gwcoffey's reviews
520 reviews

Another Life by Sarena Ulibarri

3.0

I read this novella on a whim after seeing it mentioned in a thread about Hugo drama. It’s a quick, straight forward, breezy read. I genuinely admire Ulibarri’s political optimism on display, and I found the character, plot, and style enjoyable. I have to say one thing rubbed me the wrong way. The book seems to want to take on sticky questions that swirl around “great people”, which is a subject I find important and worthy of deep probing. Thomas Jefferson was an eloquent and effective champion of the rights on man, and also a slaveholder apologist and rapist. Abraham Lincoln “freed the slaves” and was also deeply racist. Martin Luther King Jr. was a hugely effective champion of social justice, and a philanderer. This sort of thing runs deep. I’m not sure anything is untouched by it, and it is worth asking what it even means, ends aside, to be “good” if nobody really is. To me this calls into question the very words we use, or the very idea of some kind of summation of a human being.

Ulibarri seems to want to talk about this, or something like it, but she’s unwilling to give her protagonist any flaws. Instead, she invents a sort of genetic soul in an attempt to associate the heroine with a problematic past. But in-universe it doesn’t seem sensible that anybody would rightly bear any culpability for such a past. I think this is the point she’s making, in a round about way, but to me, it falls flat. It reminds me of a superman film, where the hero is in icon, and we’re forced to humanize them externally. It’s something that for better or worse I never find convincing.

But setting my personal hangups aside, I’m glad I read this book. It introduced me to the genre of “solarpunk” and gave me a chance to hear from someone who’s thought hard about ideas of communal living and justice in one particular way.

Possession by A.S. Byatt

5.0

I read this book in print and knew right away I needed to read it again. So this time I listened to the audio book. (And my wife listened with me.)

In some sense the first time through I was so bowled over by Byatt’s technical perfection that I didn’t write much at all about what the book meant to me. It is such a beautiful story, and it really rewards a second reading. As a small example, the first time through, I was judgmental of

Christabel’s behavior toward her cousin in Brittany

. But reading it again, knowing more fully what she’s dealing with, I felt only empathy.

Maude too is a character that is wonderful the first time through, and only gets better the second. Seeing her story unfold when you’ve already been gifted her vulnerable insight into self makes every part of her story more deeply felt. And Byatt’s genius is most well articulated in Maude, as she uses the “icy” language of misogynistic hatred of intelligent women in such a subversive, almost beautiful way.

Possession is full of wonderful characterization. I could cite a thousand examples, but perhaps my favorite for its precision and humor is this passage when Maude receives a phone call from the wonderfully dowdy Beatrice Nest:

He was about to say they were not quarrelling, when the telephone rang. The voice was female, trembling, and very agitated.

“I wish to speak to Dr Bailey.”

“This is Maud Bailey, speaking.”

“Yes. Well. Yes. Oh dear. I have thought and thought about whether I should ring you—you may think I am mad, or you may think I am simply bad—or presumptuous—I don’t know—I could only think of you—and I have sat and thought about it all evening and I only see now how late it is to be ringing anyone, I must have lost all sense of time, I should perhaps ring back tomorrow, that might be better only it might be too late, well, not perhaps tomorrow, but very soon, if I’m right—it was only that you seemed concerned, you see, you did seem to care—”

“Please—who is that speaking?”

“Oh dear, yes. I never initiate telephone calls. I am terrified of the telephone. This is Beatrice Nest. On behalf of Ellen Ash. No, not exactly on behalf—except that I do feel—I do feel—that it is for her that I am—”

“What has happened, Dr Nest?”

“I’m sorry. Let me try to settle down and speak clearly. I did try to ring you earlier, Dr Bailey, but there was no answer. I didn’t really expect you to answer this call, either, that is why I am so flustered and taken off my guard. Yes.”

“I do understand.”

“It is about Mortimer Cropper. He has been here—well not here, I’m at home now of course, in Mortlake, but into my room in the Museum, he has been there several times, looking very particularly at certain sections of the journal—”

“About Blanche Glover’s visit?”

“No, no, about the funeral of Randolph Ash. And today he brought young Hildebrand Ash—well he isn’t so young, he’s quite old, and certainly fat, but younger than Lord Ash himself, of course—perhaps you don’t know that Hildebrand Ash will succeed Lord Ash if he dies, when he dies, and he isn’t well, James Blackadder says, he certainly doesn’t answer letters at all—not that I write often, there is no real need, but when I do he doesn’t answer—”

“Dr Nest—”

“I know. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I rang back tomorrow?”

“No. I mean yes. I am sure. I am consumed with curiosity.”

“I overheard them talking to each other.

They believed I had gone—well, out of the room. Dr Bailey, I am absolutely certain that Professor Cropper means to disturb—to dig up—the Ashes. The grave in Hodershall. He and Hildebrand Ash together.

He wants to find out what is in the box.”

“What box?” said Maud.

Beatrice Nest, with much circumlocution and breathiness, explained what box.

This exchange is caricature and yet it feels so real. And it makes a throwaway line later about Beatrice making a phone call feel like a real triumph. Beatrice is so thoroughly real that we feel real concern, real surprise, and real empathy. Every character is like this—so deeply imagined, so distinctive in voice, so elegantly drawn that I just can’t get enough of it.

Anyway, I’m gushing. Easily this is one of my favorite books of all time.

Where the Red-Winged Blackbirds Sing: The Akimel O'odham and Cycles of Agricultural Transformation in the Phoenix Basin by Jennifer Bess

4.0

My wife and I were talking about Palestine and Israel one night and in a bit of melodrama I said something like “the only difference between the Israelis supporting genocide and me is that America finished it genocide so thoroughly that I don’t even know who’s land I live on.” It was a throwaway line, meant to express what I often feel in situations like this. But still, I thought about it off and on for several days.

Because it’s true. I own a home, and the land it stands on. And academically I know that land was, at some point, annexed from another sovereign people against their will. And I have no idea what they called themselves. I could probably guess at it. I have this vague awareness of the Indian communities around me. But if I had to tell you who’s land I live on, I would have to hand waive a lot of details. This realization really bothered me and so I decided to rectify it, at least a little bit.

That lead me to Where the Red-Winged Blackbirds Sing, a somewhat dry and wordy, but super-informative academic book on the Akimel O’odham, The River People, the Indigenous people my yard was stolen from, along with all of Phoenix. (I also read A Pima Remembers, which is a more intimate personal narrative, also great.)

I learned so much from this book, not just about a community of people, but about the landscape I call home, the ecological systems that were so different than they are now, about economic systems, and about cotton, mesquite, cattle and other Arizona staples.

For example, ever since I moved to the Phoenix valley in 1994, I’ve thought—assumed—that the dry river bed we call the Salt River was a normal and natural desert reality. I thought it was always a dry bed that ran with water on occasion during the rainy season. I had no idea the Salt and Gila rivers used to run deep and wide all year long. I had no idea the river valleys were lush with cottonwood, grasses, and wildlife (like the titular Red-Winged Blackbirds). In some vague sense I knew there was a history of water rights abuses, and that there was some ecological impact of our complex systems of dams. But I had no idea an entire complex valley-wide ecology was completely erased. And I had no idea the Akimel O’odham suffered 40+ years of famine when the water in these rivers was taken from them.

This is one of those situations where you learn some simple history that reshapes how you see the very world around you. I’ll never see the landscape of my own home the same way again.

A Pima Remembers by George Webb

5.0

After reading Where the Red-Winged Blackbirds Sing I moved straight into this intimate personal narrative of George Webb, an Akimel O’odham Indian who was born to a thriving agrarian community under intense colonial threat, and who lived to see the space age.

(According to his story, Webb’s given name as a child was Buzzing Feather but he calls himself by his Christian name, George Webb, and I will use that name here.)

Webb’s writing is simple, bare, and frank. He tells us exactly what he wants to say, in the simple language of a grandfather recounting his life to his grandchildren. It gives the book an intense realness and authenticity that I found powerful. It made every word feel important so that I was engrossed as I read it straight through.

I enjoyed his brief retellings of Pima myths, especially the enchanting and strange story of White Clay Eater. And I also was moved by his concluding chapters. Webb is in a unique position, fully integrated into western society, but with a lived memory of a totally different world. A world the disintegration of which he himself witnessed. He tackles this in the end, where he gets as close to biting as you’ll find in this otherwise gentle story.

Today the Pima Indian is doing his best to get along under the white man’s conditions, striving to make a living any way he can. He may live in a good home, drive a nice car, and can go into a bar when he wants to have a drink.

Like the white man, he can drink too much and run into an accident on the highway and get himself killed. Like the white man, he sometimes has to worry about the money to make a payment on his television set. Sometimes he plays around and his home life is broken up. Yes, the Pima Indian is getting civilized.

[…]

When somebody asks me: “How would you rather live, the old Indian way or the white way?” I say: “The old Indian way.”

He goes on to illustrate the change he’s seen with haunting and beautiful imagery:

The red-wing blackbirds would sing in the trees and fly down to look for bugs along the ditches. Their song always means that there is water close by as they will not sing if there is not water splashing somewhere.

The green of those Pima fields spread along the river for many miles in the old days when there was plenty of water.

Now the river is an empty bed full of sand.

Now you can stand in that same place and see the wind tearing pieces of bark off the cottonwood trees along the dry ditches.

The dead trees stand there like white bones. The red-wing blackbirds have gone somewhere else.

I loved every page of this book.

A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr.

4.0

This was the second recommendation from a friend during a long lunch last year. (The first was The Name of the Rose). While on balance I definitely like The Name of the Rose better, I enjoyed this one too. It is inventive, funny, and expertly crafted.

My only complaint, and I’m not sure it even is a complaint, is that like a lot of good sci-fi (see Ursula K LeGuin for example) it is much more concerned with its worlds and ideas than its individual people. And for better or worse, it is almost always people that move me. So it can feel a little flat.

But that’s not to say it isn’t a worthy read. Miller’s ability to convincingly and humorously construct a post-apocalyptic quasi-modern relgiosity is impeccable. And he’s as cynical as he is satirical, which is always a good thing.

I’ll also add that the audio book is beautifully read by Tom Weiner. He gives so many crotchety old monks so many perfect gravely voices. And he churns out all the bible-talk like practiced sermonist.

A True Story by Charles Whibley, Francis Hickes, Lucian of Samosata

5.0

Haha what a mad “story” this is. It starts nowhere, goes nowhere, says nothing, and yet somehow does it all wonderfully. Utterly deranged.

The introduction to the edition I read (which is strangely uncredited) talks about the strange dichotomy of this book: It is both surprisingly modern, and deeply rooted in its own time. I think this is what makes it so fun. It made me think of Raymond Chandler’s hilarious parody of science fiction:

I checked out with K19 on Adabaran III, and stepped out through the crummaliote hatch on my 22 Model Sirus Hardtop. I cocked the timejector in secondary and waded through the bright blue manda grass. My breath froze into pink pretzels. I flicked on the heat bars and the Bryllis ran swiftly on five legs using their other two to send out crylon vibrations. The pressure was almost unbearable, but I caught the range on my wrist computer through the transparent cysicites. I pressed the trigger. The thin violet glow was ice-cold against the rust-colored mountains. The Bryllis shrank to half an inch long and I worked fast stepping on them with the poltex. But it wasn’t enough. The sudden brightness swung me around and the Fourth Moon had already risen. I had exactly four seconds to hot up the disintegrator and Google had told me it wasn’t enough. He was right.

Imagine a tiny plotless version of The Odyssey in this classic sci-fi style and you have a sense of A True Story. 

Bea Wolf by Zach Weinersmith

5.0

I heard this book mentioned on the Lingthusiasm podcast and knew I had to get it. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of it before. It is pure perfection.

I suppose I should start by saying—if you don’t know—it’s an absurd and delightful adaptation of the first half or so of Beowulf, re-imagined as a graphic novel for children. A succession of kiddos in place of Kings, a tree house in place of a castle, and—believe it or not—a fussy suit-and-tie-clad neighbor in place of Grendel. I won’t say much more because it is unimaginably fun to discover it on every page.

The language is perfectly over-the-top with silly kennings and extreme alliteration. And every page is pure imagination. Think Garbage Pale Kids meets The Classics™.

Every page is a work of art, drawn by Boulet. The artwork is charming, irreverent, and over the top. I read this as an e-book but immediately ordered a print copy to keep on my shelf.

This is the kind of deranged madcap labor of love that will always thrill me. It’s the fourth adaptation of Beowulf I’ve read, and easily as good as the others.

I almost can’t wait for grandkids so I can pull this off the shelf at just the right time.

Cassandra in Reverse by Holly Smale

4.0

This book is a novel length, often funny, sometimes touching illustration of the double empathy problem. At times you’ll find Cassandra annoying, but usually you’ll just want to cheer for her as she comes to the inevitable realization. The story is occasionally too tidy, but it is charming enough that I didn’t mind. And

the mysterious-other-person subplot

is genuinely moving and rewarding.

The Selected Poems of Li Po by Li Po, David Hinton

5.0

Something I read recently led me to Li Bao’s beautiful poem, “Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain”. I took a note to seek out more. For those who don’t know (I didn’t), Bao (sometimes spelled Po) was an 8th century Chinese poet, and one of the most beloved figures in Chinese literary history. I am, sadly, unable to read the originals so I compared a few poems from a few collections. The translations of David Hinton were my favorite. So I read his book, The Selected Poems of Li Po.

This is a full and diverse collection. Some of it philosophical, like this from Autumn River Songs:

Looking down at the river flowing past,

I call out to its waters: So how is it
you’ll remember nothing of me, and yet

you’d carry this one handful of tears
so very far— all the way to Yang-chou?

Some of it beautifully naturalistic (from the same poem):

There’s a flake of rock on Chiang-tzu Peak,
a painted screen azure heaven sweeps clean.

The poem inscribed here keeps all boundless
antiquity alive— green words in moss brocade.

And some of it achingly beautiful. I’m going quote Ch’ang Kan Village Song in its entirety because I think more than any other in the collection, it illustrates the rich themes, voices, and style to be found here.

Ch’ang Kan Village Song

These bangs not yet reaching my eyes,
I played at our gate, picking flowers,

and you came on your horse of bamboo,
circling the well, tossing green plums.

We lived together here in Ch’ang-kan,
two little people without suspicions.

At fourteen, when I became your wife,
so timid and betrayed I never smiled,

I faced wall and shadow, eyes downcast.
A thousand pleas: I ignored them all.

At fifteen, my scowl began to soften.
I wanted us mingled as dust and ash,

and you always stood fast here for me,
no tower vigils awaiting your return.

At sixteen, you sailed far off to distant
Yen-yü Rock in Ch’ü-t’ang Gorge, fierce

June waters impossible, and howling
gibbons called out into the heavens.

At our gate, where you lingered long,
moss buried your tracks one by one,

deep green moss I can’t sweep away.
And autumn’s come early. Leaves fall.

It’s September now. Butterflies appear
in the west garden. They fly in pairs,

and it hurts. I sit heart-stricken
at the bloom of youth in my old face.

Before you start back from out beyond
all those gorges, send a letter home.

I’m not saying I’d go far to meet you,
no further than Ch’ang-feng Sands.

I’ve read it a dozen or more times in the last couple of days. I’m rereading it right now. I shared it with my child (who is much more educated about poetry than I am) and they said, simply, “This is remarkable.” I couldn’t agree more.

At first I lingered on the butterflies. “They fly in pairs, / and it hurts.” Remarkable. Another time I wondered at “dust and ash.” Remarkable. “At fourteen, when I became your wife…” is such a dated line opening such a modern thought. Remarkable. “Moss buried your tracks one by one” is Remarkable. “without suspicions” is remarkable. “fierce / June waters” and “howling gibbons” are remarkable. (“Mobled queen is nice…”)

Why is she “heart-stricken at the bloom of youth?” And why, oh please tell me why does she say “I’m not saying I’d go far to meet you?” Remarkable.

I can’t get enough of this poem, and it is one of hundreds in this immaculate collection.

Think Remarkable: 9 Paths to Transform Your Life and Make a Difference by Guy Kawasaki

2.0

I’ve know of Kawasaki for years, ever since I subscribed to an email newsletter he ran back when email newsletters felt futuristic. I’ve always kind of admired his folksy go-tiger motivational style. I heard him interviewed somewhere about this book and he said something interesting, I can’t remember what exactly. But anyway all that led me to pick it up even though it is not the kind of book I’m normally drawn to.

All that to say, the only thing this book taught me is that I have no interest in being “remarkable.”