Book Reviews, January to June 2018

Another six months, another pile of books. So far, I’m at my goal of a book a week. I’m fully aware that in some part I’m reading to the list, but like many things in life, I’ve settled into a comfortable habit, so here we go. If you only give one book from this list a shot, it should be either Lincoln in the Bardo or LaRose.

Lincoln in the Bardo – George Saunders

The first book I read this year was arguably the best. Saunders’ Bardo is an “experimental” reflection on a short period in Lincoln’s life following the death of his young son, and the ghosts of the Bardo graveyard in which he is interred. The style bounces between pathos and subtle wit, including a passage about a party at the Lincoln’s composed completely of short overlapping and wildly varying accounts from guests that feels right at home in our post-truth era. I think my enjoyment was enhanced in having listened to this as an audiobook, with an ensemble cast that included sublime performances by Nick Offerman and David Sedaris.

Men Without Women – Haruki Murakami

Murakami is in his element in this collection of short stories, gently prying into the messy organics of individual relationships and the broader relationships between men and women. As usual with Murakami, I feel like I’m missing a little in cultural translation, but I’m still left with a deftly- constructed set of vignettes.  

Book of Daniel – E.L. Doctorow

I’m continuing to make my way through Doctorow’s works, and Book of Daniel is certainly the high-water mark so far. Nominally it’s a fictionalization of the Rosenberg trials and executions, but this starting point splits into two mutual tracks; Doctorow drags his characters through a background of the turbulent history of the time, while also colliding family members against each other in claustrophobic orbits.  

Hamilton – Ron Chernow

It was hard to come at Hamilton after the spectacle of the musical and picking this up and setting it down a couple times. While Chernow gets credit for starting the Hamilton “revolution”, this tome seems to fall short in a lot of ways. The pacing and continuity is a bit inconsistent, and Chernow makes some leaps of supposition that really seem a bit stretched. It was helpful to get a fuller backstory, but I didn’t come away impressed by Chernow’s writing.

Barkskins – Annie Proulx

Barkskins is the embodiment of a traditional epic. It follows two family dynasties, one white and one Native/Metis, set against the clash of cultures and the clash of men with wilderness, spanning centuries from the early fur trade to the modern era. As usual, Proulx’s characters are vibrant and complex. Even minor players have backstories that could be novels in and of themselves (though not as densely packed as in Accordion Crimes). Proulx remains one of my favorite American authors.

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms – George RR Martin

Ok, so this is fluff. Profoundly fluffy fluff. Not even fluff in its own regard, but side story fluff from Martin’s Game-of-Thronesaverse. I needed an audiobook for a long ride, and this was what was available at quick search. The story is a prequel to the GoT storyline, following the development of some characters-before-they-were-characters. It wasn’t bad per se, just relatively forgettable. I do give Martin credit for keeping the story fairly reined in, rather than his usual ridiculousness of disjointedly moving over weighted companies of characters aimlessly across landscapes.

Moonglow – Michael Chabon

Chabon’s Moonglow has been sitting on my bedside table for a little while, and I finally got to it. Moonglow is a family story in the truest sense; a mix of facts and elaboration. It is a retelling of the life of Chabon’s grandfather in post-war America, and is a mirror for the epochs through which he drifted. At its heart it’s a story about stories, like an old Kodachrome picture of families on vacation, though in this case the picture is of rockets and alligators and old age. The nuance and tragedy get mixed in the fuzzy, warm color cast of history. As usual with Chabon, the dialogue is worth the price of admission. It’s not as dense and atmospheric as Kavalier and Klay, but it’s Chabon doing what he does well…reflecting the subject and time in his style, telling the story not in just the content but the color of the writing.

LaFayette in the Somewhat United States – Sarah Vowell

Throughout Hamilton I found myself being more interested in LaFayette than Hamilton himself. Vowell’s work came recommended, but it fell a little short for me. In all fairness, I know it wasn’t intended as an exhaustive biography of “America’s favorite fighting Frenchmen” (now that’s in your head for the rest of the day. You’re welcome). It feels like Vowell can’t decide if she’s focusing on Hamilton, or using Hamilton as a lens to look at the struggling new American democracy. In the end, Lafayette ends up being a poor mix of both. It has some great bits, but for better or worse feels like an over-extended This American Life segment. I keep expecting quirky musical breaks between segments. I’d recommend reading this as opposed to listening to the audiobook. Vowell’s voice and comic timing are less than enthralling.

The Fifth Season – N.K. Jemisen

I had expected this sci fi/fantasy bit to be another bit of fluff between weightier works, but was pleasantly surprised (within bounds). Jemisen’s world building is like fan fic for geologists. Instead of the typical werewolf/vampire/angel YA trilogy ridiculousness, the world is structured around geologic forces, the people who wield them like arcane power, and the societal structures that surround it. If Fifth Season starts as a bit derivative of Asimov’s Nightfall, it quickly carves out its own unique niche. The writing is not literature-grade; it’s straight ahead storytelling without much stylistic ornament, but it’s adequate to the task of conveying a unique world vision.

Pulse – Julian Barnes

Much like Murakami’s Japanese characters, I often feel I’m missing some of the nuance of Barnes’ British denizens and settings. His style is masterful, even though he strays a bit farther into dryness and understatement for my tastes. This collection of short stories clashes between quintessentially British dialogue/patter at dinner parties and vignettes of somewhat darker themes than Barnes’ other works. It feels like a take on the dissolution of society playing out in the deteriorating lives of the characters, all overlaid with the false joviality of the dinner party vignettes. It could not be more British if it were a Bulldog draped in the Union Jack, wearing a bowler hat and a monocle.  

Paddle Your Own Canoe – Nick Offerman

I’ve liked Offerman’s writing in the past, and after his performance in Saunders’ Lincoln (above) I picked up the audiobook for Canoe. It started out well, with a great mix of irreverence, Ron Swanson-esque self-reliance stories, but then towards the middle it felt like he ran out of content and started talking about Hollywood, name-dropping, and swooning over his wife for several interminable chapters. It ends on a high note with the eponymous poem, but it really could have its center eviscerated and be a better experience.

Dodge City: Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and the Wickedest Town in the American West – Tom Clavin

I’m not sure why exactly I picked this up, but it was an interesting read. It’s a straight-ahead history of Earp/Masterson before and after their Dodge City days. I was hoping Clavin would give a little more context on Dodge City and the period itself, but he spent most of his time on the aimless wanderings of the lawmen involved. It was an account full of character without going into the sensationalism of other period Western works like Gywnne’s Empire of the Summer Moon. 

LaRose – Louise Erdrich

This story of white and Native families and the complex bindings of mixed communities is Erdrich at her best. Mixing a touch of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ “magical realism” with her traditional style of story-telling, Erdrich creates a very human work that escapes the “magical Indian” trap of other authors (and if we’re being fair, some of Erdrich’s lesser works). The story revolves around the son of one family being “given” to another family as reconciliation for the tragic accidental killing of their son. The way in which Erdrich takes a seemingly implausible arrangement and plays it out in ways that feel organic speak to the depth of her skill. You feel the weight of her characters’ loss, their own internal conflict over the son-swapping decision, and the way in which ordinary life goes on and things become the new normal despite our internal worlds being torn apart.  Erdrich balances writing about the unique aspects of modern life on and near a reservation with the universal experiences of average people in an almost seamless manner. The dialogue between LaRose’s two sisters interspersed throughout the book is almost worth the price of admission itself.

Calling of the Three – Steven King

I had unexpectedly enjoyed King’s first foray into the cowboy D&D of his Dark Tower universe last year, and finally picked up the second volume. It was underwhelming. It drifted from the superb slow reveal of Roland’s “world that has moved on” to a plodding introduction of what can only be described as stereotypes on parade. Even giving King the benefit of the doubt in his touching-on-problematic writing of the split personality of a woman of color that seems drawn from the absolute worst of blaxploitation cinema, the added characters here are hokey. The entire book revolves around Roland collecting destined allies to accompany him on his journey, and the interposition of different eras of America with his “alien” world just feels too jarring. I’m hoping the story improved going forward. It didn’t help that I listened to this as an audiobook with horrible voice acting. 

Wind/Pinball – Haruki Murakami

Wind/Pinball is a collection of Murakami’s earliest works, and, well, it shows. You can feel his style still in development. It is not the masterful writing of later works. That being said, the interlocked stories of the two novels (part of a three-novel cycle) are still good reads. The first novel (Hear the Wind Sing) is probably the lesser of the two halves, and reminds me a lot of Chabon’s Mysteries of Pittsburgh…an early effort that will be reflected in later, better works. It feels a little more autobiographical, dealing with a struggling writer.  Pinball, 1973 is a more developed work, touching on obsession from the narrator over a pinball machine. Both novels touch on a continuing theme of Murakami’s, the suicidal death of a female character. The heavy focus on suicide throughout his works is one of those Murakami elements I feel like I’m not as tuned into because of cultural differences. 

The Antelope Wife – Louise Erdrich

Antelope was an interesting follow-up to LaRose and other Erdrich works. Erdrich typically has touches of storytelling that transcend “reality”, but generally stays firmly rooted in the real, human experiences of her characters.  This work that centers on a devolving relationship and the tragic consequence of a suicide attempt (mirroring Erdrich’s partner’s own suicide) tilts more heavily toward the mythology. The story cuts back and forth between the far past and present, tracing the roots of the turbulent forces that driver her characters, and Erdrich’s style follows suit. The passages from the past are told in a traditional storytelling style, heavy with symbol. The modern elements are grittier, more realistic. Erdrich manages to tie it together well.  

Writer, Sailor, Soldier, Spy: Hemmingway’s Secret Adventures, 1953-1961 – Nicholas Reynolds

Reynolds is a historian working for the CIA and other agencies, but his take on Hemmingway’s clandestine activities during the Cold War was more engaging than I expected. Reynolds paints a complicated picture of Hemmingway’s time as a resistance fighter among the partisans in Spain, through WWII, and into the Cold War. Despite Reynold’s admitted love of Hemmingway, the work paints a nuanced and complicated portrayal of Hemmingway’s warring nature. He is simultaneously the face of bravery and anti-fascism, and also boorish, self-centered, and easily manipulated. For better or worse, Hemmingway’s wartime antics (which include a hilariously over the top stint in which he volunteered to use his personal fishing boat to hunt German submarines in the Caribbean, intending to lure them in and then throw grenades into open hatches- this was an actual thing he tried to do) show a man caught between the perfection of ideals and the imperfection of both the world and himself. Hemmingway is alternately manipulated by the Soviets, the US, the Cubans, and his own self-deception. An interesting if disheartening read for any Hemmingway fan. As much as his work influenced modern American literature, in his personal life he was the sort of dangerous jerk who is full of swagger, but short on thinking things through…a mannerism that is uncomfortably close to the current political climate. The point is driven home to an even greater degree by the Russian manipulation of Hemmingway. One might even say collusion….

The Wastelands – Steven King

The third installment in the Dark Tower series, Wastelands made marginal improvements in redeeming the series from Calling of the Three. Roland’s Ka-tet is on the move, and incorporating more of King’s expansive world. It took a shift toward a little more of the Asimovian sci fi feel as opposed to the dystopian cowboy fantasy elements of The Gunslinger, but at least the story progressed. King’s writing in the voice of a woman of color is still cringeworthy in places. I can only hope the remaining books move back toward the more austere aesthetic of sweeping stretches of time and landscape of the original novel.

Astrophysics for People in a Hurry – Neil Degrasse Tyson

Purportedly a translation of astrophysics into popular science context, there were a lot of instances in the book that felt like listening to that professor in college who is so deep into the nuance of a particular field that they are completely incapable of teaching an intro-level class that’s relatable. Some of the concepts Tyson covers start with an assumption of scientific literacy that overreaches a bit. I generally enjoyed it, though it didn’t feel very cohesive as a work. I listened to the audiobook on this one, and honestly, I’m not sold on Tyson as a narrator. In parts he just comes off as smug.

Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez

This is one of those Important Books everyone is assumed to have read, and that I’ve put off for some time. I appreciated (rather than truly enjoyed) One Hundred Years of Solitude, but wasn’t incredibly motivated to work through Marquez’s works. I enjoyed Love more than I expected to. On its face, the story of unrequited love and turbulent relationships in Columbia of the early 20th century seems like an unadorned period piece, but its relentless picking away at the illusions of overblown romantic love make the main story feel more like a play within a play, with Marquez pointing out the silliness of simplistic romanticism. As with Murakami’s Japanese sojourns, I know I’m missing some meaning in the cultural translation, but there’s enough left to be satisfying. It was interesting to read this after the Hemmingway book, because in parts it echoes some of the same “the Emperor’s clothes are not resplendent” themes, i.e. this is not heroic, this is stupid. 

Bad Dirt - Proulx

Dirt is the second of three installments in the Wyoming Stories collections which started with Close Range (the collection that spawned Brokeback Mountain, among other stories). It’s a mix of stories that steer strongly toward tall tale type characters, often to the detriment of the setting. It doesn’t feel as satisfying or fleshed out as the original collection…like an album of B-sides. That being said, it’s still Proulx, and still enjoyable. There are a few uncharacteristic misses, though, including a story told from the viewpoint of badgers, and one about a portal to Hell, that just don’t meet Proulx’s usual bar. There is a third installment of stories that I have avoided for fear that this franchise is scraping past the bottom of the barrel. 

Warlight – Michael Ondaatje

Ondaatje’s prowess in modern literature was recently reflected in winning a best-of edition of the Booker prize, in which The English Patient was selected as the best of previous prize-winners. I was excited when Warlight came out this year, and bumped it to the top of the pile. This story of family secrets and underworld characters in post-war England has some wonderful writing and a great ambiance, but falls a little short of the highwater mark for Ondaatje. In some places it feels like the story is not an adequate framework on which to hang his prose, and in some rare places, vice versa. Still an enjoyable read, but not in the same tier as Patient or Anil’s Ghost. 

A Visit from the Goon Squad – Jennifer Egan

Goon Squad was a completely random pick; I heard a colleague talking about it, and it sounded worth a try. The story collection is nominally strung together through a central character, around which a sea of aspiring musicians, drug addicts, and other predators swirl. I was surprised that the critical reaction (Pulitzer prize, etc.) was so positive for this book, which I didn’t particularly get much out of. Part of the fawning reviews seemed to focus on the “experimental” take on some aspects (one chapter is done as a PowerPoint presentation, etc.) but it all felt gimmicky to me (and didn’t, in all fairness, translate well to audiobook). Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo was stuck with the “experimental” label as well, but its experimental style served the narrative and was intrinsic to it book’s structure. Goon Squad just felt tired and contrived. It didn’t even seem to have the ambition to be pretentious. I’m still puzzled as to what people got out of this. Neither the stories or the writing really stood out to me at all.

The Historian – Jennifer Egan

Continuing the downward trajectory (though still a better work that Goon Squad), Historian is a modern day take on the Victorian vampire novel. The main story of generations of historians in pursuit of, and being pursued by, a very real and very much somewhat-alive Vlad Tepes. It’s ambitious in scope, and in places the writing is decent, but there are vast stretches of the book that feel like just shuttling characters from one expositional encounter to another. Go to another historian, find another document, lather, rinse, repeat. The anticlimactic climax and the “surprise” ending feel a bit tacked on. SPOILERS BELOW - What really threw me out of the suspension of disbelief (and why I have been picking this up and setting it down for the better part of a decade) were both the nonsensical core of the story, in which Vlad Tepes is simultaneously trying to lure historians to b’e his thrall and manage his book collection while also trying to push them away with threats of harm, and also specific thriller elements that completely break any tension with their silliness. Dracula stalks a historian and, even though no one can resist his undead powers, and he could end the historian with hardly a thought, decides to send a message by killing the historian’s cat. Dracula, Vlad Tepes, unstoppable creature of darkness. Kills a cat. I never got past that ridiculous passage.

Over Sea, Under Stone - Susan Cooper

Ok, so this may not really count, but since I'm the one counting, here it is. Susan Cooper's Dark is Rising cycle of novels is one of my cherished childhood memories. My daughter who's on the verge of 5 is finally of an age where she is capable of sitting through books with no or limited pictures. I took a risk and introduced her to Over Sea as the first book of real substance we have read together (at 250 pages of small type, with only a handful of illustrations, this is a seriously dense book). She's at that transitional point between picture books and starting to read herself, and I'm sure she'll be up to her eyeballs in whatever passes for children's lit these days, so I'm getting in a few classics while I can. The thing I loved about Cooper's books is their austerity, their timelessness, and the way they treat young readers as people, not dumbing down prose with silly names, etc. (looking at you, Rowling. Ok, not really, but a little. Plus I still think Potter is terribly derivative of Copper's Dark is Rising). We got through it, though it took a while, and I think she really liked it and was able to keep up. As with all of Cooper's books, it was a decent (if slightly more dated than Dark is Rising) read rich in British mythos and sense of place. 

Book Reviews, June-December 2017

(This post is a continuation of my yearly book list. The first half of the year's books were covered previously.)

My reading predictably slowed down as life sped up this year, which has literally been a year of fire and flood. I will think of 2017 as a challenge until it is safely in the rear view mirror, and then I will hopefully think of it no more. 

In the margins, on the commutes, in the 5 minutes before I fall asleep in the wee hours of the morning, I managed to cram a couple more books in this latter half of the year. 32 books total for the year, though I have read fairly large sections of about 7 more. I hope to put those to rest fairly early in the new year and start clearing some backlog from my stack of books. It's become large enough to exert a non-negligible gravity and has shown signs of developing rudimentary ecological systems, so I really should get on that...


The Best We Could Do - Thi Bui
I don't often include graphic novels in this list, but this was a really moving work on the quintessential American experience of immigration and building a new sense of place. The story of a Vietnamese immigrant family struggling to bridge history and culture was especially meaningful in a year so marred by xenophobia and an ugly darkness rising in this country. I don't think I place it in the same league as Maus or Persepolis, partly because I don't think the art was as integral to the storytelling (it would have been equally compelling as a novel), but definitely worth reading. 

World's Fair - E.L. Doctorow
I had previously enjoyed City of God and Welcome to Hard Times so I thought I'd read a few more of Doctorow's books this year. World's Fair recreates the sense of place of the Depression-era Bronx, through the eyes of a young boy. Some of the text is masterful, some plodding. It doesn't have much that differentiates it from similar NYC in the Depression works, and never really gels a sense of place and time and atmosphere like Chabon's Kavalier and Clay. I read one (mostly positive) review that said the author seemed to be having trouble differentiating between the voices of memoir and novel, which felt accurate. 

Loon Lake - E.L. Doctorow
As compared to Fair, Loon Lake was a bit more memorable. Another Depression-era tale, the story of a boy drifter, young girl, and somewhat two-dimensional millionaire industrialist at an isolated cabin in the Adirondacks. Even though this was described as "an experimental novel" in style, I thought the story felt very traditional, with hints of Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, etc. The archetypes here feel well trodden, even though Doctorow's writing occasionally elevates the reading. The novel does present a very strong sense of place, even for a story that feels like a bit of a retread. While I enjoyed the story, sometimes it felt like it was in spite of Doctorow just trying to hard to shove a very traditional story into a somewhat pretentious set of forms. City of God took up some of the same "experiemental" banners, but with a story more suited to it, and a deftness greater than Lake.

Birds of Jamaica - Ann Haynes-Sutton
While this was mostly a field guide, bought in preparation for a anniversary trip to Jamaica, it was written from a much more intimate scale and thoughtful approach than many of the larger field guides for bigger areas. 


Billy Bathgate - E.L. Doctorow
I think part of my hit and miss experience with Doctorow thus far has been due to reading more of his minor works than his celebrated hits. Bathgate  is a more widely read Doctorow novel, and it's fairly easy to see why. The ground covered in this gangster novel is not entirely new, but Doctorow handles it deftly. The story revolves around the young eponymous narrator who through somewhat hackneyed pluck secures himself a place in Dutch Schultz's retinue during the gangster heyday of the 30s. The story swirls through typical gangster elements...rivalries, molls, assasinations, etc. but Doctorow manages to blow up some of the typical elements, and his characters feel well formed. The dialogue between Billy and Schultz's consiglieri Berman forms the beating core of the book. 

An American War - Omar El Akkad
I (and apparently so many others) love post-apocalyptic tales. Whether it's zombies or plague or undefined global collapse, it seems like there's some visceral thrill to pondering "what if it all just fell away and we started over?". Especially in 2017, I think we can all empathize with the underlying infatuation with contemplating a restart...a global do-over. This appeal has been tempered for me in recent years by the flood of (mostly YA) post-apocalyptic fiction, much of it derivative refuse. Even lauded, "literary" works like Whitehead's Zone One haven't done much for me (Mandel's Station 11, notwithstanding). An American War was the standout I'd been looking for. While it is not the most literary offering (it's not in the same league as McCarthy's The Road), it is exponentially better quality prose than most of this genre. The book recasts contemporary ideas of identity, radicalization, sides-versus-principles, and the divide between the personal and national experience in the form of a second civil war brought on in no small part by resource scarcity and climate change. The "protagonist" (the novel declines to lionize anyone, even while it humanizes its sometimes monstrous characters) is southern, already challenging our traditional god/bad dichotomy, and the novel follows the course of national upheaval and eventual terrorist cataclysm at a very personal, sometimes claustrophobic level. It avoids easy categories, and forces you to deal with its characters as individuals, to experience paths toward radicalization and collaboration an a fundamentally organic way.  

High Mountains of Portugal - Yann Martel
My expectations for this book were really off base, so it's hard to come back around to an objective look at it. The novel is a series of interrelated stories of widowers set in Portugal. I had expected a somewhat whimsical, magical-realism type novel similar to Life of Pi. Even a third into the book, that's mostly what was going on, like the novelization of a Wes Anderson film, with a backwards walking narrator driving an automobile through superstitious peasant towns on a nigh-quixotic quest. Imagine Wes Anderson directing 100 Years of Solitude, and you're about where this ended up. Then it got really dark. Then it got really weird. In the end it was a satisfying, if less accessible, work than Pi, that meditates on our reactions to loss (in a way that, if you'll permit me me to pretentiously reference another author yet again, reminded me a lot of Murakami) The eventual reveals and connections are subtle and vast, and the writing (even at its most Martel-ish) is enjoyable.   

Mr. Splitfoot - Samantha Hunt
Splitfoot is an interwoven tale across two generations that is hard to begin to describe. It follows two women on simultaneous (from the prose standpoint) and divergent (from chornological standpoint) journeys to a similar location. In one an orphan and faux spiritualist....no, wait...in the other a mute and her pregnant niece go to....wow...It's hard to really say anything about the book without being a spoiler. The book's revelations match pace with the women on their separate journies, and the connections start to reveal toward the end, when you suddenly see both stories in a completely different light. I heard it described as a "fever dream" and that's pretty apt. 

Bones of Paradise - Jonis Agee
There are times when you doubt an author based on a previous work, and then you give them one more chance and you really fall in love with a book. This is not one of those occasions. Bones of Paradise was a clunky, new-western novel about a ranching family embroiled in a murder mystery that stirs up generational...oh my God, I can't even bring myself to finish typing that it was so formulaic. . Nominally literature, the writing was about on par with a Zane Gray/Louis L'amour western-of-the-week (and that's not an insult to those authors, just reflecting that this felt like one of those more than a denser work). However, while Grey/L'amour at least give you a straight-ahead satisfying cowboy story. The sad thing is that the book had the trappings of a good story. In the hands of Annie Proulx or Cormac McCarthy this thing would have been dynamite. I read The Weight of Dreams several years ago and pretty much felt the same way, so I probably won't be reading anymore Agee. There were a few notable characters that really felt flushed out, but the way Agee clumsily knocked them about in 2 dimensional settings was cringe-worthy. 

21- Patrick O'Brian
I loved the 20 completed Aubrey-Maturin novels by Patrick O'Brian (sailing ships in the Napoleonic War - the movie Master and Commander was based on his novels). Unfortunately he died before completing his 21st. In the time honored tradition of making a buck on the deceased, they cobbled together some notes and the first chapter or two of an unedited work and called it 21 - the unfinished something or other who cares because it shoul dnot have been. That's probably not very charitable of me, the fan outcry for more of his work is pretty strong, and even knowing it was a snippet probably left alone, I still read it. But there's really nothing of value here. Better to turn the last page of Blue at the Mizzen, and let Jack Aubrey sail off under a fine press of canvas to an unknowable, but assumedly grand, destiny.  

The Ancient Minstrel - Jim Harrison
Jim Harrison's novels (and mostly novellas) are a mix of austere, epic writing like Legends of the Fall and The River Swimmer and more crass (but well written) banality of the Upper Peninsula like the retired detective stories of The Great Leader. The Ancient Minstrel was a mix of the two, with a beautiful story of a lone woman carving a life for herself sandwiched between a weirdly rambling fictitious biography of a writer and a really uncomfortable (though satisfyingly ended) continuation of a character from some of his previous Upper Peninsula novels. Even though this collection is somewhat lacking in general, and especially in terms of connection as a single work, his writing is still entertaining and poetic.  If you hadn't read Harrison before I would not start here. 

Brown Dog - Jim Harrison
Brown Dog was a much more satisfying collection of stories about a single character. Set in the UP like many of his stories, it follows a period in the life of a semi-educated man of mixed white and Native American ancestry. The weighty sense of place and unique UP culture meshes well with the portrayal of poverty and characters of the stories. The iterative set of tales feels almost like a ring cycle of stories, different seasons in the man's life and relationships. It delves into Harrison's usual fascination with the base human instincts and ultimately comic fallibility, but in a less over the top way than Great Leader. The story takes Brown Dog through subsistence level but carefree existence to greater connections and responsibilities. As usual, Harrison doesn't pull punches in laying humanity bare to its uglier, sillier aspects, but using Brown Dog as a lens his focus is less on his character's shortcomings, but on commenting on the discrepancy between how we view those, and how he views ours, in terms of society as a whole. The audiobook to this was exceptionally well read. 

All the Light We Cannot See - Anthony Doerr
I was happy to end the year on this novel of the converging lives of a young, blind French girl and a young German soldier in World War II. While that premise may sound like it's been done to death, the intricacy and detail of their stories makes for captivating writing. A blind girl grows up in the confines of the museum for which her father works, in the midst of a mutli-layered images of puzzles and lockworks, while a German orphan obsessed with mathematics is channeled into the German state and war machine. Eventually their stories converge, compress, and explode outward. The layers and precision of writing here were happy surprises for me; I had only picked up the book because it was available at the library and vaguely remembered it winning some award (Pulitzer, among others). I'm glad I did, and will now have to explore some of Doerr's other works.