Scan barcode
ergative's reviews
1029 reviews
A Conspiracy of Paper by David Liss
3.25
I went through a huge David Liss phase back in . . . 2008 or so? 2010? Anyway, he's written more since then, so I thought to give him another look, starting with a reread of this book, the first Benjamin Weaver story. And . . . he's fine. This is a perfectly fine historical thriller about stock market shenanigans, which is perhaps slightly more ambitious in its aims than its execution.
The ambitious aims revolve around changes in thought that characterized the early 18th century, specifically the rise in deductive reasoning, courtesy of the Scottish Enlightenment; and the shift in economics to see bank notes as equally valuable as gold and silver, even though they represented (at the time, pre-fiat currency) nothing more than an institution's promise to pay gold and silver later. Wealth changes from a piece of metal to people's beliefs and trust in a piece of paper. These ideas combine in the rise of the stock market: paper can be incredibly valuable, if it represents the promise of a company to pay dividends to shareholders, but only if the value of the paper rises (which it will only do if people believe it to be valuable); so decisions in stock-market purchases are themselves a game in probabilities. And his decision to have our narrator be a lapsed Jew offers an additional side of the narrative: he is an observer, but not quite a participant, in both Jewish and Christian London of the era, at a time when Jews have a very particular relation to finance. (Liss really likes Jewish narrators.)
But somehow, although it all sounds very erudite and thoughtful when I describe it, Liss's engagement with these ideas feels... clumsy? A little obvious? There's a Scottish doctor who name-drops Enlightenment names and explains didactically what it means to reason from probabilities, and why people are so uneasy at the economic shift from hard currency to promises and paper currency. Wikipedia tells me that this was actually his first book, so possiblly it's just first-novel syndrome. I think I'll continue to read his Benjamin Weaver books and see if they get better.
The ambitious aims revolve around changes in thought that characterized the early 18th century, specifically the rise in deductive reasoning, courtesy of the Scottish Enlightenment; and the shift in economics to see bank notes as equally valuable as gold and silver, even though they represented (at the time, pre-fiat currency) nothing more than an institution's promise to pay gold and silver later. Wealth changes from a piece of metal to people's beliefs and trust in a piece of paper. These ideas combine in the rise of the stock market: paper can be incredibly valuable, if it represents the promise of a company to pay dividends to shareholders, but only if the value of the paper rises (which it will only do if people believe it to be valuable); so decisions in stock-market purchases are themselves a game in probabilities. And his decision to have our narrator be a lapsed Jew offers an additional side of the narrative: he is an observer, but not quite a participant, in both Jewish and Christian London of the era, at a time when Jews have a very particular relation to finance. (Liss really likes Jewish narrators.)
But somehow, although it all sounds very erudite and thoughtful when I describe it, Liss's engagement with these ideas feels... clumsy? A little obvious? There's a Scottish doctor who name-drops Enlightenment names and explains didactically what it means to reason from probabilities, and why people are so uneasy at the economic shift from hard currency to promises and paper currency. Wikipedia tells me that this was actually his first book, so possiblly it's just first-novel syndrome. I think I'll continue to read his Benjamin Weaver books and see if they get better.
The Gentleman and his Vowsmith by Rebecca Ide
3.0
Perfectly fine fluffy queer historical fantasy, but the thing about chucking dead bodies at your plot to make it go is that they have to actually make the plot go. If a dead body does nothing but keep the soggy center of the book idling in neutral, it seems awfully disrespectful to the characters who thought they were giving their fictional lives in service of moving things along.
Orbital by Samantha Harvey
2.0
That . .. was a Booker Prize winning novel, all right. Yes, yes, each sentence was a work of art. But cripes, what a slog. Nothing HAPPENED. If this book had been the supplemental meidations on planets and interiority and humanity and navel-gazing that enriched a book about aliens and astronauts and politics and rockets and, y'know, PLOT, then it would have been exquisite. But Harvey forgot the plot, and just focused on winning the Booker. And, I guess, like, it worked?
An Art Lover's Guide to Paris and Murder by Dianne Freeman
3.0
This was fun. New setting, Paris exposition.
A Newlywed's Guide to Fortune and Murder by Dianne Freeman
2.5
I saw a post on mastodon by an author, a little while ago, who was perplexed that someone would read every book in a long series of hers, and give each of them 2.5 or 3 stars on Goodreads. But that is this series to me. The books are fine. I like them. They're reliable, they're pleasant, and they're copious. There are pretty gowns and tea parties and murder. I need something to listen to when I chop onions or scrub the bathroom or wake up at 3am and can't get back to sleep. These books fill that gap in my life.
The Proof of My Innocence by Jonathan Coe
3.75
Very clever, entertainingly constructed, with the meaning of the title revealing itself to be ingenious and playful in a pleasing way. But, to be honest, I figured out most of it well before it was revealed (except possibly the bit about Piers Capon, which as far as I can tell was not tied up), so I never really had that moment of being outfoxed by the writer. I saw the structure as it went up, which interfered a bit with my ability to admire the completed edifice when the scaffolding came down.
The Crimson Road by A.G. Slatter
3.0
I quite like Slatter's Sourdough universe novels, but what I like best about them is how they all fit comfortably as standalone books in a shared universe. This one ffelt like it was making an uncomfortable effort to connect with the others, as if it didn't feel capable of telling a tale that stood on its own. Every character from the previous books shows up, and some -- like Asher Todd -- in a way that would have felt like an unconnected thread if I didn't know where she originally came from. Unless you'd already read the other books, it hurt the coherence of this one; and if, like me, you had read the other books, then the strands of connections felt forced and box-ticky.
The Inn at the Edge of the World by Alice Thomas Ellis
2.5
This was an odd combination of the disagreeable and the numinous, with a very un-funny plot line in which a creepy rapey murderous stalker seems to be getting played for laughs, backed by lots of haha so humorous daydreams about domestic violence. Very 1990s in its ethos. Was it supposed to be edgy? But ASIDE from that (Mrs Lincoln, how did you like the play?) the character work was good, the dialogue crisp, and the selkie stuff worked extremely well.
Ship of Magic by Robin Hobb
5.0
Ahhh, so good! The character work is so strong! Kyle Haven is so plausible, and yet so vile. Malta is such an astonishingly horrible brat. Kennit is incredible.
The Camomile by Catherine Carswell
2.0
This book was not terribly good, but I really enjoyed reading it, because it is a wonderful microcosm of life in Glasgow in the early 20th century. The details of neighbourhoods (Langside is very dull and respectable) and attitudes and activities of Ellen Carstairs provide an undeniably authentic look into the past, because, for all the sophomoric claims about what makes true writerly imagination, this is an undeniably heavily autobiographical book. I suspect that the internal musings of young Ellen have little to do with Carswell's desire to create a character, and are instead serving as a mouthpiece for Carswell herself. This is autofiction from a half century before the term was invented (1976, according to the OED). And if these musings are genuinely the thoughts of Carswell herself, then I don't think she was a terribly nice person. Ellen is constantly making quite snide, unkind remarks about the people in her life, which seem to me entirely uncalled for -- and, given the narrative gimmick that this diary is simply notes for letters to her friend, seem quite gossipy. It's one thing to make private remarks in a private diary of this sort, but if you're instead writing a draft of letters to a friend, it becomes awfully catty and mean.
There was, however, a very good extended metaphor about marriage for a woman being like walking to a destination on foot, rather than taking a car in traffic. What is so laborious for the foot traveller is complicated further by the rapid, easy passage of everyone in cars blocking road crossings; how it is easier to trust one's progress to a driver, and look out in ease and comfort at the world from inside a car; and yet, if the driver goes in the opposite direction from where you want to go, you'll never get somewhere that on foot you would eventually reach.
I think there's a real authenticity about young Ellen's internal agonies about her engagement that wouldn't work in a modern book written today, but set in the same era. The way she genuinely wants to have her own career and independence, yet at the same time fully buys into all sorts of gender essentialist claptrap, reads very differently from the pen of an author who genuinely lived that life, compared to an author who imagines one living that life, while having in fact grown up in a world whose public Discourse has evolved from a century's converation of those ideas. A modern writer would probably try to take Ellen on a journey in which she realizes that she can have a fulfilled life that does not depend on carrying out her expected role as a wife and mother; but from Carswell's pen, it seems like Ellen is genuinely giving up something that she wants and believes in. The sacrifice is realer, and cannot be turned into a #GirlBoss parable.
I think if the quality of the writing had been better, I would have been very moved by this book. But as it is, it's not a terribly good book, and interesting more as an artifact of the literary history of my city, than as a piece of literature.
There was, however, a very good extended metaphor about marriage for a woman being like walking to a destination on foot, rather than taking a car in traffic. What is so laborious for the foot traveller is complicated further by the rapid, easy passage of everyone in cars blocking road crossings; how it is easier to trust one's progress to a driver, and look out in ease and comfort at the world from inside a car; and yet, if the driver goes in the opposite direction from where you want to go, you'll never get somewhere that on foot you would eventually reach.
I think there's a real authenticity about young Ellen's internal agonies about her engagement that wouldn't work in a modern book written today, but set in the same era. The way she genuinely wants to have her own career and independence, yet at the same time fully buys into all sorts of gender essentialist claptrap, reads very differently from the pen of an author who genuinely lived that life, compared to an author who imagines one living that life, while having in fact grown up in a world whose public Discourse has evolved from a century's converation of those ideas. A modern writer would probably try to take Ellen on a journey in which she realizes that she can have a fulfilled life that does not depend on carrying out her expected role as a wife and mother; but from Carswell's pen, it seems like Ellen is genuinely giving up something that she wants and believes in. The sacrifice is realer, and cannot be turned into a #GirlBoss parable.
I think if the quality of the writing had been better, I would have been very moved by this book. But as it is, it's not a terribly good book, and interesting more as an artifact of the literary history of my city, than as a piece of literature.