RUSSIA

Mother Winter by Sophia Shalmiyev

*This book review is part of my “Reading Around the World” Project which you can read about here

I can’t remember for the life of me where I heard about this book, perhaps just while researching “books by Russian women” but I was very excited to discover it. My goal is to mostly not focus on reading books that are about the country and its history, but rather to read stories from people who live and experience different places in an attempt to get a small sense of different countries and the personal stories of those who live (or have lived) there. Sophia was born in Russia and spent the first 11 years of her life there until she moved to the US with her father. I think I am drawn towards cross cultural stories, as may become apparent throughout this book journey. Sophia’s mother suffered from alcoholism and was unreliable, her parents divorced when she was 4 and after she and her father and step mother moved to the US, she lost contact with her mother.

The book is a reflection of Shalmiyev’s journey to motherhood, starting from her own childhood experiences of being mothered. The book is made up of very short vignettes, which are beautiful on their own but when put together they felt chaotic and overwhelming. It was hard to feel grounded in the story (which I is apparently important to me, as a reader) and I had the sense that maybe this was done on purpose, to try to recreate the feeling of disjointed childhood memories, but I felt outside of the story, so it felt more like I was witnessing the chaos instead of experiencing it. I wonder if I should have read it slower and savored each section.

Throughout the book Shalmiyev is frequently found quoting and referencing other authors’ works (too often, in my opinion) and her writing felt heavily influenced by Eileen Myles and Chris Kraus. Similar to how I feel when reading these authors, I felt such a strong desire and expectation to love and be floored by this book, but it just wasn’t there for me. Certain books make me feel stupid and this fell into that camp, along with I Love Dick by Chris Kraus, and the few Eileen Myles books I’ve read. Sometimes these types of books fall flat for me, and I suspect it is a personal failing that keeps me from fully understanding and embracing this type of writing, which I am incapable of describing (probably because I don’t get it, so how can I describe it). Anyways, the references to other authors and quotes from other authors felt heavy handed and took away from the book for me, though perhaps this was a way of Shalmiyev giving tribute to these authors who helped raise her in lieu of her absent mother.

In a way, the whole book is sort of formed around her mother’s absence. I can’t think of a better way to describe it than to say her mother wasn’t actively absent, but more so passively absent, she just wasn’t around. Her story helped to remind me that sometimes an absence is just as influential as someone’s presence is. Overall, I thought it was an interesting look at motherhood, but I was not in love with it. But if you are a Eileen Myles, Chris Kraus, Lidia Yuknavitch fan, I think you may enjoy this one!

CALIFORNIA

There There by Tommy Orange

*This book review is part of my “Reading Around the World” Project which you can read about here

I know what you’re thinking. California is not a country (though maybe it should be?). Let me explain: when my roommate learned I was doing this project she got me a scratch-off world map for me to track my reading. This map happens to show the US state borders on it, so I decided to add to the challenge and read a book from each state. My intention, when reading books from each state, is to try to focus on native authors, since I don’t feel as though I have read enough books by them. Seeing as this is their land, I think I should be more intentional about reading and amplifying their stories. There, There was the Multnomah County Library’s “Everybody Reads” book of 2020, so I picked up a free copy from the library.

There, There, is a collection of vignettes that are all tied together to create one story line. It’s the kind of story I love, one that explores the invisible ways our lives are intertwined with each other in ways we likely will never get to discover. But it’s more than that. It gives voice to an array of Native identities which is important because within white supremacy it is easy for people of color to get pigeon-holed into the stereotypes we, their oppressors have created for them. White supremacy has a way of making anyone who isn’t white feel out of place wherever they are, even on their own land, in the spaces they have built for themselves. It is a system that asks people to either fully embrace their culture or deny it and it creates a culture that doesn’t allow minorities to just exist. White people (particularly hetero, cisgendered white people) have the luxury of creating their own identities without feeling as though they are either fitting into or existing out of the identities that other people have assumed for them.

What I loved about this book is that it was a collection of stories about all different types of people, and while their Native American ancestry and history do tie the characters together, the ways they each identify with their Native identities are all very different. All of this is said with the caveat that I am white as hell. I do believe that the more stories we hear about other people the more we realize that we all have a lot of similarities. Ultimately we all lead beautiful, repetitive, painful, joyful, boring lives. But there is a risk in being reductive when focusing on our similarities. I think this book creates a space for so many different Native identities to exist while acknowledging the ways white supremacy and their native cultures have influenced their existence.

I loved getting to know each of the characters and trying to predict the ways in which their histories/futures were intertwined with one another. I gravitate towards books that are just about people, that study the complexity of joy and heartbreak that is the human condition and I feel this book did just that. If a book doesn’t create empathy, is it really worth reading? I want to absorb all the wonderfully mundane and magical stories of ordinary existence.

QATAR

The Girl Who Fell From the Sky by Sophia Al-Maria

*This book review is part of my “Reading Around the World” Project which you can read about here

One thing that this book reading “challenge” has reinforced for me is that borders are really a lot of malarkey (as sleepy Joe would say) and that they are some real colonialist, capitalistic bullshit. This observation has almost nothing to do with this book in particular, but is something I have noticed throughout my reading. People and cultures cannot be easily contained and categorized geographically, as it turns out. OK, now about this book in particular. I was excited about this find because it is written by a woman who is roughly within my age range who grew up splitting her time between Washington and Qatar. The story is interesting in itself, but I found the writing fell a little bit flat for me; I always felt as though I was being told the story of her life by someone a few degrees separated from her.

Al-Maria’s origin story is definitely an interesting one. Her father grew up on the Arabian Gulf and ended up applying for school in Washington state. This was a particularly big move as no one in his family had left the region before (and he didn’t seem to have a sense of just how far away he was going). He arrived at SeaTac knowing little to no English, and had to navigate his way around a foreign, racist, country that was completely different from anything he had known, with no assistance. During his early days in Washington he met Gale and they became a couple. Gale quickly got pregnant with Sophia and they got hastily married.

Al-Maria grew up with her mother, as her father returned to the Arabian Gulf when she and her sister were tiny – saying he would send for them when he could. Sophia, her mother, and her sister did briefly move to the Gulf but ended up returning to Washington where they remained until her teenage years. Al-Maria’s mother was caring but paranoid, and tended to be strict with her. Eventually, Gale started to feel as though Sophia was “out of control,” so she was sent to Qatar to stay with her Baba (her father). The rest of the story focuses on her experiences while in Qatar with her father and extended family.

Reading about Al-Maria’s experience bouncing between these two very different cultures made me think a lot about how cultures and countries are discussed. There is a tendency to act as though other cultures are incomprehensibly different from one another. And in a way that is true, but not in the ways people think. I am sure there was some discomfort when she first arrived in Qatar, but she quickly adjusted to living in a house full of extended family in what was, outwardly, a very different environment and situation. Humans are relatively adaptable, able to learn surprisingly quickly how to move through places that feel foreign. I think that significant cultural differences are much more nuanced and hard to put your finger on. The things that seem obviously different are easier to adjust to; we learn to code switch and fit in. In my experience it is the little, nearly indescribable things that cause cross-cultural disconnect. (All this with the caveat that I am not particularly well traveled and do not necessarily have a ton of cross cultural experience).

Almost none of this was touched on in the book, which I actually think is appropriate because the story is not a study in culture: it is a memoir about Al-Maria’s childhood. It truly is an interesting story but I felt outside of it, which made it hard for me to connect. I wanted to know more about her relationships with various family members, to know more about how she felt about her experiences, but she never delved into that. Perhaps this was out of respect for her family, and not wanting to tell stories that were not hers (or only half belonged to her) but it made it difficult to love the book. It was a pretty quick and easy read, so I wouldn’t say to skip it altogether, but I think it left a lot to be desired.

PAKISTAN

I AM MALALA The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by Christina Lamb and Malala Yousafzai

I Am Malala by Malala Yousafzai | Hachette Book Group

*This book review is part of my “Reading Around the World” Project which you can read about here

Most people have probably heard of Malala Yousafzia, who was shot by members of the Taliban when she was 15 years old. She had gained a fair amount of attention internationally for standing up for women’s rights and education, which is why she ended up being targeted by the Taliban. She has since won a Nobel Peace Prize for her continued activism and bravery. I Am Malala is a story of Malala’s education and the beginning of her activism, leading up to the moment of the attack and its immediate aftermath. v

I am sure that this will be an unpopular opinion but I thought this book was boring and not particularly well written. No disrespect to Malala and Christina, I think her story is interesting but as a book, it was not particularly gripping. I am sure she is an amazing young person and I know that she was only 16 when she co-wrote this book but I still thought that overall, it wasn’t that great. Malala unintentionally comes off as slightly pompous in the way she talks about herself in comparison to her other schoolmates and her siblings. Perhaps some of my views on this stem from the internalized misogyny I have that tells me women are supposed to be humble. Confident and proud, but still humble.

Moreso I think it comes from the fact that the way she is centered in the book leaves all the other characters (aside from, occasionally, her father) in the background, even though they seem to be pretty important players in the story. I want to know more about her mother, who seems only to be mentioned a few times. I get the sense that Malala looks down on her mother for not being educated and I found myself getting strangely defensive of her mother and little brothers. The way the book discussed her relationship with her father made it feel like she was the favorite and that everyone else fell by the wayside.

The focus of the book is mostly Malala’s educational experience leading up to her being shot by the Taliban, and less about her relationships with friends and family. Her father was one of her teachers and helped to found the school she attended, which would explain why he was featured in the book more prominently than the other people in her life. In any case, I found myself wanting more from the book than what it gave me. I totally understand that she was only 16 when the book was written and that her and her family may have wanted to keep her personal life and relationships private, but as a story it fell flat for me without more details about her relationships.

Don’t get me wrong, I am glad this book exists and that Malala has been able to use it to promote her activism. I think she is a badass and I don’t mean to sell her experience short by saying I didn’t love this book. The contrarian in me always struggles when someone is put on a pedestal, not so much because of jealousy but out of a deep belief that we need to acknowledge the wholeness of a person, which includes their less than desirable attributes. How inspiring and influential can someone be when we do not see our own flaws reflected in them? I wanted Malala and her family and her story to feel more rounded, to have more depth but it felt a little flat. I think that you can get the gist of her story and her impressive activism by reading about her, without reading the whole book.

UKRAINE

Chernobyl: A History of Nuclear Catastrophe by Serhii Plokhy

*This book review is part of my “Reading Around the World” Project which you can read about here

Being the hypocrite I am, I of course read about the Chernobyl catastrophe for my “Ukraine” book, after just complaining about how we tend to focus on disasters when we read books about other places. My reasoning was mostly that I knew next to nothing about Chernobyl and it was an historic event with global repercussions, so it felt like I should learn about it. When I take my second literary trip around the world, I will read something entirely different from Ukraine to make up for it.

As for the book itself, it was very dense and specific. It was stuffed with detail and facts, but at times the language was too technical and I had trouble deciphering what was actually happening. If I were smarter and more attentive, I would know the exact timeline of events and understand the myriad of pressures, bad decisions, and misinformation that led to the Chernobyl explosion and its subsequent disasters. The book also argued that the incident at the Chernobyl plant was the beginning of the end of the Soviet Union.

I feel as though Plokhy could have summarized some of the events to make the book more approachable, but then again, maybe I was not the intended audience. Some people love books that cause them to pause and research after every paragraph, but my eyes tend to glaze over when a book is too detailed or dense.

When reading, I usually prefer personal stories to engross me and while Plokhy did talk a lot about the different characters at play, even that information felt sort of dry. In his defense, he was trying to give a well-rounded and fully-informed history of the Chernobyl disaster and how it came to be, which I think he did a splendid job at. It just felt very academic overall, and I have never been good at strictly academic endeavors. I learn best by absorbing stories and anecdotes and the anecdotes in this book were very rigid and did not draw me into the story.

All of that being said, I learned a lot from this book. I knew almost nothing about Chernobyl and I honestly know very little about Soviet history, so this gave me some background for that as well. I still have a lot more to learn, but we will save that for another book. While a very different catastrophe, the way that the Soviet government handled the Chernobyl explosion was somewhat reminiscent of how the Trump administration handled COVID-19. There was a lot of downplaying of the danger of the disaster and allowing people to continue to be put at risk to save face. I know they are very very different scenarios, but they did seem to bear similarities.

Anyways, I did not love this book, but I don’t think it was the fault of the book or the writing. It just wasn’t in my wheelhouse. If you want to know all the particulars of the events leading up to the Chernobyl explosion and the fallout that proceeded, I would definitely recommend checking this one out.

UGANDA

Kintu by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi

*This book review is part of my “Reading Around the World” Project which you can read about here

People (myself included) love to focus on the dictators and wild stories of “developing” countries – stories that don’t necessarily give you much of an overview of what life in these places is actually like. Reading sensationalized stories like these, especially when written by authors who are not from those countries, has a way of making them seem even more foreign instead of helping the reader feel more connected to these places. While tales of dictators and disasters are grotesquely fascinating, and often informative, they don’t really help capture the essence of the place.

What I loved about Kintu is that it was NOT about the atrocities. It was just about people living. I could go on and on and on about all the weird views and ideas we carry about “developing” countries that make us feel superior and disconnected from them. But I will leave it at this: life is just life, no matter where you are, no matter the circumstance, you just sort of adjust and live. I think this is probably becoming more clear to all of us, as we keep having to adjust to new terrors ourselves.

The introduction to this book describes how difficult it was for Makumbi to find someone to publish her book, and this seemed to be because white people were not at the center of the story. It wasn’t about colonialism or dictators, but about Uganda and the people who live there. It wasn’t written to cater to colonizers, who still control so much of the pop culture we tend to immerse ourselves in today. I am hoping this reading project breaks me out of that bubble, even if only just a little bit.

The story itself is a complex, multi-generational tale about a family tied together by a curse. I did really enjoy all the stories and the ways they were subtly interwoven together through time, but I sometimes found myself a little confused as to how exactly everyone was connected. I wish there had been a family tree, of sorts, included but I also think that may have offered some spoilers to the story, so I understand why it was not.

One of the great things about this book is that because it is multi-generational, it gives you a snapshot of the history of Uganda. I found myself looking things up throughout the book and when I was done reading I spent a good hour or two reading about the history of Uganda. I feel like Americans tend to know next to nothing about Uganda, or if they do, all they know about is Idi Amin (and honestly, for those who know about Idi Amin, I bet it is mostly because they saw The Last King of Scotland). Kintu traveled through the history of Uganda but it was not about the history of Uganda – it was about the people who lived through this history and on the whole, the characters were average people. They weren’t heroes or villains or victims or idealized versions of who white people think Africans are (and I say Africans here because white people tend to interpret anyone from the continent of Africa as one homogenized person, even though Africa is made up of 54 countries). They were just average, beautiful, strange, fucked up people.

I did truly enjoy reading this book, but I will not say it was one of my favorite books of all time, though I tend to be a pretty picky reader and I only stumble across a favorite book once every 5-10 years. I do think this book is worth the read, even though it is long (about 450 pages) and feels a little daunting when you first pick it up. Once you get invested in the story (or stories, as it were) you will fly through it!

READING AROUND THE WORLD

After hearing someone mention their goal of reading a book from every country on my most recent favorite podcast The Stacks, I was inspired to do the same. Not out of a need to have bragging rights or set a ridiculous goal for myself, but because the more I thought about it the more I realized how homogenous my reading history has been. Even when I read books about other countries, they are generally written by US or European authors.

There are so many countries I know next to nothing about, and the best way I learn is through stories. Now I know reading ONE book from each country is not going to give me all-encompassing knowledge, but I figure it’s a good start. Once I finish I intend to continue being more aware and intentional about diversifying my reading. I want to reiterate that one book can not be representative of a country as a whole, but it is always beneficial to read about stories that are different from your own AND also to read stories where you see yourself reflected. You may be surprised to find yourself in stories that seem so far from your own experience.

I have opted to do this “project” for the pure and simple reason that I want to. Because I love books and I love absorbing information and stories. My favorite thing about this new reading goal is that it has allowed me to discover so many books I would not have normally stumbled across. The joy I get from books is only matched by the joy I get from snacking, both things make me salivate with anticipation. I am so excited to read all of the books and to tell you about them.

“I’M PISSED OFF FUNNY AND WARM, I’M A GOOD MAN IN A STORM”

IMG_9440 copy

(I credit my beautiful, messy, angry, strong, gentle inspiration of Fiona Apple for helping me put these feelings into words, you can find me wandering the streets, staying 6 feet away from all passerbys mouthing the words to all of the Fetch the Bolt Cutters album with tears welling up in my eyes)

I celebrate my 30th birthday in quarantine, whilst other bigger things are happening and mourn the loss of the one day a year I allow myself pure unadulterated love and confidence. My best friend quietly knocks on my door, comes in, kisses me on the forehead, and says ” I love you, I want you to love yourself too”.

And that’s been the work, and my goodness it’s slow, the work of loving yourself. It’s hard to explain. I don’t harbor self hatred. I actually think I am relatively great (though I’ve been told it’s not humble to say so). Some of it is this concern that other people don’t see my greatness. Some if it is always needing a list of adjectives to prove my greatness. I don’t trust that my existence is quite enough evidence.

I would love to not want that validation. I am working on it. But also, we all want validation, even if we don’t need it. In quarantine people keep talking about the need to feel productive. I read things that say “it’s ok to not be productive, take this time to just enjoy the quietness… and maybe take this time to explore a new hobby or crafting or bla bla bla”. Things that all sound to me like a different form of productivity. Everyone is posting their art and their music and their projects and I try to fight off the feeling that I am lesser because I am not creating. Truth be told, I am not a creator. I like to sing, sometimes I write, but those things do not drive me. I wish the things I was good at were external, tangible, shareable. They are not. I often wonder if the few tangible things I make/do are done just so I can get that brief surge of validation I am so desperately, shamefully thirty for.

Ultimately, it comes down to trying to trust in my intrinsic self worth, which I so easily believe in for other people but seem to struggle with when it comes to myself. I tell my cousin “I think we have quiet assets“. They aren’t skills that produce anything you can see or hear or read or consume. Which is not to say that people who have tangible skills don’t also have quiet assets. Which is not to say it is not just as dangerous to rely on external validation even when it’s “easy” to come by.

Here are my personal quiet assets: I’m an observer/absorber. I read, I watch, I listen, I constantly recalculate my world view based on the information I take in. I find people’s value beneath whatever external value they present (you could say I seek out their quiet assets). I put so much effort into fostering the energy needed in the spaces I enter. I meet people where they are at and try to never ask them to be anywhere other than where they are. I am easily amused, easily contented. While some would certainly argue otherwise, I would say I am generally good at communicating and translating various miscommunications between others.

The thing about quiet assets, is that we’re taught we aren’t supposed to be celebrated for them. We’re supposed to show humility. We can show of our artwork and our music and our writing and our food but these other things we’re supposed to leave uncelebrated. That’s part of it, a strange martyrdom to be good without ever being recognized as such. And sure, validation should probably not be our main motivation for being good, but that doesn’t mean we can’t recognize it.

And I know. I know I know I know, I should just have this strong inner confidence. I should not need the external validation. And sure, I agree. I do intrinsically believe in my own worth. I know I’m a magical fucking unicorn. But sometimes I feel worthless anyways. And when I feel that way, I’m scared to ask for validation, because I’ve been taught to think one of my best quiet assets is always knowing what everyone else needs and never asking for anything else in return. I can’t share something tangible for a boost.

Yes, I am working on building my inner fire. Working on a fire so strong that it can’t be put out. But here is my plea to you. Recognize your quiet assets and the quiet assets you see in others and celebrate them. Remember it is OK to “just” be good and kind. You don’t need to prove more than that. Remember that I see you and all your quiet, yet large strengths. To be honest, I don’t give a shit about what you make aside from the fact that you, a person I love, has created it and I love the work you put into it and the time you put into it and I love that you exist to create it. I love that it is another way I get to experience you, but I would love you just as much if you did not create it.

Back on my Love Bullsh**

I do not have a lot of skills. I don’t mean that as an insult, it’s just sort of a fact. But if there is one thing I am good at, it is loving people. I really love the SHIT out of people. Sometimes to the extent that it looks like I am loving them to the detriment of myself. And I appreciate this observation from people, I know that it is them wanting to protect me. What they don’t always realize, is that I have probably, at one point, loved them to my own detriment as well.

I am not a saint or a martyr. I love people with the hopes that the love will be reciprocated. And with the constant frustration that it is not. Which is not to say that I am not loved. In fact, I would say that people tend to love me just as much as I love them. Love is not particularly quantifiable, though you try telling my brain that. But not everyone expresses their love in a way that I understand or can see. And this has always been hard for me. It will probably always be hard for me. I am easily jealous, which is annoying because I love friendship and love. But I guess I hate when I feel left out of it. But individual relationships are important. My jealousy is at war with my general ideals.

There’s been a lot of shit going on in my personal life. To put it mildly. And I have been chugging along because I have my grandma’s resilience engrained in me. And I know that everyone is worried about me, or I sense it, and I am so grateful for the protection. But here is the thing about me. Loving people is the only thing I really give a shit about. And in a way, the rest of the garbage doesn’t matter. I don’t mean to belittle my own feelings, because they are valid and vast, but in the end the only thing I want to focus on is love. And I have what I believe to be an endless supply. So don’t worry about me wasting it. I will always have more. And I am learning, always learning, to be a little more selfless. To learn about giving love with the understanding that the people I give it to will not always be able to return it with the same force. (Taking care of many children is a good practice in this). But that does not mean it was ever a waste.

My therapist has reminded me before that we do not deserve anything. Good or bad. And I try to remember that. When I feel concerned that all the love I dole out is not being reciprocated. I think I have loved people just so that they would love me back. Or I used to be worried that was the only reason I loved people at all. But maybe that is not true. Maybe it is just what feels natural to me. Maybe it is just what makes me feel full. And yes, sometimes or often loving people hurts a little bit. But I just have to believe that I am strong enough to love and keep loving through the heart break. I have never regretted loving someone. And I suspect I never will. (I would also like to note I’ve never been in an abusive relationship, I don’t ever want to downplay or dismiss the trauma of that experience).

Sometimes I wonder what Grandma would think. If she would feel protective over my heart, if she would tell me to give a little bit less. But you know what, I think she would agree, that loving someone is never a waste. And she already knows I will always be OK. She never seemed worried about me (except that one time she gave me a talk about how I sat). She seemed to have this faith that I had (we all have) a resilience in me that will always get me through. So I don’t know what the moral of the story is. I guess that life is hard and it will shake you. That it will make you doubt yourself over and over again. And that largely, interpersonal relationships are messy and hard and communication is so much more difficult than it seems like it should be and that people’s feelings are messy and confusing. But loving is easy. If you just shake away all those other things and focus on that warm glow. So fuck it. I think I’m doing the right thing by just moving through the world loving people. And I don’t think I will regret it. And I’m not so worried about the things I am not accomplishing (though perhaps sometimes worried about the people I am not loving). And I don’t expect other people to find the same solace in loving people. It is not for everyone. But it is for me. Forgiveness, love, compassion, kindness. Forever and ever.

Modern Lovers by Emma Straub

Image result for modern lovers book

Heavily reminiscent of Meg Wolitzer’s The Interestings, but not as good. Now, I’ve only read two books like this but I sense this trend in literature where younger people (early-mid 30’s) write stories about the reality of middle age, and I wonder how accurate they are. But I guess they ARE fiction, so they aren’t necessarily claiming accuracy.

This book was… fine, it attempted to tackle the complexities of all the different types of relationships we have in life: spouse, friendship, parent-child etc etc. But it felt like she tried to cram and address too many things into one story and it maybe fell a little short. The book was entertaining enough but I did not find myself loving any of the characters and I sort of left wondering what the “point” was. What was the overall message? Maybe something along the lines of “growing up is hard no matter how old you are”?

I have spent a lot of my time around “adults” (supposedly, I am one now) so maybe I am less intrigued by stories of middle age. I think they are not so different from other stories. Humans are humans, they have complex feelings and these complex feelings lead to complicated interactions and that is just sort of true no matter what age you are. It just felt a like a forced story to me that maybe didn’t really end up getting to the heart of anything. It didn’t destroy me, and I think I want my books to destroy me, either by being so full of love that my heart breaks or so full of unlove that my heart breaks.

You know what book followed the path of multiple friends as they grew up and navigated life? A Little Life By Hanya Yanagihara . The characters in that book were complicated and did not ever feel like caricatures, they felt like real people. Something about the characters in Modern Lovers felt like Straub went through a check list to build the characters, it made them feel two dimensional. I want the characters in books to be real, not to feel like the idea of a person. I just felt like there wasn’t enough heart put into each character for me to believe in them. A truly good book builds a world for you and then brings you inside of it. I don’t feel like this book did that for me. It felt like the outline of a story, with all the components but just not quite enough detail.

So, it was fine. I read it and it took my mind off of other things and it entertained me. I can’t say that I would recommend it nor can I say that I would not recommend it. But also I am still in the market for books that will floor me, and I haven’t read one in a while. I suspect that some of this is that I get older I have learned to compartmentalize and to not let each and everything destroy me. And I wonder if the makes me less susceptible or receptive to things. I wonder if in becoming a little more sturdy and and resilient I have lost a little of my ability to be in awe. Or maybe, maybe I just haven’t read the right thing in a while.