richardrbecker's reviews
497 reviews

Isak Dinesen's memoir of her years in Africa, from 1914 to 1931, is a love story. No, not a love story as a romance between a man and woman, but one between Dinesen and the land (and people) of Africa. 

After separating from her husband, who brought her to Kenya from Denmark, Dinesen learns how to manage a four-thousand-acre coffee plantation in the hills near Nairobi on her own. Her out-of-order account of African adventures paints a picturesque and impassioned perspective on the Kikuyu tribe who shares the land, neighboring Swahilis, Somalis, and many other tribes. She is also visited by other Europeans and a part-time lover, the big-game hunter Denys Finch-Hatton.

As the unnamed narrator (referred to once or twice as Baroness Blixen) becomes entrenched in the land, she becomes actively involved with the natives, running an evening school for children and adults and providing basic medical care when needed. The story eventually takes a tragic turn, when Blixen is forced to face the harsh realities of trying to operate a farm. 

Major themes include Africa as a pastoral landscape, the differences between cultures, and the spirit of aristocratic nobility — something she feels middle-class settlers from Europe lack. She is also very sympathetic to the rapid introduction of culture and technology by the tribes, which did not benefit from the gradual adoption of such innovations as the Europeans did. 

Despite its merits, not everyone will appreciate the tone, perspective, or lack of chronology to ground it. I'm a bit more forgiving in Dinesen achieves two ambitious endeavors — convey her deep love for Africa and the power of storytelling. 

Cruel Winter of the Mountain Man is a classic, somewhat formulaic Western with some larger-than-life characters reminiscent of Hollywood's golden era of Westerns that made so many actors household names. And that's what makes it entertaining. 

Protagonist Smoke Jensen is everyone's favorite neighborhood gunslinger, down from his ranch in Colorado, to see the ailing former sheriff of Salt Lick, Texas. Jensen's timing is almost too perfect as his visit coincides with another visitor coming to town — the venomous Snake Bishop and his gang of 20+ marauders aiming to rob the bank, kill everybody, and burn the town to the ground. 

Even with Jensen's effort to turn the townspeople into a posse capable of defending the town, things seem pretty grim. If that wasn't bad enough, a Texas nor'easter will hit the town with heavy rain, blinding snow, and blustery winds. 

Although slow to start, the story quickly takes off as soon as Jensen arrives in Salt Lick. Along with Jensen, Johnstone gives us the perspective of the outlaws — including two of Bishop's men who are looking for a bigger payday by cutting out their boss. A quick read that delivers exactly what it promises! 

Closer to 4.5 but still surprisingly relevant, given it was written in 1851. Schopenhauer's essays present a realistic worldview in contrast to the idealism of Immanuel Kant. What makes his work compelling, despite being neglected in American philosophy courses, is the adoption of some Eastern and Buddhist thought. Specifically, he sees pleasure as the absence of pain, reducing the wants and desires of most — money, fame, pride, social position, and material or physical pleasures — in favor of one's health and inner mind. 

That is not to say he abhors such things. While some consider it a contradiction, Schopenhauer notes that providing for one's general welfare (health and finances) is paramount to pursuing wisdom. His anecdotal evidence is often tied to the understanding that people find later in life, when those aforementioned things are less important. He even suggests it is more meritorious to be discovered posthumously, whereby the individual's isolation from society has produced something more worthy than the dullards clinging to society. 

He's not entirely wrong. There is something to be said about a society's ability to produce individuals who drive us forward with ideas and inventions that they often conceive in solitude. Simply put, he says it's all right to be alone and might even be a sign of higher intellect, whereas the more brutish or boorish types chase pleasure to escape boredom and feel the pain of its loss any time it escapes them. Maybe. And again, where others call him out as a contradiction, he also believes that the ideal of individuality is an illusion.

Personally, I think I found him to be as interesting as those who have cited him: Cioran, Nietzsche (whom I don't like so much), Wittgenstein, Schrödinger, Einstein, Freud, Carl Jung, Tolstoy, Melville, Hesse, de Assis, Borges, Proust, Wagner, and the list goes on. Simply put, Schopenhauer writes plainly about life and makes you think. As Einstein once quoted one of his ideas: "a man can do as he will, but not will as he will." This notion permeates much of his work in The Wisdom of Life, tempering individual will with the ethics of the whole. Confusing? Not so much when taken in pieces. I can see why he influenced so many from different disciplines and how he may even influence some of my work in the future. A heady joy to read, and something worth reading more than once. 

More than 3,500 years have passed since Paul Atreides walked the sands of Dune. And now, there is almost no sand to walk on since Leto Atreides II has guided humanity along his vision of a Golden Path.

Known for dividing readers, Frank Herbert uses this installation to explore philosophical and political meanderings on what it means to be a leader, nearly immortal, or even a god. The principal narrator would know. His sight has shown him the future, and his destiny has allowed him to glimpse nearly all of history through his ancestors. Sure, there are other narrators, but none are as chiefly necessary as all things begin and end with Leto — although some characters will argue he is of two minds. 

One is of Leto II, the Atreides-heir apparent. The other is the worm god, a nod to the Arakeen sandtrout, a larval form of Sandworms, that he fused his body to in the preceding book. As such, the book is less of an adventure and mostly devoid of action, favoring a meditation on the loneliness of true power and how manipulating the masses is a clandestine right of passage for anyone holding the reigns of leadership. 

In Leto's time, his power is even more expansive because he has near-total control of Arakis' dwindling spice resources as most of the planet has been terraformed and sandworms driven to extinction, making him the last link to that species. At the same time, Leto has reached a point where his power has exhausted him. He suffers from loneliness and boredom, barely managing to push forward because of what he calls his love for humanity. 

Not everyone agrees with him, namely The Duncan Idaho, one of many Duncan clones who must face the monstrosity of Leto's rule as a contradiction of his sense of loyalty. Secondarily, Siona, an Atreides' descendent, is leading a small rebellion against Leto despite his plans to place her in a position of power, replacing her father in the process. 

In the mix of it, Herbert provides humanity with a stark warning against believing in the miracle of AI. And, as part of the bargain, it shows Leto as balancing on the razor's edge of being a ruthless dictator and ultimate martyr. While never explicit in his goal, Leto is attempting to usher forth a humanity capable of defending itself against AI and cutting its chords from past abuses of power (despite having used these tactics himself). 

While the novel is essential to the series, it's not one all readers will appreciate. But for those who enjoy some political and philosophical rhetoric bundled up in the Dune universe, it will be an enjoyable read with a few moments that make you trace your understanding of history, humanity, and power. And this time around, that worked splendidly for me.

I love books out of time. For Henry James, The Turn of the Screw was contemporary fiction. For us, it's something of the classic, with an accurately historic tone in terms of voice and presentation.

Where the book measures up is in creating a sense of ambiguous dread as we wonder whether the protagonist is noble in protecting two children under her care or simply losing her mind. Where it doesn't work, at least by today's telling, is James doesn't necessarily capture that sense of suspense to make it a page-turner. Instead, he is content with the delivery of an unreliable narrator.

For the period, however, it's impossible to deny its place in history. James does what many do with the strange and unusual at the time — use it to break apart all those Victorian taboos. But you must understand this about the book to appreciate it. It's a story about a woman who is single and educated, sharing her personal desires at a level uncharacteristic for the era. And although it bares the moniker of a spook story, it isn't really a story about spooks as much as what spooks the protagonist and manifests around her. 

That is a funny thing about some books. When you read other reviews that express their disappointment, it's almost always tied to their expectations. For me, I didn't expect a horror story as much as something out of time, so it hit more mid. But, overall, it's a worthwhile read if you know this beforehand. 

I've meant to read Eleanor & Park since it started receiving rave reviews after it was first published. I even referenced it in a short story I wrote. It felt like a timely marker in time.

It's a fine book, though not nearly as beautifully haunting as I expected, mainly because the spark between Eleanor and Park seemed to lack. Oh sure, the relationship is believable after the fact, just not at the start of it. The two appear as alien to each other as Rowell makes them to everybody else, except that Park is more accepted by his peers than we are led to believe on the front end.

Still, Rowell does get much of it right. Set in 1986, he picks up on the common bullying back then, although we were fortunate to miss out on Asian racism, as Park suggests, but never really experiences in the book. (Park is half-Korean, and Rowell suggests this bars his entrance into the highest social circles at school). Eleanor is also an outcast — a poor, overweight new kid in a crowded at-risk household. 

They find each other because they are forced to sit together on the bus to school and back. When Eleanor begins reading Park's comics over his shoulder, he introduces her to the world of superheroes and some awesome music that goes against the pop culture grain of the era (but was ravishingly recast as essential by the 90s). From comics to music to holding hands, it all seems too convenient to be interesting. 

More interesting, perhaps, is the growing tension inside Eleanor's household as her alcoholic stepfather escalates his abuse from mental to threateningly physical. But don't expect that to be fully resolved. Rowell wants us to feel some heartbreak and resolution in the relationship that never really happened on the John Green level for me.

There is plenty to like about Horse, and plenty to dislike. While the story's emphasis resides on Jarret and his transformation from a young slave boy to a free man, Brooks weaves in two different timelines with weaker ties to her subject, a racing horse named Lexington, born in the 1850s. 

Brooks leads with the contemporary timeline, involving a Nigerian named Theo who meets Australian named Jess. The pair are brought together after Theo rescues a painting of Lexington from the trash and takes it to the Smithsonian, where Jess happens to be restoring the skeleton of the same horse. The book's theme, racism, overshadows their chance encounter. 

Even thinner is another ancillary timeline set in the 1950s, focused on Martha Jackson, a gallery owner who has an unrelated relationship with both a painting of Lexington and Jackson Pollock. The brevity of this intermission is an enjoyable read but never really takes off nor lends much to the story. 

Thankfully, the bulk of the book revolves around Jarret and his relationship with a horse he helped raise. The horse, eventually named Lexington, sets record-setting victories across the South. And while Jarret and his father are "part-owners" of the animal, they are frequently confronted by the perils of freedom, ownership, and social standards that, fortunately, no longer exist in this country. But the net sum of this work provides a fascinating look at horseracing in the 1850s and into the 1860s before the outbreak of the civil war, as well as sympathies and tensions revolving around slavery. It is this timeline that makes the story a success. 

Conversely, while the contemporary timeline is still a great read, it has an utterly disappointing ending, with Brooks punctuating her point about racism with a sledgehammer. Ultimately, it distracts from the better story, Jarret's story. Sure, this is by design. And it being by design is what makes it distracting. Stronger tales don't need to draw too much attention to themselves to make their point, which seems to be, that we have not only not evolved but regressed — a point that we, unfortunately, read about every day, anyway. 

Don't drink the water is one of many warnings you'll repeatedly read in The Sheep Look Up by John Brunner. It's also a suitable warning for the book. The Sheep Look Up is one of those books you probably should read, but not one with a clearly stated or enjoyable plot. It's complicated. 

The novel takes place over the course of a year, with one chapter for each month. Each chapter is driven by different characters whose paths cross as the world's ecology collapses. And this structure makes the reading less easy and enjoyable than it could have been, possibly why Asimov's The Gods Themselves beat Brunner out of a Nebula in 1972. 

Despite this, the brilliance of the book is twofold. As an eco-dystopian, presumed to be set ten years after its publishing, Brunner delivers impeccably convincing world-building and characters. So much so that you almost feel like he ripped his pages from the future — hopefully, an alternative future. But one never knows with Brunner, who's well-known for his powers of prediction (having coined the term worm for computer viruses before they existed). 

Nothing in The Sheep Look Up is what we want for the world (but we're getting some of them these things anyway). The failing environment leads to famine, wars, fake news, enteritis epidemics, failing antibiotics, radiation-leaking microwaves, forest fires, government bailouts, populist Presidents, and increased contaminated foods. Brunner makes it all feel too real, including the heavy push for vaccines and treatments with side effects. 

Through it all, the characters are sometimes hard to track, with the exception of Austin Train, an influential ecologist who warns the world that the end is near. Train and his followers are always present in the background except when Brunner brings them into the spotlight. But the novel is not about Train as much as a collapse as seen through the eyes of a haphazard collection of people surviving their new and increasingly horrible normal. So, don't drink the water unless you know going in what's in it. 

Fractured Tears by Amy Shannon tells an all-to-real story of betrayal. On the night of her anniversary, Anna Coleman’s husband Ted pledges to work harder to reconcile their relationship; one strained by the death of their son a few years earlier. 

The promise to make things better quickly fades after a few scant days, with Anna giving him an ultimatum to choose between her or his substance abuse. The conversation sends Ted into an uncontrollable drug-and-alcohol-fueled spiral that eventually leaves Anna beaten, battered, and running for her life. While Anna barely survives the attack, she must face a subsequent battle for justice while trying to put the pieces of her life back together again.

Shannon does a superb job chronicling the pain, post-traumatic stress, and ancillary micro-aggressions faced by the survivors of domestic abuse. Her ability to paint various interactions with friends, coworkers, employers, and her husband’s friends becomes a strength, especially in the character’s trepidation with how people will relate to her under the circumstances — both in her post-attack physical appearance and in the face of public interest in her case as it almost slips through the cracks. 

While I would have liked to see more of the psychological and internal turmoil faced by Anna as opposed to her external interactions, which tended to take precedence. However, the book is still an interesting and insightful read that has you cheering for and fearing for Anna throughout. In fact, for a story with less than 100 words, it’s remarkably memorable — something you think about for days or weeks or months after. 

Part of what makes Anna’s life so real is that Shannon channeled actual life events to tell it. In more ways than one, Shannon’s real-life story is even more harrowing because, unlike Anna, Shannon also had to navigate her recovery and subsequent legal battles with children. 

After the short novel, Shannon includes a timeline, impact statement, and photographs of her personal experience that inspired the story. And, always the advocate for other survivors, she shares domestic violence resources, hoping it will inspire others to reach out if they are abused or suspect abuse. You have to respect and admire her courage. 

While not the strongest of Updike's novels about the life of Harry (Rabbit) Angstrom, Rabbit Remembered is no less essential. What's missing, of course, is Harry himself. This novel is about those he left behind, especially his estranged son Nelson. 

Except, in some ways, Harry isn't missing as his influence is strongly felt by his family, even after his passing ten years earlier. Updike ensures this by bringing 40-year-old Annabelle into their lives. Annabelle is Harry's daughter from an affair with a woman named Ruth. In previous novels, Updike had allured to her, even bringing Ruth and Annabelle into Harry's life at times, but always at a distance. 

Annabelle is chiefly important in Rabbit Remembered because her presence underscores Harry's absence, allowing Updike's ensemble of characters to explore their life with the sometimes larger-than-life Harry Armstrong. This is especially true of Nelson, who shares stories about their father and, in doing so, makes peace with the past. It's essential for Nelson, who feels like he has lost his mother, Janice, to Rabbit's old rival Ronnie, and his ex-wife Pru, who left him with the kids. 

The split between Nelson and Pru's marriage creates another familiarity for readers, as Nelson and his son Roy have a relationship similar to the one Nelson had with Harry. Nelson is well-suited to explore these feelings as a more mature but lonely man and as a counselor at a clinic for emotionally troubled patients. 

All the familiar themes and characters make Rabbit Remembered an overall win; only its linear plotline might leave readers feeling like the fifth install is an extended epilogue. Still, it's always a pleasure to read Updike. So, even though it doesn't earn five stars, it will still find a place among my favorite books as part of this greater work.