I thoroughly enjoyed this book! I was already obnoxiously interested in historical plague surges and John Kelly has done nothing but enable me. Looking forward to being as insufferable as possible at upcoming family gatherings.
Even though I enjoyed it like I would a 5-star book, I think it's more accurate to put it at four. Some chapters are more engaging and well-written than others; occasionally I got the impression that Kelly was reaching for more content. For example, his chapter on Avignon contains several pages devoted to the trial of Queen Joanna of Naples and her lover, Luigi of Taratino, concerning the suspicious death of her Hungarian husband Andreas. Other focal points of the chapter include the papacy of Avignon, the poet Petrarch's relationship with Laura de Sade, and the musician Louis Heyligen. While plague remains in the backdrop of these stories, the fact remains that I picked up The Great Mortality to read about the Great Mortality-- not about Joanna and her lover, beautiful and tragic though they be. These stories are certainly interesting but I still wish they'd been cut; if not cut, at least abridged.
I see that other reviews have already mentioned his penchant for melodrama and repetition. Personally I didn't mind the repetition so much; I felt that the statistics he offered each chapter were relevant and added to the picture. As for the former, there's a thin line between humanizing the distant past and making a charicature of very real suffering. Now, I doubt I myself could have walked the line as well as Kelly does, but it's worth mentioning that there were several instances in which I had to wonder: Did you keep this paragraph because it's necessary, or because you relish your own creative grasp of the macabre?
Nevertheless, this was an absolutely fantastic read. I borrowed this book from a family friend, but I'll probably buy a copy for myself soon so that I can return to it whenever I want. Definitely recommend!
This is undeniably a well-written book; the brevity of both the prose and the book itself allows the themes to shine through very effectively. I don't have much to say beyond that it's a relatively easy, pleasant, and worthwhile read.
Having now finished my fourth time reading it, I'm inclined to say its brevity is a double-edged sword. It's so short that you can finish it in a weekend, and there's so little character development that by the end there's next to no sense of meaningful progression. If you're someone who enjoys more conventional narratives--specifically, identifiable protagonists stuck between their wants and their needs--the brevity might leave you somewhat dissatisfied. All the same, it's well worth the read.
On the most basic plot level, this has always been one of my favorite Narnia stories since I was a child. I like (again, on a basic level) how it expands the world of Narnia, how it introduces us to types of people and places we don't get to see in the rest of the Chronicles, and the theological elements of justice, mercy, and God's presence throughout the book.
Rereading it as an adult, however, I can't forgive how extraordinarily racist this book is even by 1954 standards. The first half takes place entirely in Calormen-- Lewis's Middle Eastern-coded country and heavily saturated in the West's legacy of orientalism and imperialism--and frankly it made the first 120 pages almost impossible to read. The fact that I reread it directly after White Tears/Brown Scars by Ruby Hamad probably has something to do with it.
Once the narrative departs from Calormen the plot begins to pick up and the racist undertones begin to die down (though unfortunately replaced by sexist ones). The last few chapters make for a legitimately fun read. I've rated this book 3.57 stars as a "proceed with caution." This is Narnia at its best and its worst.
I honestly feel bad that I'm giving up ten pages into a 293-page book (my edition). I'm sure that were I to make it into Abagnale's actual feats as a con artist, I'd enjoy probably the book more. But within the first ten pages, his self-constructed character is so unlikeable with such statements as "If I had to place any blame for my future nefarious actions, I'd put it on the Ford [that my Dad bought me]" and "I am not impressed by today's tomes on women's rights in the bedroom. When Henry Ford invented the Model-T, women shed their bloomers and put sex on the road." These sentences are both on page 10, and written from a place of hindsight: he's not describing how unlikeable he was as a teenager; this is just what he thinks.
(Speaking of his father, it's worth noting that one of the reasons he was so hard to catch was that his father--an affluent businessman very active in Republican politics--was able to scrub Abagnale's juvenile record. This isn't just the story of an intelligent con artist who gets by on nothing but his own charisma. Abagnale's success is inseparable from his privilege as a wealthy white man.)
Page 10, in fact, is the point I realized I couldn't finish--specifically after reading about his first sexual encounter. Abagnale writes, "I don't remember how she got into the car, or where we went after she got in, but I do remember she was all silk, softness, nuzzly, warm, sweet-smelling and absolutely delightful, and I knew I'd found a contact sport that I could really enjoy. She did things to me that would lure a hummingbird from a hibiscus and make a bulldog break his chain."
Later, at the bottom of the same page: "I woke up thinking of girls. I went to bed thinking of girls. All lovely, leggy, breathtaking, fantastic and enchanting. I went on girl scouting forays at sunrise. I went out at night and looked for them with a flashlight."
Writing is obviously a subjective art; I can't in good faith call Abagnale's writing strictly bad.But I can certainly call it personally unenjoyable. Those strings of adjectives send me back to 2015 and Lady Gaga on Ryan Murphy: "Talented, brilliant, incredible..." Except that was an interview; this is a (presumably) edited, published book. The phrase "lure a hummingbird from a hibiscus" alone makes me a little bit nauseous.
TL;DR: I will be consulting Wikipedia for a second-hand account of his exploits and I wish Frank Abagnale a very pleasant women's rights.
White Tears/Brown Scars is required reading for anyone—especially self-professed "feminist" and "antiracist" white women—interested in addressing the marginalized status of women of color and in taking the first steps towards making the world a less hostile and more habitable place. Were I to describe the book in a word, it would be powerful: as the subject matter demands, Hamad isn't interested in pulling punches, nor in holding the reader's hand. While there are some logical extrapolations that will require a second reading on my part, her prose is clear and concise and her points well-argued—she does a fantastic job of blending logos, ethos, and especially pathos throughout the book's entirety.
(By "extrapolations" I don't mean logical leaps or exaggerations, but rather conclusions whose premises seem to be informed by the experiences of women of color and that will take me, as a middle-class white woman, additional reading to understand).
This is the first book I've ever read on the subject. Hamad draws from and touches on other aspects of both historical and liberal politics (e.g. imperialism vs. colonialism, capitalism, socialism, sex work, environmentalism, etc), the background of which is intrinsic to her arguments but whose content isn't the main focus. This is by no means a criticism of either the book or the author, only that—while it certainly suffices as an introduction to the subject—it demands additional reading on my part to grasp the full scope of her argument. I encourage other and future readers, too, to be prepared to supplement the gaps in their own knowledge to appreciate this book's full power.