Improbably, Salt Houses is the third multi-generational narrative I've read this year. Following the Koreans and the Italians, I've hit on the Palestinians. Hala Alyan's Yacoubs are certainly the most peripatetic of these families, forced by events from their ancestral homes in Palestine into Nablus in '48 and then from Nablus to Kuwait City in '67 and then from Kuwait City to Amman in '90.
Without giving the plot away, I can certainly say that the younger generations find themselves part of the diaspora in Europe and the U.S. some years after that. Phew. Also: these are people who, relatively easily, transport themselves from country-to-country and continent-to-continent is telling. No refugee camps here. And so, it is interesting to consider the history, the sadness, the anger, the resignation, and ultimately the meaning of home from the perspective of people who don't always behave as they should and seemingly "have it all."
Despite the turmoil, Alyan's story centers on the relationships the characters have with one another, parents, spouses, children, siblings, grandparents, and cousins. Alyan's story also moves at a good clip, covering more than half a century in a succinct 300 pages. I was fascinated to read an interview with Alyan (available on Amazon), in which she talks about her writing process, specifically that this began as the story of a young man, presumably Mustafa, in pre-1967 Palestine, because in its final form, the protagonist is his sister, Alia.
Alyan's prose is lovely and the characters are just maddening enough to be real. I found this a quick, but thoughtful, read, and would that I would particularly recommend to someone looking to broaden their reading horizons beyond the "usual" perspectives.
Four stars.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
Friday, February 23, 2018
The Fall of the Dynasties: The Collapse of the Old Order 1905-1922
Perhaps the most interesting thing about Edmond Taylor's The Fall of the Dynasties is that it was written in 1963 and so provides a different perspective on the events leading up to World War I and surrounding the Russian Revolution than more current works. I did a double take the first time I read about "the last man alive who can tell us..." and certainly in the 60s the story of the Balkans was only half-written.
As the title says, The Fall of the Dynasties is an in-depth look at the final years of the German, Austro-Hungarian, Russian, and Ottoman empires. Actually, it's an in-depth look at the first three, and a single chapter on the last (which was too bad, because the chapter on the Ottomans was pretty fascinating, but I digress). Taylor explores the broader societal underpinnings that led to war, but also the personal flaws and foibles of the crowned heads, whose decisions - or lack thereof - sent their empires headlong into a war from which neither ruler nor ruled would ever entirely recover. (To that end, the Czarina came off the worst, while the doddering Habsburg, Francis Joseph, appeared mostly to be swept away by events, at least in the final years. Of course, he was an octogenarian on the eve of the war.)
On the whole, I found the book alternated between extremely interesting and sleep-inducing. As I said before, I wanted more of the Ottomans; conversely, I wanted less of the Romanovs - or, more specifically, of the Bolsheviks and what felt like every.single.detail. of the run up to and immediate aftermath of the Russian Revolution.
It's certainly not terrible, and largely still relevant - plus today's reader has the benefit of the last half-century of history in understanding how the Balkans, Slavic nationalism, and the rise and subsequent fall of the Soviets all played out. That said, there are simply many other more interesting, and possibly complete, books on closely-related topics. The interested reader may want to consider any of the following in lieu of or in addition to The Fall of the Dynasties.
As the title says, The Fall of the Dynasties is an in-depth look at the final years of the German, Austro-Hungarian, Russian, and Ottoman empires. Actually, it's an in-depth look at the first three, and a single chapter on the last (which was too bad, because the chapter on the Ottomans was pretty fascinating, but I digress). Taylor explores the broader societal underpinnings that led to war, but also the personal flaws and foibles of the crowned heads, whose decisions - or lack thereof - sent their empires headlong into a war from which neither ruler nor ruled would ever entirely recover. (To that end, the Czarina came off the worst, while the doddering Habsburg, Francis Joseph, appeared mostly to be swept away by events, at least in the final years. Of course, he was an octogenarian on the eve of the war.)
On the whole, I found the book alternated between extremely interesting and sleep-inducing. As I said before, I wanted more of the Ottomans; conversely, I wanted less of the Romanovs - or, more specifically, of the Bolsheviks and what felt like every.single.detail. of the run up to and immediate aftermath of the Russian Revolution.
It's certainly not terrible, and largely still relevant - plus today's reader has the benefit of the last half-century of history in understanding how the Balkans, Slavic nationalism, and the rise and subsequent fall of the Soviets all played out. That said, there are simply many other more interesting, and possibly complete, books on closely-related topics. The interested reader may want to consider any of the following in lieu of or in addition to The Fall of the Dynasties.
- For an empire-by-empire tour that also considers the roles of the British, American, French, and Japanese empires: 1913: In Search of the World Before the Great War.
- A concise look at the the many failures - diplomatic and military - that ultimately led to four years of unrelenting bloodshed across Europe, and eventually the world: The Guns of August.
- For more on the consequences of empire in the Middle East: Hero: The Life and Legend of Lawrence of Arabia or Desert Queen: The Extraordinary Life of Gertrude Bell (Lawrence and Bell are both British, so there is also quite a bit about the British Empire, but each offers an excellent look at the Middle East before - and after - World War I).
- And, of course, I would be remiss not to add The Beauty and the Sorrow to this list, as it remains, for me, the most in-depth and moving look at World War I imaginable. As a POW remarks, “the great lords have quarreled, and we must pay for it with our blood, our wives and children” (p. 18-19).
Sunday, February 18, 2018
The Book of Awesome
The Book of Awesome was not awesome (or AWESOME! as Neil Pasricha ends each entry, part of the decidedly non-awesomeness for me). I grabbed it on a whim - a BookBub $1.99 download, thank you very much - on a day when I could have used a little awesome in my life: 2 flight delays + 1 cancellation = 0 on the awesome scale. Unfortunately, many of what Pasricha considers awesome I consider irrelevant or, worse, gross. The perfect wings partner is the former for me, while putting potato chips on a sandwich definitely falls into the latter category. I simply cannot imagine hanging my head out of the car window or sneaking McDonald's and hiding the evidence.
That said, I am always grateful when a cashier opens a new lane, I have fond memories of watching the Price is Right as a kid, and who hasn't felt the tremendous relief that comes from successfully removing an eyelash that's wandered onto the eye? While I didn't care for many of Pasricha's examples, and his writing style itself grated on me after five minutes, he did succeed in upping my level of gratitude for the small things in my life that are pretty wonderful. For that, I'll give him two stars.
That said, I am always grateful when a cashier opens a new lane, I have fond memories of watching the Price is Right as a kid, and who hasn't felt the tremendous relief that comes from successfully removing an eyelash that's wandered onto the eye? While I didn't care for many of Pasricha's examples, and his writing style itself grated on me after five minutes, he did succeed in upping my level of gratitude for the small things in my life that are pretty wonderful. For that, I'll give him two stars.
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
The House at the Edge of Night
Last fall, I read Luncheon of the Boating Party, which I immediately acknowledged suffered in my opinion from having been read immediately on the heels of Shogun, which was only one of the very best books I ever read.
Catherine Banner's The House at the Edge of Night was similarly unlucky, but more so, as the two books last fall had about as much in common as William Shakespeare and Margaret Mitchell. The House at the Edge of Night parallels Pachinko in such ways that you'd think I was trying to read of the same genre and timeframe. Like Pachinko, The House at the Edge of Night is a multi-generational saga that spans the twentieth century.
Amedeo Esposito arrives on Castellamare, a blip of an island within shouting distance of Sicily, at the end of World War I to serve as the doctor. In nearly-feudal Italy, though, he essentially serves at the pleasure of the local count and when he falls into disfavor, Amedeo instead becomes the proprietor of the defunct and decrepit House at the Edge of Night, formerly the center of island life. Under the careful guidance of Amedeo and his wife, Pina, it will be again. Naturally, World War II exacts a terrible toll on both the island and the Espositos, and the emergence of Castellamare into modern Europe is only slightly less painful.
All of this Banner tells with Grace and fine prose; I could practically smell the bougainvillea and salt air that so infuse the story's island home. If I couldn't quite picture Amedeo, Pina's black braid cast a lasting image in my mind. No, there's absolutely nothing deficient about The House at the Edge of Night...it simply suffers by comparison to Pachinko.
My advice is to read both, but not too close together.
Three-and-a-half stars.
Catherine Banner's The House at the Edge of Night was similarly unlucky, but more so, as the two books last fall had about as much in common as William Shakespeare and Margaret Mitchell. The House at the Edge of Night parallels Pachinko in such ways that you'd think I was trying to read of the same genre and timeframe. Like Pachinko, The House at the Edge of Night is a multi-generational saga that spans the twentieth century.
Amedeo Esposito arrives on Castellamare, a blip of an island within shouting distance of Sicily, at the end of World War I to serve as the doctor. In nearly-feudal Italy, though, he essentially serves at the pleasure of the local count and when he falls into disfavor, Amedeo instead becomes the proprietor of the defunct and decrepit House at the Edge of Night, formerly the center of island life. Under the careful guidance of Amedeo and his wife, Pina, it will be again. Naturally, World War II exacts a terrible toll on both the island and the Espositos, and the emergence of Castellamare into modern Europe is only slightly less painful.
All of this Banner tells with Grace and fine prose; I could practically smell the bougainvillea and salt air that so infuse the story's island home. If I couldn't quite picture Amedeo, Pina's black braid cast a lasting image in my mind. No, there's absolutely nothing deficient about The House at the Edge of Night...it simply suffers by comparison to Pachinko.
My advice is to read both, but not too close together.
Three-and-a-half stars.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Pachinko
As a child, I was fascinated by the Pachinko machine in my grandparent's basement, with its pinging balls, steady rhythms, and mysterious writing (kanji, I learned much, much later). No doubt, these memories drew me to Min Jin Lee's Pachinko, whose title caught my eye immediately.
I am embarrassed to say, I initially thought Pachinko was a foreign book. As is true of many foreign books, it starts a bit slowly, meandering through an unfamiliar landscape, the language close and the characters lilting. The National Book Award designation might have clued me in, but sadly I didn't notice it until I was nearly finished. No matter. The "foreign" feeling that infuses Pachinko is a testament to Lee's writing, that she so captures her characters and their environs that I truly *believed* they were foreign.
So who are these characters? Pachinko begins with the story of Hoonie and Yangjin, boardinghouse owners eking out an existence for themselves and their young daughter, Sunja, in the early years of the Japanese occupation of Korea. Over the course of nearly a century, and across the generations, Lee traces the triumphs and trials of their progeny, who leave Korea early to work menial jobs in Japan. Through their eyes, the reader experiences the Depression, World War II, the Korean War and subsequent cleaving of the country, on through Japan's emergence as one of the world's dominant economies.
To say "triumphs and trials" sounds trite, but Lee imbues her characters with such humanity that Pachinko is anything but. Additionally, I was fascinated by the plight of ethnic Koreans in Japan, a topic about which I was completely ignorant. (And for good reason as Lee explains int he afterward, in which she describes the lengths to which Koreans go to hide their ethnicity, even those whose families have lived in Japan for four or five generations.)
Another aspect of the book I loved was the evolution of Japan over the course of almost the entire twentieth century. From being encouraged to fight the Americans with bamboo spears and grappling with the fallout from the atomic bombs, to the role of women and the rules around Japanese identity and citizenship, and even the place and power of the yakuza, Lee captures the disparate sensibilities that make Japan Japan even today.
Pachinko is an outstanding read, whether one has an interest in Japan or not. For those who do, Pachinko is simply that much more rewarding.
I am embarrassed to say, I initially thought Pachinko was a foreign book. As is true of many foreign books, it starts a bit slowly, meandering through an unfamiliar landscape, the language close and the characters lilting. The National Book Award designation might have clued me in, but sadly I didn't notice it until I was nearly finished. No matter. The "foreign" feeling that infuses Pachinko is a testament to Lee's writing, that she so captures her characters and their environs that I truly *believed* they were foreign.
So who are these characters? Pachinko begins with the story of Hoonie and Yangjin, boardinghouse owners eking out an existence for themselves and their young daughter, Sunja, in the early years of the Japanese occupation of Korea. Over the course of nearly a century, and across the generations, Lee traces the triumphs and trials of their progeny, who leave Korea early to work menial jobs in Japan. Through their eyes, the reader experiences the Depression, World War II, the Korean War and subsequent cleaving of the country, on through Japan's emergence as one of the world's dominant economies.
To say "triumphs and trials" sounds trite, but Lee imbues her characters with such humanity that Pachinko is anything but. Additionally, I was fascinated by the plight of ethnic Koreans in Japan, a topic about which I was completely ignorant. (And for good reason as Lee explains int he afterward, in which she describes the lengths to which Koreans go to hide their ethnicity, even those whose families have lived in Japan for four or five generations.)
Another aspect of the book I loved was the evolution of Japan over the course of almost the entire twentieth century. From being encouraged to fight the Americans with bamboo spears and grappling with the fallout from the atomic bombs, to the role of women and the rules around Japanese identity and citizenship, and even the place and power of the yakuza, Lee captures the disparate sensibilities that make Japan Japan even today.
Pachinko is an outstanding read, whether one has an interest in Japan or not. For those who do, Pachinko is simply that much more rewarding.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Dreamland: The True Tale of America's Opiate Epidemic
I grew up in Dreamland. Or rather, a town that could have been Portsmouth, Ohio, whose community pool by name of Dreamland opens this book. When I read these first pages, infused as they are with small town Midwesterness, I felt home. When I read the description of the Dreamland pool, it could have been the Ella Sharp pool where I spent so many happy childhood and adolescent hours, such were the similarities. Sadly, like Dreamland, that pool has since been filled in, and the similarities don't stop there. Like many of the Rust Belt towns that fill Sam Quinone's Dreamland: The True Tale of America's Opiate Epidemic, Jackson's employers slowly disappeared leaving the town a shadow of its former self and easy prey for the bleaker elements of society.
Quinones, as he proves time and again, knows this story too well. Dreamland gives readers an in-depth look into the causes and early stages of the opioid epidemic which have ravaged towns from Portsmouth and Jackson in the Midwest, to Albuquerque and Boise and points in-between. In a word, this book is an indictment. It is an indictment of a pharmaceutical industry eager to make a buck, of a health insurance industry that has put doctors into straitjackets by limiting the procedures they will and won't cover, of drug laws and SSI and Medicaid cards that turned too many with limited means (and a few with plenty of means and the cunning to pull it off) into small-time OxyContin dealers through Medicaid's coverage of the pills in almost unlimited quantities.
Quinones does an excellent job of laying all of this out and helping readers make sense of this tangled public health crisis. The facts and realities are event more damning than the shear number of deaths, if that's possible. Too, Dreamland, with Quinone's wide-reaching networks and research in the heart of the opium-producing and trafficking provinces in Mexico, offers a far more comprehensive account of global heroin supply chains than does Fariba Nawa's Opium Nation, which, when it takes its focus off Afghanistan, primarily looks at Asian markets and suppliers.
This is not a book to be read when unwinding before bed. It is a hardcore, depressing read: prepare to be angry.
Quinones, as he proves time and again, knows this story too well. Dreamland gives readers an in-depth look into the causes and early stages of the opioid epidemic which have ravaged towns from Portsmouth and Jackson in the Midwest, to Albuquerque and Boise and points in-between. In a word, this book is an indictment. It is an indictment of a pharmaceutical industry eager to make a buck, of a health insurance industry that has put doctors into straitjackets by limiting the procedures they will and won't cover, of drug laws and SSI and Medicaid cards that turned too many with limited means (and a few with plenty of means and the cunning to pull it off) into small-time OxyContin dealers through Medicaid's coverage of the pills in almost unlimited quantities.
Quinones does an excellent job of laying all of this out and helping readers make sense of this tangled public health crisis. The facts and realities are event more damning than the shear number of deaths, if that's possible. Too, Dreamland, with Quinone's wide-reaching networks and research in the heart of the opium-producing and trafficking provinces in Mexico, offers a far more comprehensive account of global heroin supply chains than does Fariba Nawa's Opium Nation, which, when it takes its focus off Afghanistan, primarily looks at Asian markets and suppliers.
This is not a book to be read when unwinding before bed. It is a hardcore, depressing read: prepare to be angry.
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