
The Year Without Summer: 1816 and the Volcano That Darkened the World and Changed History
The opening chapter of The Lost German Slave Girl recounts the emigration of an Alsatian-German family from their homeland on the heels of a failed harvest. The year is 1816, and the snows came well into the summer months. For the Müllers, the results of the missing summer were devastating, but personal.
In The Year Without Summer: 1816 and the Volcano That Darkened the World and Changed History, William K. Klingaman takes a more global perspective on the ramifications of the eruption of Tambora and the resultant weather patterns. Yet, more than a book about the weather or a treatise on plate tectonics, Klingaman offers readers a holistic view of the world in 1816 - from the colonization of Southeast Asia to the final fights between Federalists and Democratic-Republican party in the U.S. - and specifically how these events were further shaped by the weather wrought by Tambora.
There is famine in Ireland, labor unrest in England, and everywhere the schooled and unschooled alike debate the realities of climate change. Yes, the more things change, the more they stay the same and the arguments Klingaman reconstructs by citing dozens of original sources drive home the point nicely. Throughout the pages run the same themes we debate today: about climate change, religion, and the proper role of government, for example. (Lest we forget, the year without summer also gave us Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, written as a direct result of too much rain and cold for much other than reading, writing, and storytelling.)
The verdict: an interesting read, but not a critical one, unless one is a particular scholar of either the era or the science. Three stars.
P.S. I've just learned that NPR did a story on Tambora on April 29. So happy reading or happy listening!
In The Year Without Summer: 1816 and the Volcano That Darkened the World and Changed History, William K. Klingaman takes a more global perspective on the ramifications of the eruption of Tambora and the resultant weather patterns. Yet, more than a book about the weather or a treatise on plate tectonics, Klingaman offers readers a holistic view of the world in 1816 - from the colonization of Southeast Asia to the final fights between Federalists and Democratic-Republican party in the U.S. - and specifically how these events were further shaped by the weather wrought by Tambora.
There is famine in Ireland, labor unrest in England, and everywhere the schooled and unschooled alike debate the realities of climate change. Yes, the more things change, the more they stay the same and the arguments Klingaman reconstructs by citing dozens of original sources drive home the point nicely. Throughout the pages run the same themes we debate today: about climate change, religion, and the proper role of government, for example. (Lest we forget, the year without summer also gave us Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, written as a direct result of too much rain and cold for much other than reading, writing, and storytelling.)
The verdict: an interesting read, but not a critical one, unless one is a particular scholar of either the era or the science. Three stars.
P.S. I've just learned that NPR did a story on Tambora on April 29. So happy reading or happy listening!
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Japan 1941: Countdown to Infamy
Eri Hotta's Japan 1941: Countdown to Infamy is a meticulously-researched, day-by-day recounting of Japan's military and political situation throughout 1941. Hotta seems to have reconstructed every meeting of two or more diplomatic, military, imperial, or cabinet officials from the entire year. This is informative to no end, but goes well beyond the level of detail your average reader would need. (Or even your not-so-average reader; I picked this up because I teach World War II in Japan, and I still found myself skimming vast chunks of text.)
The most interesting and most readable parts of the book are not the policy discussions or arguments over military strategy. They are the recollections of Soldier U, called up again and again into his late 30s as Japan's "China Issue" drags on and then as they debate invading the Soviet Union (they don't) and French Indochina (they do). Close on the heels of Soldier U are the passages about changes to the daily routine in Tokyo and elsewhere in Japan as basic goods (rice!) become scarce even before the country enters into war with the United States.
In fact, the most amazing thing is that Japan went to war with the U.S. at all. Again and again cabinet ministers and members of the imperial household discuss that a war with the U.S. is too unwinnable, that the country is too vast, its population and resources too many, its will too strong. (As an aside, I love that it is Gone with the Wind that hammers this home most clearly to some Japanese who, seeing the film for the first time marvel at the "quality, technical superiority, and glamour" of the movie and wonder "how they could possibly defeat a country that had managed to produce such an astonishing film.) Yet, each man - and make no mistake, they are all men here - feels that war is inevitable and as such the preparations must move in that direction until the train has left the station and the ship has left the harbor.
This is not a book about Japan during World War II, per se. More than anything, Hotta succeeds in presenting the psychology of a nation, one that is deeply unsure of its place in a rapidly changing world.My final verdict, then, is more nuanced than usual. This is an often-tedious book, but one sheds valuable insight on the Japanese psyche circa World War II. Ultimately, though, only the most devoted close readers of World War II or Japanese culture (or preferably both) are likely to truly enjoy the countdown to Pearl Harbor.
The most interesting and most readable parts of the book are not the policy discussions or arguments over military strategy. They are the recollections of Soldier U, called up again and again into his late 30s as Japan's "China Issue" drags on and then as they debate invading the Soviet Union (they don't) and French Indochina (they do). Close on the heels of Soldier U are the passages about changes to the daily routine in Tokyo and elsewhere in Japan as basic goods (rice!) become scarce even before the country enters into war with the United States.
In fact, the most amazing thing is that Japan went to war with the U.S. at all. Again and again cabinet ministers and members of the imperial household discuss that a war with the U.S. is too unwinnable, that the country is too vast, its population and resources too many, its will too strong. (As an aside, I love that it is Gone with the Wind that hammers this home most clearly to some Japanese who, seeing the film for the first time marvel at the "quality, technical superiority, and glamour" of the movie and wonder "how they could possibly defeat a country that had managed to produce such an astonishing film.) Yet, each man - and make no mistake, they are all men here - feels that war is inevitable and as such the preparations must move in that direction until the train has left the station and the ship has left the harbor.
This is not a book about Japan during World War II, per se. More than anything, Hotta succeeds in presenting the psychology of a nation, one that is deeply unsure of its place in a rapidly changing world.My final verdict, then, is more nuanced than usual. This is an often-tedious book, but one sheds valuable insight on the Japanese psyche circa World War II. Ultimately, though, only the most devoted close readers of World War II or Japanese culture (or preferably both) are likely to truly enjoy the countdown to Pearl Harbor.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Thunderstruck
Erik Larson takes two seemingly unrelated events - the invention of wireless telegraphy by the Italian inventor Guglielmo Marconi and the brutal murder of an American living in London - and weaves them together into a single narrative. In many ways, Thunderstruck is reminiscent of Devil in the White City. There, the protagonists are the architect Daniel Burham and the serial killer H.H. Holmes. (Larson appears to have more than a passing interest in "doctor"-murderers, but that's a discussion for another day.)
Marconi is a brilliant workaholic, a man with a plan, and one major flaw: he has no idea why he is able to transmit signals through the ether, only that he can. As a result, he spends a tremendous amount of time developing his system. He's also an egomaniac (raise your hand if that surprises you) and therefore unable to give credit where credit is dues. He makes a lot of enemies. And he's a terrible husband and father. His inventions did make possible radio, television, and the rescue of a few hundred souls from the Titanic.
Marconi would undoubtedly be peeved to know he is sharing space with Hawley Harvey Crippen, an unlikely murderer who happens to hail from Coldwater, Michigan, which just happens to be my grandfather's hometown. In any case, Crippen apparently murders his horrid wife, Cora Crippen aka Belle Elmore, and then attempts to escape to Canada with his mistress, Ethel Le Neve. They likely would have made it, too, if not for their ship's ability to hail Scotland Yard from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. As an aside, it's clear that if Crippen did kill Cora - and if Wikipedia is to be believed, it's not entirely certain he did - the question is not why, but what took him so long?
Giving life to the minutiae, from a minute-by-minute, passenger-by-passenger recounting of the sinking of the Lusitania to the travails of building telegraphy stations at the far reaches of two continents, is what Larson does best. Although I can't claim this is my favorite Larson book (In the Garden of Beasts, the first one I read, still holds that title), Thunderstruck is another outstanding piece of work.
Marconi is a brilliant workaholic, a man with a plan, and one major flaw: he has no idea why he is able to transmit signals through the ether, only that he can. As a result, he spends a tremendous amount of time developing his system. He's also an egomaniac (raise your hand if that surprises you) and therefore unable to give credit where credit is dues. He makes a lot of enemies. And he's a terrible husband and father. His inventions did make possible radio, television, and the rescue of a few hundred souls from the Titanic.
Marconi would undoubtedly be peeved to know he is sharing space with Hawley Harvey Crippen, an unlikely murderer who happens to hail from Coldwater, Michigan, which just happens to be my grandfather's hometown. In any case, Crippen apparently murders his horrid wife, Cora Crippen aka Belle Elmore, and then attempts to escape to Canada with his mistress, Ethel Le Neve. They likely would have made it, too, if not for their ship's ability to hail Scotland Yard from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. As an aside, it's clear that if Crippen did kill Cora - and if Wikipedia is to be believed, it's not entirely certain he did - the question is not why, but what took him so long?
Giving life to the minutiae, from a minute-by-minute, passenger-by-passenger recounting of the sinking of the Lusitania to the travails of building telegraphy stations at the far reaches of two continents, is what Larson does best. Although I can't claim this is my favorite Larson book (In the Garden of Beasts, the first one I read, still holds that title), Thunderstruck is another outstanding piece of work.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Blue Mind: The Surprising Science That Shows How Being Near, In, On, or Under Water Can Make You Happier, Healthier, More Connected, and Better at What You Do
I have always loved to swim. Along with reading, traveling, and baking cookies - I have the best chocolate chip cookie recipe you'll even taste, trust me - swimming is one of my favorite activities. (It also counteracts all those cookies...) All of which is to say that I when I stumbled across Blue Mind in a bookstore recently, it went to the top of my reading list. And I so wanted to like this book.
Unfortunately, I didn't like it at all. In fact, I couldn't even finish it. Aside from the fact that the book didn't seem to scratch the surface of answering how or why being in, on, or under water can make you happier, healthier, blah, blah, blah, I was most distracted - and irritated - by the number of places where the author (Wallace J. Nichols) inserted himself for no apparent reason other than that he likes to talk about himself. It's quite important that his readers know, for example, that his brother-in-law was a Harvard professor, which might be the place where I finally closed the book for good.
The research and studies that he does site seem to be inserted haphazardly so that Blue Mind feels like a random collection of anecdotes and research pieces stitched together in an incongruous fashion. (In between each, Nichols reminds his reader that he has even created a conference by this name, as he repeats again and again until it's the last thing on earth this reader would ever contemplate attending. And if I'm exaggerating, it's not by much.)
As one Amazon reviewer noted (and I'm still kicking myself that I didn't read the reviews before I opened the book), "Many people have an innate desire to be near water and our brains appear to benefit from that proximity. That's it, folks, that's the central theme that is tortuously repeated over and over until you just want to punch the next beach-goer that crosses your path." Only I didn't want to punch the beach-goer; I wanted to punch Nichols.
Want water? Read Paddling the Pacific. Want science? David Quammen has you covered. But my all means, skip Blue Mind. Water may making you happier and healthier, but this book won't.
Unfortunately, I didn't like it at all. In fact, I couldn't even finish it. Aside from the fact that the book didn't seem to scratch the surface of answering how or why being in, on, or under water can make you happier, healthier, blah, blah, blah, I was most distracted - and irritated - by the number of places where the author (Wallace J. Nichols) inserted himself for no apparent reason other than that he likes to talk about himself. It's quite important that his readers know, for example, that his brother-in-law was a Harvard professor, which might be the place where I finally closed the book for good.
The research and studies that he does site seem to be inserted haphazardly so that Blue Mind feels like a random collection of anecdotes and research pieces stitched together in an incongruous fashion. (In between each, Nichols reminds his reader that he has even created a conference by this name, as he repeats again and again until it's the last thing on earth this reader would ever contemplate attending. And if I'm exaggerating, it's not by much.)
As one Amazon reviewer noted (and I'm still kicking myself that I didn't read the reviews before I opened the book), "Many people have an innate desire to be near water and our brains appear to benefit from that proximity. That's it, folks, that's the central theme that is tortuously repeated over and over until you just want to punch the next beach-goer that crosses your path." Only I didn't want to punch the beach-goer; I wanted to punch Nichols.
Want water? Read Paddling the Pacific. Want science? David Quammen has you covered. But my all means, skip Blue Mind. Water may making you happier and healthier, but this book won't.
Monday, April 6, 2015
The Walnut Tree
Lady Elspeth Douglas is in Paris keeping company with her aristocratic - and heavily pregnant - friend, Madeleine Villard, when the German Army races through Belgium and the French army is mobilized. To the front must go Madeleine's husband, Henri, and her brother, Alain, the latter of whom is also Lady Elspeth's fiance.
Elspeth remains in France to see Madeleine through childbirth and then returns home through war-torn northern France to the Channel. What she sees their - carnage beyond anything her mind could have conjured - and who she meets - Captain Peter Gilchrist - change the course of her future. No longer content to be a prim and proper aristocrat, Lady Elspeth defies her family, lays her title aside, and enlists in Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service.
Despite the backdrop of World War I, The Walnut Tree is generally a light (and quick) read. The characters are agreeable, the romance is not too overdone, the plot is not too predictable. (Actually, there were quite a few twists and turns - which made sense when I learned that Charles Todd primarily writes mysteries.) Somewhat bizarrely, there is a subplot about the looting of valuables from abandoned homes in France and Belgium. This added nothing to the overall story and, while it didn't take much away, either, it did leave me completely scratching my head as to why it had been randomly included. Perhaps that mystery thing again.
Despite being set in a different war, The Walnut Tree frequently reminded me of The House at Tyneford, although I cannot put my finger on the reasons why. (In style it is similar to The Book Thief, and I think this may also be YA, which I'm discovering to be a broad and poorly defined genre. But I digress.) In any event, lovers of historical fiction - and, as the publisher notes, Downton Abbey - should certainly enjoy The Walnut Tree.
Elspeth remains in France to see Madeleine through childbirth and then returns home through war-torn northern France to the Channel. What she sees their - carnage beyond anything her mind could have conjured - and who she meets - Captain Peter Gilchrist - change the course of her future. No longer content to be a prim and proper aristocrat, Lady Elspeth defies her family, lays her title aside, and enlists in Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service.
Despite the backdrop of World War I, The Walnut Tree is generally a light (and quick) read. The characters are agreeable, the romance is not too overdone, the plot is not too predictable. (Actually, there were quite a few twists and turns - which made sense when I learned that Charles Todd primarily writes mysteries.) Somewhat bizarrely, there is a subplot about the looting of valuables from abandoned homes in France and Belgium. This added nothing to the overall story and, while it didn't take much away, either, it did leave me completely scratching my head as to why it had been randomly included. Perhaps that mystery thing again.
Despite being set in a different war, The Walnut Tree frequently reminded me of The House at Tyneford, although I cannot put my finger on the reasons why. (In style it is similar to The Book Thief, and I think this may also be YA, which I'm discovering to be a broad and poorly defined genre. But I digress.) In any event, lovers of historical fiction - and, as the publisher notes, Downton Abbey - should certainly enjoy The Walnut Tree.
Friday, April 3, 2015
The Travels of a T-Shirt in the Global Economy: An Economist Examines the Markets, Power, and Politics of World Trade
The Travels of a T-Shirt in the Global Economy was assigned reading, the first true homework I've had in years. And just as I'm always promising my students, there was good value in the assignment.
Pietra Rivoli is a professor at Georgetown. In the late 1990s, she began serving on one of those ubiquitous university committees, this one devoted to ensuring that sweatshop labor did not produce any Georgetown apparel. She became curious about the origins and journeys of these seemingly simple articles of clothing; The Travels of a T-Shirt in the Global Economy is the result of her curiosity.
The short version is that Pietra's shirt began life as cotton in West Texas before making its way to Asia to be spun into yarn, made into fabric, cut and sewn into shape, and shipped back to the U.S. for sale. Eventually it will likely end up as mitumba, most likely in Africa. Along the way, the shirt - or rather its various manufacturers - must navigate the various tariffs, quotas, and non-tariff barriers that dot the landscape of international trade.
I found the most interesting sections of this book to be those that focused on cotton farming, and particularly the evolution of the industry, especially in the U.S., and the section on mitumba, a practice with which I was only vaguely familiar before reading this book.
As I said at the beginning of this post, The Travels of a T-Shirt in the Global Economy was homework. I ultimately enjoyed reading it, and would say that the readers most likely to do likewise are those with more than a passing interest in globalization and trade.
Pietra Rivoli is a professor at Georgetown. In the late 1990s, she began serving on one of those ubiquitous university committees, this one devoted to ensuring that sweatshop labor did not produce any Georgetown apparel. She became curious about the origins and journeys of these seemingly simple articles of clothing; The Travels of a T-Shirt in the Global Economy is the result of her curiosity.
The short version is that Pietra's shirt began life as cotton in West Texas before making its way to Asia to be spun into yarn, made into fabric, cut and sewn into shape, and shipped back to the U.S. for sale. Eventually it will likely end up as mitumba, most likely in Africa. Along the way, the shirt - or rather its various manufacturers - must navigate the various tariffs, quotas, and non-tariff barriers that dot the landscape of international trade.
I found the most interesting sections of this book to be those that focused on cotton farming, and particularly the evolution of the industry, especially in the U.S., and the section on mitumba, a practice with which I was only vaguely familiar before reading this book.
As I said at the beginning of this post, The Travels of a T-Shirt in the Global Economy was homework. I ultimately enjoyed reading it, and would say that the readers most likely to do likewise are those with more than a passing interest in globalization and trade.
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