This turquoise-colored book, with its tropical flowers and map of Hawaii on the cover, was displayed prominently in the Smithsonian's gift shop earlier this summer and since I do love Hawaii, I had to add it to my list.
Lost Kingdom is the story of exactly that - how a kingdom, Hawaii, was lost to the Hawaiian people in an audacious and shameful land grab. Primary blame for the theft falls squarely on the shoulders of the over zealous descendants of the missionaries who arrived bearing God's words and man's diseases. Certainly the US government comes in for its share of blame, as Grover Cleveland essentially acknowledged once he was safely out of office: "Hawai'i is ours...as I contemplate the means used to complete the outrage, I am ashamed of the whole affair." (It is true that when opportunities presented themselves to the Hawaiian Queen, Lili'uokalani, to perhaps allow the islands to retain independence, she mishandled them. However, I think its fair to argue that she never should have been in many of the positions into which she was essentially forced.)
I would imagine most people would have a difficult time remaining calm as they read this book. The manifest destiny and imperialism on display here were certainly not the best moments in our nation's history. Julia Flynn Siler puts it perfectly when she writes, toward the end of the book, that as Queen Lili'uokalani rode a train across the U.S., she "couldn't help but wonder, with such vast expanses of arable land, why Americans seemed intent on taking over Hawai'i." Indeed.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris
This book, with its beautiful cover illustration of belle Paris, caught my attention in National airport last month. I seriously contemplated purchasing it on the spot - having recently returned from Paris, I had a soft spot for it - but it was incredibly heavy so I waited to borrow it from the library.
The premise of the book is that is is the story of American artists, writers, doctors, and others who traveled to Paris between, roughly, 1830 and 1870. The names are nearly all familiar: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Elizabeth Blackwell, Charles Sumner, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mary Cassatt, Samuel Morse, James Fenimore Cooper, Henry James, John Sargent Singer, PT Barnum and Tom Thumb, Augustus Saint-Gaudens. And while the book does a fine job of following all of these individuals, where it really excels is in capturing the essence of not only the city, but the era.
David McCullough takes pains to describe Samuel Morse's frustrations in trying to patent the system that would eventually bear his name, the long hours in medical clinics and art studios, and the discourse on slavery, emancipation, and the American Civil War. McCullough is at his finest when writing of war and conflict; the time period he has chosen, beginning with the 1830 revolution and ending with the emergence of Paris as a modern city (as evidenced by the "monstrous" tower Eiffel erected on the old military parage grounds), offers no shortage of war and revolution.
Early on, it is the 1830 revolution, followed by another less than 20 years later, and then the Franco-Prussian war (and the recklessness which wrought it and, subsequently, some 75 years of French-German conflict). Most interesting to me, however, was the treatment of the Communards, a short but turbulent and terrible period in French/Parisian history about which I had previously learned little. Given that this is in the ballpark of the number killed during the Reign of Terror (obviously, precise figures are not available for either of these times), I was surprised I hadn't learned of it previously.
Overall, this was a good read, although it could be quite dense at time and, therefore, a bit of a slow go. French history or American art history buffs would enjoy it greatly, but others might find it just a bit on the dull side.
The premise of the book is that is is the story of American artists, writers, doctors, and others who traveled to Paris between, roughly, 1830 and 1870. The names are nearly all familiar: Oliver Wendell Holmes, Elizabeth Blackwell, Charles Sumner, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mary Cassatt, Samuel Morse, James Fenimore Cooper, Henry James, John Sargent Singer, PT Barnum and Tom Thumb, Augustus Saint-Gaudens. And while the book does a fine job of following all of these individuals, where it really excels is in capturing the essence of not only the city, but the era.
David McCullough takes pains to describe Samuel Morse's frustrations in trying to patent the system that would eventually bear his name, the long hours in medical clinics and art studios, and the discourse on slavery, emancipation, and the American Civil War. McCullough is at his finest when writing of war and conflict; the time period he has chosen, beginning with the 1830 revolution and ending with the emergence of Paris as a modern city (as evidenced by the "monstrous" tower Eiffel erected on the old military parage grounds), offers no shortage of war and revolution.
Early on, it is the 1830 revolution, followed by another less than 20 years later, and then the Franco-Prussian war (and the recklessness which wrought it and, subsequently, some 75 years of French-German conflict). Most interesting to me, however, was the treatment of the Communards, a short but turbulent and terrible period in French/Parisian history about which I had previously learned little. Given that this is in the ballpark of the number killed during the Reign of Terror (obviously, precise figures are not available for either of these times), I was surprised I hadn't learned of it previously.
Overall, this was a good read, although it could be quite dense at time and, therefore, a bit of a slow go. French history or American art history buffs would enjoy it greatly, but others might find it just a bit on the dull side.
Monday, July 23, 2012
13, rue Thérèse: A Novel
I only finished this book because it was so short.
The story itself seems straightforward: a visiting professor at a Paris university find a box of mementos in his office from a woman's life between the world wars. He attempts to understand her by delving into the letters and trinkets contained in the box, weaving together a story of her life, while simultaneously falling for his secretary, the woman responsible for placing the box in his office.
So why did I dislike this book so much?
The biggest reason is that it was confusing. Without giving too much away, I would describe 13, rue Thérèse (author: Elena Mauli Shapiro) as The Time Traveler's Wife meets The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society meets The Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt. A little time travel, a little correspondence, and high-quality photos of letters, postcards, and photographs. Your standard novel, right? It just didn't mesh for me and, worse, it felt gimmicky. None of the characters - from either the present or the past - seemed well-developed to me (which meant I cared not a whit what happened to any of them) and 1920s Paris made hardly even a cameo appearance. A number of relationships, such as the one between Louise and her piano student, Garance, could have been developed in a way that would at least engage the reader. Instead, we know (barely) that these people existed, then in one way or another that they disappeared.
To whom would I recommend this book? Sorry, but no one. If you want 1920s Paris, The Paris Wife (one of my favorite reads last year) is the way to go. If it's purely fiction you're after, I'd suggest the aforementioned Guernsey. In any case, I just can't recommend this book.
The story itself seems straightforward: a visiting professor at a Paris university find a box of mementos in his office from a woman's life between the world wars. He attempts to understand her by delving into the letters and trinkets contained in the box, weaving together a story of her life, while simultaneously falling for his secretary, the woman responsible for placing the box in his office.
So why did I dislike this book so much?
The biggest reason is that it was confusing. Without giving too much away, I would describe 13, rue Thérèse (author: Elena Mauli Shapiro) as The Time Traveler's Wife meets The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society meets The Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt. A little time travel, a little correspondence, and high-quality photos of letters, postcards, and photographs. Your standard novel, right? It just didn't mesh for me and, worse, it felt gimmicky. None of the characters - from either the present or the past - seemed well-developed to me (which meant I cared not a whit what happened to any of them) and 1920s Paris made hardly even a cameo appearance. A number of relationships, such as the one between Louise and her piano student, Garance, could have been developed in a way that would at least engage the reader. Instead, we know (barely) that these people existed, then in one way or another that they disappeared.
To whom would I recommend this book? Sorry, but no one. If you want 1920s Paris, The Paris Wife (one of my favorite reads last year) is the way to go. If it's purely fiction you're after, I'd suggest the aforementioned Guernsey. In any case, I just can't recommend this book.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer
This book caught my eye at an airport bookstore, but I waited until i was home and could check it out of the library before reading it. Initially, it was a bit of a slow go and I had a hard time getting into it. I put it down for a week or so and when I picked it up again it was with a renewed enthusiasm for what was both a hopeful and depressing read (also fascinating, but I'll focus on that last).
Siddhartha Mukherjee does an admirable job of making the history of cancer, and especially cancer research, accessible to a non-medical audience. Not only is it accessible, but generally this is an engaging read, particularly before the 1970s, at which point the book does focus more on research and becomes more technical by turns. As Mukherjee winds his way through the history of cancer and treatments, I was taken by the progress that has been made in the past few decades. He describes what amount to cures for several, admittedly rare, cancer types, and the progress being made to treat and ultimately cure many other types of cancer.
So why did I say The Emperor of All Maladies is also a depressing read? Three big reasons: 1) because the more scientists learn, they more they discover that each type of cancer is different and requires different combinations of drugs for treatment, thereby complicating the process of finding effective treatments; 2) as with so many diseases now, there exists the very real risk of drug resistance, rending existing treatments moot; 3) as our environment changes (by which I mean anything as simple as the introduction of the cell phone to the complex phenomenon of global warming), so does our exposure to potential carcinogens, making cancer "prevention" a moving target.
My primary takeway, however, is the fascinating bit. Mukherjee's work is at its finest when he is describing real cancer cases, particularly those from the past. For example, early in the book we are introduced to ancient mummies whose bodies still bear the tumors of the cancer that ravaged their bodies thousands (or, in one case, even millions) of years ago. We also "meet" William Halsted, he of Johns Hopkins fame, who pioneered some of the earliest mastectomies while also nursing and hiding addictions to both morphine and cocaine. The mastectomies, by the way, were truly disfiguring, horrific operations that bear little resemblance to the current-day procedure. Also, for any UM people out there to whom the name CC Little rings a bell (yes, the big bus stop is outside the building named for him), we meet the former-UM president twice in this book. The first time, he is the director of the American Society for the Control of Cancer, the precursor to the American Cancer Society. The second time he is a stooge for the tobacco industry itself, asserting at every turn that there is no relationship between smoking and cancer. Alas.
On the whole, a great read, particularly for those with an interest in science and/or medicine.
Siddhartha Mukherjee does an admirable job of making the history of cancer, and especially cancer research, accessible to a non-medical audience. Not only is it accessible, but generally this is an engaging read, particularly before the 1970s, at which point the book does focus more on research and becomes more technical by turns. As Mukherjee winds his way through the history of cancer and treatments, I was taken by the progress that has been made in the past few decades. He describes what amount to cures for several, admittedly rare, cancer types, and the progress being made to treat and ultimately cure many other types of cancer.
So why did I say The Emperor of All Maladies is also a depressing read? Three big reasons: 1) because the more scientists learn, they more they discover that each type of cancer is different and requires different combinations of drugs for treatment, thereby complicating the process of finding effective treatments; 2) as with so many diseases now, there exists the very real risk of drug resistance, rending existing treatments moot; 3) as our environment changes (by which I mean anything as simple as the introduction of the cell phone to the complex phenomenon of global warming), so does our exposure to potential carcinogens, making cancer "prevention" a moving target.
My primary takeway, however, is the fascinating bit. Mukherjee's work is at its finest when he is describing real cancer cases, particularly those from the past. For example, early in the book we are introduced to ancient mummies whose bodies still bear the tumors of the cancer that ravaged their bodies thousands (or, in one case, even millions) of years ago. We also "meet" William Halsted, he of Johns Hopkins fame, who pioneered some of the earliest mastectomies while also nursing and hiding addictions to both morphine and cocaine. The mastectomies, by the way, were truly disfiguring, horrific operations that bear little resemblance to the current-day procedure. Also, for any UM people out there to whom the name CC Little rings a bell (yes, the big bus stop is outside the building named for him), we meet the former-UM president twice in this book. The first time, he is the director of the American Society for the Control of Cancer, the precursor to the American Cancer Society. The second time he is a stooge for the tobacco industry itself, asserting at every turn that there is no relationship between smoking and cancer. Alas.
On the whole, a great read, particularly for those with an interest in science and/or medicine.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
A History of the World in 100 Objects
I love the premise of A History of the World in 100 Objects. It grew out of a BBC Radio series in which 100 objects from the British Museum were painstakingly selected, described, and then their history and importance explained to the listeners. As I read each the mini-chapter dedicated to each of the items, it almost felt like I was listening to All Things Considered on NPR. Neil MacGregor, Director of the British Museum, and de facto author of the book (the pieces have been reprinted exactly as they were spoken on the air, so much of the text comes from others), did a fine job selected a variety of objects spanning the millennia and continents in order to create a cohesive history of man and civilization. And yet.
By the time I'd read 60 object-chapters, I was pretty much done and by the time I got to 80 I decided, even so (relatively) close to the end, that this book would be the second this year to bear the ignominious distinction "DNF." Man, it seems, hasn't really changed all that much: there were many examples of money - coins, coins, more coins, paper money, and credit cards - the standard sculptures - ranging from the Elgin Marbles of the Parthenon to one of the great, famed, stone statues of Easter Island - and a variety of religious and secular trinkets - glassware, porcelain, mirrors, and miscellaneous knickknacks. After several hundred pages, I was no longer curious about the musings of one or another expert on an obscure aspect of sociology, art history, or any other discipline. The pictures are beautiful, but I prefer my museum objects in all three dimensions.
To fully appreciate this book it is necessary to enjoy sociology, art history, and related fields more than I evidently do.
By the time I'd read 60 object-chapters, I was pretty much done and by the time I got to 80 I decided, even so (relatively) close to the end, that this book would be the second this year to bear the ignominious distinction "DNF." Man, it seems, hasn't really changed all that much: there were many examples of money - coins, coins, more coins, paper money, and credit cards - the standard sculptures - ranging from the Elgin Marbles of the Parthenon to one of the great, famed, stone statues of Easter Island - and a variety of religious and secular trinkets - glassware, porcelain, mirrors, and miscellaneous knickknacks. After several hundred pages, I was no longer curious about the musings of one or another expert on an obscure aspect of sociology, art history, or any other discipline. The pictures are beautiful, but I prefer my museum objects in all three dimensions.
To fully appreciate this book it is necessary to enjoy sociology, art history, and related fields more than I evidently do.
Friday, July 6, 2012
The Worst Hard Time
The Worst Hard Time is the gritty story of the Dust Bowl that gripped the Plains in the 1930s. Like my friend Clio, whose own review convinced me I should add this book to my list, I was largely ignorant of the scope and magnitude of the Dust Bowl. Yes, it was very hot and dry and caused many people, like the famous Okies in The Grapes of Wrath, to head for California. I had never known or imagined, however, that in the areas most badly afflicted (and Steinbeck's migrants did not hail from the worst afflicted parts), when it rained, which it seldom did, the clouds dropped mud from the sky. Cattle and farm animals suffocated on the dust, scores of children and the elderly died of dust pneumonia, and a single storm could bring enough dust to bury an entire Model A Ford. Other storms were capable of traveling thousands of miles, flinging dirt onto the Capitol building in Washington, DC, and even onto ships hundreds of miles out in the Atlantic.
Timothy Egan does a masterful job of bringing these anecdotes to life and of introducing the reader to the individuals who lived in the Dust Bowl and helping us understand why they left or, harder to grasp, why they stayed. Egan also concisely explains the causes behind the Dust Bowl. These causes are a hard lot to follow. There are, of course, the railroads and railroad barrons, but more disturbingly is the federal government. Egan does not sugar coat that it was the federal government, in a fit of manifest destiny, that encouraged more and more settlers to take to the plains, to plow up the grass, to plant more wheat than the country needed, to take on ever greater debt, and so on, until it all collapsed with the onset of the Great Depression.
After years of indifference during the 1930s, the federal government finally took action, buying millions of acres of dusty fields to return to grass. Under the Civilian Conservation Corps, they also planted some 220 million trees in an attempt to anchor the land to itself. Today, Egan notes that "some of the land is still sterile and drifting," and a colleague in Colorado informs me that the devastating fires sweeping through her state are kindled in no small part by the trees that were planted during the Depression.
Overall, this is an incredibly interesting and well-written book, one that I would especially recommend for history buffs or avid readers. It's one of two books I loaded onto my mom's Nook before she left for Europe earlier this week, so I hope she'll enjoy it as well!
Timothy Egan does a masterful job of bringing these anecdotes to life and of introducing the reader to the individuals who lived in the Dust Bowl and helping us understand why they left or, harder to grasp, why they stayed. Egan also concisely explains the causes behind the Dust Bowl. These causes are a hard lot to follow. There are, of course, the railroads and railroad barrons, but more disturbingly is the federal government. Egan does not sugar coat that it was the federal government, in a fit of manifest destiny, that encouraged more and more settlers to take to the plains, to plow up the grass, to plant more wheat than the country needed, to take on ever greater debt, and so on, until it all collapsed with the onset of the Great Depression.
After years of indifference during the 1930s, the federal government finally took action, buying millions of acres of dusty fields to return to grass. Under the Civilian Conservation Corps, they also planted some 220 million trees in an attempt to anchor the land to itself. Today, Egan notes that "some of the land is still sterile and drifting," and a colleague in Colorado informs me that the devastating fires sweeping through her state are kindled in no small part by the trees that were planted during the Depression.
Overall, this is an incredibly interesting and well-written book, one that I would especially recommend for history buffs or avid readers. It's one of two books I loaded onto my mom's Nook before she left for Europe earlier this week, so I hope she'll enjoy it as well!
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Periodic Tales: A Cultural History of the Elements, from Arsenic to Zinc
Periodic Tales is an example of what happens when I spend too much time in aiports... Essentially a book of short stories about various of the elements, their histories (from ancient times and alchemists to the Manhattan Project) and the ways humans have interacted with them through time (from the Biblical references to brimstone, aka sulphur, to the intricate titanium creations of jewelers today), it seemed like an interesting read. For dorks. Only.
I did learn a number of interesting, if generally useless facts: the tip of the Washington Monument is capped with aluminum, the kohl that Cleopatra used to darken her eyes was likely comprised of antimony, euro bank notes are printed with an ink of europium and, in theory, you can make your own phosphorous from urine. (Your own, or anyone else's, I suppose. Hugh Aldersey-Williams does win points in this review for performing - and then publicizing - just such an experiment with four liters of his own urine. Admittedly, the urine reeked. Also, the experiment, which involved collecting the urine for days and then allowing it to evaporate before roasting it and grinding it in a pestle, was unsuccessful.)
In the closing pages of Periodic Tales, Aldersey-Williams writes concisely of his aim: to show that the elements are all around us in both a material and a figurative sense. He does this very well, but ultimately my interest in the periodic table and its elements wasn't strong enough to truly enjoy the book. My final verdict is that total science nerds may enjoy it, but others should probably take a pass.
I did learn a number of interesting, if generally useless facts: the tip of the Washington Monument is capped with aluminum, the kohl that Cleopatra used to darken her eyes was likely comprised of antimony, euro bank notes are printed with an ink of europium and, in theory, you can make your own phosphorous from urine. (Your own, or anyone else's, I suppose. Hugh Aldersey-Williams does win points in this review for performing - and then publicizing - just such an experiment with four liters of his own urine. Admittedly, the urine reeked. Also, the experiment, which involved collecting the urine for days and then allowing it to evaporate before roasting it and grinding it in a pestle, was unsuccessful.)
In the closing pages of Periodic Tales, Aldersey-Williams writes concisely of his aim: to show that the elements are all around us in both a material and a figurative sense. He does this very well, but ultimately my interest in the periodic table and its elements wasn't strong enough to truly enjoy the book. My final verdict is that total science nerds may enjoy it, but others should probably take a pass.
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