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edgwareviabank's reviews
544 reviews
Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld
funny
hopeful
relaxing
medium-paced
3.5
Up to the end of the July 2020 chapters, I'd have given Romantic Comedy 5 stars. I loved the part set in the TNO studios: the dialogue flew effortlessly, and the characters leapt off the page, with very well detailed inner lives, quirks and humour. For similar reasons, I wished the email exchange between Sally and Noah would never end. I'd have happily read an entire novel based on that.
However, I found the section set in L.A. a little cheesy. I realise that might have been the author's intention, but it didn't land well with me. Even when bumps in the road occur, the relationship between Sally and Noah runs a little too smoothly to be realistic, or to warrant Sally's constant worrying and self-sabotaging. On one hand, that may be precisely the point: a woman jumps into the honeymoon phase of a relationship from a state of enough independence (and, possibly, privilege) that is plausibly and genuinely her main concern. I don't fully buy that, though, because the tone is, overall, witty and lighthearted in a way I wouldn't expect a criticism of society to be. It's a romantic comedy, after all, through and through. All this to say: even when characters seem to be digging deep into their insecurities and flawed selves, there isn't enough depth for my personal taste.
I did like Sally as a character: up until the end of the email exchange, her backstory, sense of humour and sense of self emerge through plenty of well-observed details. I found her relatable, in a way few When the L.A. section starts, brilliance starts descending a little too much into self-absorption, and some her exchanges with Noah begin to sound annoyingly smug (maybe that's how all new couples are, which only makes me hope my partner and I never sounded like this to other people!). I also didn't love the decision to use the pandemic to frame the story: little of the fear, panic, uncertainty and tragedy that took hold of everyone's lives comes across convincingly, aside from a couple of scenes towards the end. I'd rather have read a story set in a completely different period, even just one or two years earlier, than seen that specific time of our lives exploited purely as a device to establish sense of time.
However, I found the section set in L.A. a little cheesy. I realise that might have been the author's intention, but it didn't land well with me. Even when bumps in the road occur, the relationship between Sally and Noah runs a little too smoothly to be realistic, or to warrant Sally's constant worrying and self-sabotaging. On one hand, that may be precisely the point: a woman jumps into the honeymoon phase of a relationship from a state of enough independence (and, possibly, privilege) that is plausibly and genuinely her main concern. I don't fully buy that, though, because the tone is, overall, witty and lighthearted in a way I wouldn't expect a criticism of society to be. It's a romantic comedy, after all, through and through. All this to say: even when characters seem to be digging deep into their insecurities and flawed selves, there isn't enough depth for my personal taste.
I did like Sally as a character: up until the end of the email exchange, her backstory, sense of humour and sense of self emerge through plenty of well-observed details. I found her relatable, in a way few When the L.A. section starts, brilliance starts descending a little too much into self-absorption, and some her exchanges with Noah begin to sound annoyingly smug (maybe that's how all new couples are, which only makes me hope my partner and I never sounded like this to other people!). I also didn't love the decision to use the pandemic to frame the story: little of the fear, panic, uncertainty and tragedy that took hold of everyone's lives comes across convincingly, aside from a couple of scenes towards the end. I'd rather have read a story set in a completely different period, even just one or two years earlier, than seen that specific time of our lives exploited purely as a device to establish sense of time.
Evidence Guided: Creating High-Impact Products in the Face of Uncertainty by Itamar Gilad
informative
medium-paced
3.0
Olive by Emma Gannon
emotional
reflective
fast-paced
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
1.5
I'm a 30-something woman who lives in London, and doesn't have children by choice. This book made me want to scream out loud in frustration at nearly every page.
Before I get to that, I want to say that the key themes weren't quite what I expected. I picked up the book because I was hoping for a broader narrative, where choices around family coexist with choices around career, money and other aspects of life. That's roughly what the blurb promised. In fact, the story is all about maternity. And that's totally fine, I'm only mentioning it so potential readers know what to expect. Even if the subject matter wasn't may cup of tea, it may be someone else's, right?
...WELL. Where do I start? I haven't read a novel this obnoxious in a long while.
The important messages about choices and societal pressures that come across here and there are diluted by a slew of irritating clichés. Olive is a cliché, possibly the biggest one: as a single 30-something woman with no family responsibilities, of course her personality revolves around downing bottles of wine alone in her flat and reminiscing about the fun she used to have when she was younger. Her and her friends' jobs and homes are clichés, all painted with a tinge of the "aspirational" you might find on an Instagram profile. And of course, since Olive is consumed by the fear of missing out in life because she doesn't want to start a family, everything she notices revolves around children, and everyone she meets starts conversations about maternity out of the blue. It's almost as if there was no other subject, literally no other subject the people in this book can talk about (nothing? Really? Not even the latest episode of Love Island?).
Look, I get it. I really get it. Maternity and motherhood are emotional topics. They're tough to talk about, and empathy and support between people whose opinions aren't perfectly aligned isn't always easy to come by. This is the one aspect the book does a decent job of: the parts that ring most true and emotional are the parts where characters realise the priorities they have every right to set for themselves are driving them apart from those they love. But also: if there was nothing else to carving our own path than the choice between having children and not having them, . There are layers and intersections this book doesn't make any effort to explore: it's very one-dimensional, and runs the risk of representing only a small portion of the readers who may get a lot more out of it if other factors that can affect the direction of a woman's life (money, professional opportunities, class - to name a few) played a bigger part.
I also found Olive's life quite sad. The root of her problems doesn't seem to be whether she wants kids or not. Throughout the majority of the book, her problem is she is clinging to an outdated idea of her life, and expects the world around her to be just as static. She can't seem to accept that her friends are humans who made choices, in the same way as she believes (rightly) that she's entitled to make her own. That's ironic: there's a line, around halfway, about how there are no bad decisions in life, only decisions we made with the information we had at the time. You'd think that might bring Olive to reflect, but no: on she goes, resenting her friends because their lives are out of step with hers, and painting everyone in mild cartoon-villainish terms (sometimes not so mild, see the fertility coach she goes to see with no plausible reason at all). I'm not letting the friends off the hook, either. Olive fears that they won't understand if she opens up to them, and it turns out she isn't wrong. The support these four women claim to offer each other is conditional. As another reviewer mentioned, it's easy to question whether they really like each other.
This is all before I even mention the lazy writing: jumps in tenses that don't make sense; memories that are meant to endear Olive to the reader and make her sound funny, and fall completely flat; a shaky timeline, where Olive signs up for an event happening "on Tuesday", and at least two weekends pass before the day actually comes. And lastly, more clichés. My generous explanation is that the author wanted to make the characters speak and think like Millennials, even when that meant reflecting biases our generation have internalised. Yes, many people my age define attractive women by how "thin" or "small" they are, but I have no desire to hear that from the main character I'm supposed to find relatable. Yes, the attitude that a perfect family or a scintillating career are the only things we have to define ourselves by is very much alive. Louder for people at the back: women without children don't owe anyone an aspirational life. Some people aspire to find contentment in a perfectly ordinary life: no compensating for whatever society thinks they should be, just being respected for their choices and figuring things out as they go. I've met many women like this, and suspect they're the majority, but they are never the people books talk about and normalise.
Before I get to that, I want to say that the key themes weren't quite what I expected. I picked up the book because I was hoping for a broader narrative, where choices around family coexist with choices around career, money and other aspects of life. That's roughly what the blurb promised. In fact, the story is all about maternity. And that's totally fine, I'm only mentioning it so potential readers know what to expect. Even if the subject matter wasn't may cup of tea, it may be someone else's, right?
...WELL. Where do I start? I haven't read a novel this obnoxious in a long while.
The important messages about choices and societal pressures that come across here and there are diluted by a slew of irritating clichés. Olive is a cliché, possibly the biggest one: as a single 30-something woman with no family responsibilities, of course her personality revolves around downing bottles of wine alone in her flat and reminiscing about the fun she used to have when she was younger. Her and her friends' jobs and homes are clichés, all painted with a tinge of the "aspirational" you might find on an Instagram profile. And of course, since Olive is consumed by the fear of missing out in life because she doesn't want to start a family, everything she notices revolves around children, and everyone she meets starts conversations about maternity out of the blue. It's almost as if there was no other subject, literally no other subject the people in this book can talk about (nothing? Really? Not even the latest episode of Love Island?).
Look, I get it. I really get it. Maternity and motherhood are emotional topics. They're tough to talk about, and empathy and support between people whose opinions aren't perfectly aligned isn't always easy to come by. This is the one aspect the book does a decent job of: the parts that ring most true and emotional are the parts where characters realise the priorities they have every right to set for themselves are driving them apart from those they love. But also: if there was nothing else to carving our own path than the choice between having children and not having them, . There are layers and intersections this book doesn't make any effort to explore: it's very one-dimensional, and runs the risk of representing only a small portion of the readers who may get a lot more out of it if other factors that can affect the direction of a woman's life (money, professional opportunities, class - to name a few) played a bigger part.
I also found Olive's life quite sad. The root of her problems doesn't seem to be whether she wants kids or not. Throughout the majority of the book, her problem is she is clinging to an outdated idea of her life, and expects the world around her to be just as static. She can't seem to accept that her friends are humans who made choices, in the same way as she believes (rightly) that she's entitled to make her own. That's ironic: there's a line, around halfway, about how there are no bad decisions in life, only decisions we made with the information we had at the time. You'd think that might bring Olive to reflect, but no: on she goes, resenting her friends because their lives are out of step with hers, and painting everyone in mild cartoon-villainish terms (sometimes not so mild, see the fertility coach she goes to see with no plausible reason at all). I'm not letting the friends off the hook, either. Olive fears that they won't understand if she opens up to them, and it turns out she isn't wrong. The support these four women claim to offer each other is conditional. As another reviewer mentioned, it's easy to question whether they really like each other.
This is all before I even mention the lazy writing: jumps in tenses that don't make sense; memories that are meant to endear Olive to the reader and make her sound funny, and fall completely flat; a shaky timeline, where Olive signs up for an event happening "on Tuesday", and at least two weekends pass before the day actually comes. And lastly, more clichés. My generous explanation is that the author wanted to make the characters speak and think like Millennials, even when that meant reflecting biases our generation have internalised. Yes, many people my age define attractive women by how "thin" or "small" they are, but I have no desire to hear that from the main character I'm supposed to find relatable. Yes, the attitude that a perfect family or a scintillating career are the only things we have to define ourselves by is very much alive. Louder for people at the back: women without children don't owe anyone an aspirational life. Some people aspire to find contentment in a perfectly ordinary life: no compensating for whatever society thinks they should be, just being respected for their choices and figuring things out as they go. I've met many women like this, and suspect they're the majority, but they are never the people books talk about and normalise.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Infertility
The Bat by Jo Nesbø
I will read every Harry Hole book under the sun, and even if I've mostly criticised The Bat here, I'd still say I'm pleased to have read it. If Nesbø wrote a book where Harry solves a murder while watching paint dry in a soundproof cell, I would absolutely pick it up. I suspect I might find more of that in a few other earlier instalments, but that won't stop me reading them anyway, because I'm still keen to see how the series developed from the get-go.
adventurous
dark
mysterious
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
3.0
Not very far into The Bat, I realised I already knew who the killer was, and who the final victim would be, because I remembered reading it in a flashback scene in a later Harry Hole novel. I thought this would spoil the book completely, but to my surprise, it didn't (except for the final few chapters, which I felt were dragging on).
I came to The Bat as someone who has read every Harry Hole novel from The Snowman onwards, and was missing everything that came before. It was very interesting to compare the first instalment in the series with the later ones, as the differences are huge, almost as if two different authors had written them. Jo Nesbø's style clearly developed for the better over time
To sum up the main differences I've noticed:
I came to The Bat as someone who has read every Harry Hole novel from The Snowman onwards, and was missing everything that came before. It was very interesting to compare the first instalment in the series with the later ones, as the differences are huge, almost as if two different authors had written them. Jo Nesbø's style clearly developed for the better over time
To sum up the main differences I've noticed:
- There are no gruesome murders. In later books, Nesbø is all about the gore, and finding increasingly horrifying MOs for his serial killers. Here, he tells a lot, and doesn't show much. With few exceptions, you'll read that someone has died, or been the victim of a crime, but you won't find chapters set in crime scenes, get the details of autopsies, or follow murderers as they prepare to strike.
- Tension is turned way down comparing to later novels, which contributed to my impression that the author drew out the resolution too much. Once the name of the killer is out in the open, there isn't much else readers don't already know. Nesbø's preference for long spells of getting to know characters and setting context already shines through, but in The Bat, that's not balanced by quick-fire action and twists in later chapters. The plot unfolds at what seems, at times, a leisurely pace.
- There's not much for readers to guess. The later novels are full of twists and red herrings, keeping readers on edge. Years of experience with the Harry Hole series have also taught me that the author tends to play a long game, and drop almost imperceptible clues while he takes his time setting the context across several chapters; trying to work out what those clues might be before they're solved is part of the fun for me. The Bat is again, quite different. Readers get to learn a few facts about Australia and hear stories from its tradition, but their connection with the mystery at the core of the book is at best: side characters keep sharing Australian folk tales with Harry Hole, as if they are supposed to mean something to the case, but there's no follow-up with attempts at making sense of them; not very helpful for a reader like me, who didn't know much about Australian culture going in. Similarly, Harry makes some deductions as he goes along, but it isn't always clear whether or how readers could have been able to connect the dots themselves; some of these seem to come out of leftfield.
- There are no characters that will recur in later novels. I think many Harry Hole books are fine to read as standalones, but that's even truer for The Bat, as it's the first in the series, and doesn't have any flashbacks, cliffhangers or character relationships to connect it to other novels or suggest the possibility of them. Just be warned - it may not make you too enthusiastic about reading more of the series. The Bat is the first book that left me feeling "meh", rather than "OMG this guy is nearly as good as Stieg Larsson". With the experience I've had so far, if someone were to ask me for a recommendation on where to start their Harry Hole journey, I'd still recommend The Snowman, because that's the first book that gave me that very rewarding feeling I haven't had for any other Nordic Noir writers yet. But if you don't have it in you to read about crimes that can get very graphic (which makes total sense, there are Nordic Noir books I know I'll never touch with a 10-foot pole), The Bat will do just fine.
I will read every Harry Hole book under the sun, and even if I've mostly criticised The Bat here, I'd still say I'm pleased to have read it. If Nesbø wrote a book where Harry solves a murder while watching paint dry in a soundproof cell, I would absolutely pick it up. I suspect I might find more of that in a few other earlier instalments, but that won't stop me reading them anyway, because I'm still keen to see how the series developed from the get-go.
Everyone In My Family Has Killed Someone by Benjamin Stevenson
adventurous
funny
lighthearted
mysterious
relaxing
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Loveable characters? Yes
4.0
Everyone In My Family Has Killed Someone really is Knives Out meets Richard Osman, as the cover blurb says. It left me wanting to read more about th Cunningham family, in the same way as I grew fond of Osman's Thursday Murder Club pensioners.
The book was great fun, and I loved it, even though some of the plot points felt convoluted in an unnecessary way, I warmed up to the narrator’s voice and humour very quickly, and even guessed the killer early on (though not the motive, which wasn't predictable at all). That added to the thrill, as I usually never get it until the end. I felt there was a pretty big clue early on, that the remainder of the book doesn't mull over too much, and was delighted to see that proven right.
I'll definitely be reading the sequel, and hope for at least some recurring characters.
The book was great fun, and I loved it, even though some of the plot points felt convoluted in an unnecessary way, I warmed up to the narrator’s voice and humour very quickly, and even guessed the killer early on (though not the motive, which wasn't predictable at all). That added to the thrill, as I usually never get it until the end. I felt there was a pretty big clue early on, that the remainder of the book doesn't mull over too much, and was delighted to see that proven right.
I'll definitely be reading the sequel, and hope for at least some recurring characters.
I'm Sorry You Feel That Way by Rebecca Wait
emotional
funny
hopeful
reflective
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
I didn't think I'd enjoy I’m Sorry You Feel That Way as much as I did. Around a third in, I wasn't even sure I’d finish it: some of the family dysfunction and generational trauma reminded me of familiar dynamics in a way that left me uncomfortable and on edge. I remember closing the book one evening, at the end of a page that left me wanting to shout at Celia that she is a terrible mother, and thinking I'd need very long breaks between chapters if the content was all along those lines. I'm not sure where the comments saying this is a funny book got that from: while I enjoyed the writing (everything is in the present tense, including flashbacks, and it works really well), and some of the dialogue is quite witty, nothing about the story or its main themes made me laugh.
But I loved it. I loved it so much I could talk about it for hours, or push it into the hands of any friend around my age looking for their next read.
There is a lot for Millennial readers to relate to. In Celia's backstory, I could see all the ways she internalised a harsh, unloving upbringing and reflected it onto her own children because she never had a chance to learn that life and relationships can be any other way. As her daughters Hanna and Alice move into their twenties and thirties, there is also the uncertainty. Uncertainty about how we'll make a living, stuck with years of renting and dead-end jobs and disappointing romantic relationships, and uncertainty about what it means to be an adult, because there isn't ever a defining moment, or a switch in the way we act or feel, that we can pinpoint to be able to say we are now grown-ups.
And then, there is the fact that everyone in the book seems to be in at least one toxic relationship. It creates many layers to see the story through, some of which, perhaps, can only be unwrapped by reading it multiple times (I hadn't realised exactly how Michael fits into the pattern until I read it in a review on here!).
Towards the end, there are several moments of hope for both Hanna and Alice, and all throughout, characters receive empathy even at their meanest. It would be easy to say most of them are horrible people. They are, indeed, often unkind to each other and reluctant to change or apologise. But reality is a lot more complicated, as are families: love doesn't always flow through the most straightforward paths, or flow altogether, and part of growing up is realising when that's okay, as well as when it isn't. Rebecca Wait does an excellent job of showing all this. I feel her writing helped me see things about my own behaviour and my family that I can be more conscious about now, because the story painted such a good picture of how everyone’s shortcomings affected the people they loved.
But I loved it. I loved it so much I could talk about it for hours, or push it into the hands of any friend around my age looking for their next read.
There is a lot for Millennial readers to relate to. In Celia's backstory, I could see all the ways she internalised a harsh, unloving upbringing and reflected it onto her own children because she never had a chance to learn that life and relationships can be any other way. As her daughters Hanna and Alice move into their twenties and thirties, there is also the uncertainty. Uncertainty about how we'll make a living, stuck with years of renting and dead-end jobs and disappointing romantic relationships, and uncertainty about what it means to be an adult, because there isn't ever a defining moment, or a switch in the way we act or feel, that we can pinpoint to be able to say we are now grown-ups.
And then, there is the fact that everyone in the book seems to be in at least one toxic relationship. It creates many layers to see the story through, some of which, perhaps, can only be unwrapped by reading it multiple times (I hadn't realised exactly how Michael fits into the pattern until I read it in a review on here!).
Towards the end, there are several moments of hope for both Hanna and Alice, and all throughout, characters receive empathy even at their meanest. It would be easy to say most of them are horrible people. They are, indeed, often unkind to each other and reluctant to change or apologise. But reality is a lot more complicated, as are families: love doesn't always flow through the most straightforward paths, or flow altogether, and part of growing up is realising when that's okay, as well as when it isn't. Rebecca Wait does an excellent job of showing all this. I feel her writing helped me see things about my own behaviour and my family that I can be more conscious about now, because the story painted such a good picture of how everyone’s shortcomings affected the people they loved.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Mental illness, Emotional abuse, Panic attacks/disorders, and Toxic relationship
Moderate: Bullying
Minor: Body shaming, Death of parent, and Suicidal thoughts
Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby
emotional
funny
informative
lighthearted
reflective
relaxing
medium-paced
5.0
This has to be the third time or so I'm reading Fever Pitch. I bought the Italian translation many years ago, so this was my first time reading it in English, and also the first time since I started following UK football consistently.
I think of this book often. It’s a long-time favourite, as I love to read stories that bring identity and football together, and a small part of me wishes I had the skill and courage to write my own. Most recently, watching a game with many goals and a very heated audience at the stadium, I got reminded of a specific quote, which I wanted to read out to my partner. I couldn't remember where exactly in the book it was, and when I realised I could get the book through my online library’s app, I knew I would end up re-reading it from the start.
Boy did this bring back memories. I remembered reading it for the first time, at 14, when a girl who enjoyed football seemed somewhat of an aberration in my peer group; then recommending it to a school friend who followed the same team as me, and feeling disappointed, almost rejected, as I realised it hadn't spoken to her at all (as it turned out over the years, and a few friendship heartbreaks later, this person and I didn't have all that much in common, after all).
I remembered re-reading it shortly after moving to the UK, because I was living and studying in North London at the time, and dreamed of watching a live football game in London one day (none of the codes on the back of my Barclays ATM receipts ever won me the free ticket they promised). My small, underdog hometown team even played Arsenal in the Champions League a few months after I'd moved to London, and of course, there was no way I could afford or secure a ticket; my team hasn't competed at that level since, and knowing I could have easily watched them play Arsenal back home (where tickets cost a fraction of the price and the stadium is 5 minutes away from my parents' house) remains my biggest football missed chance to date.
I remembered considering Fever Pitch as my primary source of knowledge about English football for many years. After a break from following the sport in my early twenties, it took me a long time to get my old enthusiasm about watching games on TV back, and even longer to get my bearings on the Premier League, which I now follow alongside the Italian Serie A. By the time I opened the book again this year, I was finally able to see how outdated that first injection of knowledge was, how much has changed since I first read about players who now seem to come from a distant past. At the time Nick Hornby's narration ends, the Premier League didn't even exist yet. There were no multi-billion international transfers, no Emirates stadium, and none of the players I'm old enough to remember. The aggressive and dangerous fan behaviours he describes in a few of the chapters couldn't be farther from the relatively safe atmosphere of my Italian small town's stadium, and from what I've seen so far in the UK - though, on second thoughts, going to my first Rome derby earlier this year (as a neutral, accompanying a supporter of one of the two teams) was a fraught, somewhat scary experience I wouldn't recommend.
Nick Hornby and I grew up learning to love football at wildly different times, and still, there's so much I can relate to. His observations about human behaviour, the notes about passion and obsession, and the coming-of-age angle speak to football fans of all ages, everywhere. I can totally see myself reading Fever Pitch again, maybe more than once in my life. Who knows where I'll be in my football fan's arc then.
I think of this book often. It’s a long-time favourite, as I love to read stories that bring identity and football together, and a small part of me wishes I had the skill and courage to write my own. Most recently, watching a game with many goals and a very heated audience at the stadium, I got reminded of a specific quote, which I wanted to read out to my partner. I couldn't remember where exactly in the book it was, and when I realised I could get the book through my online library’s app, I knew I would end up re-reading it from the start.
Boy did this bring back memories. I remembered reading it for the first time, at 14, when a girl who enjoyed football seemed somewhat of an aberration in my peer group; then recommending it to a school friend who followed the same team as me, and feeling disappointed, almost rejected, as I realised it hadn't spoken to her at all (as it turned out over the years, and a few friendship heartbreaks later, this person and I didn't have all that much in common, after all).
I remembered re-reading it shortly after moving to the UK, because I was living and studying in North London at the time, and dreamed of watching a live football game in London one day (none of the codes on the back of my Barclays ATM receipts ever won me the free ticket they promised). My small, underdog hometown team even played Arsenal in the Champions League a few months after I'd moved to London, and of course, there was no way I could afford or secure a ticket; my team hasn't competed at that level since, and knowing I could have easily watched them play Arsenal back home (where tickets cost a fraction of the price and the stadium is 5 minutes away from my parents' house) remains my biggest football missed chance to date.
I remembered considering Fever Pitch as my primary source of knowledge about English football for many years. After a break from following the sport in my early twenties, it took me a long time to get my old enthusiasm about watching games on TV back, and even longer to get my bearings on the Premier League, which I now follow alongside the Italian Serie A. By the time I opened the book again this year, I was finally able to see how outdated that first injection of knowledge was, how much has changed since I first read about players who now seem to come from a distant past. At the time Nick Hornby's narration ends, the Premier League didn't even exist yet. There were no multi-billion international transfers, no Emirates stadium, and none of the players I'm old enough to remember. The aggressive and dangerous fan behaviours he describes in a few of the chapters couldn't be farther from the relatively safe atmosphere of my Italian small town's stadium, and from what I've seen so far in the UK - though, on second thoughts, going to my first Rome derby earlier this year (as a neutral, accompanying a supporter of one of the two teams) was a fraught, somewhat scary experience I wouldn't recommend.
Nick Hornby and I grew up learning to love football at wildly different times, and still, there's so much I can relate to. His observations about human behaviour, the notes about passion and obsession, and the coming-of-age angle speak to football fans of all ages, everywhere. I can totally see myself reading Fever Pitch again, maybe more than once in my life. Who knows where I'll be in my football fan's arc then.
McMafia: Seriously Organised Crime by Misha Glenny
challenging
informative
reflective
slow-paced
4.0
In between busy weeks at work, failed attempts at staying awake for more than two pages before bed, and long pauses as I was making time for other hobbies, McMafia took me two months to read. That's why I usually save chunky nonfiction for when I'm on holiday and can give it uninterrupted focus. Since this year I dedicated that time to Patrick Radden Keefe's Empire of Pain, and the ebook was calling at me from the library app, I thought I'd try fitting it into my daily routine.
The book is slow-paced, packed with data, interesting stories, and peculiar characters from different times and places; I thought it was worth every minute, even when it felt drier than my usual book choices and to progress with. The connections it exposes between organised crime all over the world were eye-opening to me: I realised books, films and TV had given me a basic knowledge about criminal enterprises in specific geographic areas (for example, the drug industry in South America, or some of the yakuza's dealings in Japan), but I knew nothing at all about how they all tie together and how they have evolved since the '80s.
I'm very glad I could renew it twice in a row with no queue; otherwise, storing its huge volume of names and information in my mind until the next time I could borrow it would have been tough. Very glad I picked it up and stuck with it: I knew from the start it wasn't going to be an easy read, but the level of detail it goes into kept me engaged from start to end.
The book is slow-paced, packed with data, interesting stories, and peculiar characters from different times and places; I thought it was worth every minute, even when it felt drier than my usual book choices and to progress with. The connections it exposes between organised crime all over the world were eye-opening to me: I realised books, films and TV had given me a basic knowledge about criminal enterprises in specific geographic areas (for example, the drug industry in South America, or some of the yakuza's dealings in Japan), but I knew nothing at all about how they all tie together and how they have evolved since the '80s.
I'm very glad I could renew it twice in a row with no queue; otherwise, storing its huge volume of names and information in my mind until the next time I could borrow it would have been tough. Very glad I picked it up and stuck with it: I knew from the start it wasn't going to be an easy read, but the level of detail it goes into kept me engaged from start to end.
Luna rossa by Jo Nesbø
adventurous
dark
mysterious
medium-paced
4.0
NOTE: while my review is in English, I read the Italian translation of this book.
One of the reasons I love the Harry Hole series so much is that it always surprises me. I can't think of a single time I had the right hunch about a plot twist or a killer, even when it seemed oh-so-obvious up to the last chapter. So now I just sit back, try to resist the temptation to put a lot of effort into making guesses, and read on, knowing at some point the plot will subvert all of my expectations. It's become a part of the enjoyment.
This time, I got some things right. I was surprised Nesbø made them so easy to predict! My very first instinct about the killer wasn't the right one, but, unlike in previous Harry Hole novels, the dots to connect to work it all out appear much earlier on in Killing Moon. Still, even when I was certain I knew, I couldn't put the book down: spending time with the cast of familiar characters, and finding out how exactly they would get to the truth, was at least half the fun.
Now, does the series tend to rely on the same elements over and over? Definitely. Does it get old? Hell no. Harry Hole's investigations and thought processes follow a similar structure in many of the novels. Even when it's hard to guess who the killer is, it's clear who the author will prompt the reader to suspect. The "aging detective on a self-destructive drinking spiral" angle is played with as heavy a hand as ever, and of course, after the life-shattering events of The Knife, the novel that followed was bound to double down. A bit repetitive at times; but also, it's what makes it so easy to pick up any of the Harry Hole books as standalones, or to read them out of order (I started from The Snowman, and am still missing a few of the earlier novels, which I'll get to at some point).
I can think of a few crime authors that have overplayed their tropes to the point of making me scream at books in frustration. With Jo Nesbø, I see the repetition as part of a package I will buy any time it's on offer: the complex and well-constructed plots with continuous twists and hardly ever a loose end more than make up for it. I'm glad that The Knife wasn't the end of Harry Hole, as it so easily might have been. His adventures are Nesbø's best work, and one of the most consistently excellent series Nordic Noir has to offer.
One of the reasons I love the Harry Hole series so much is that it always surprises me. I can't think of a single time I had the right hunch about a plot twist or a killer, even when it seemed oh-so-obvious up to the last chapter. So now I just sit back, try to resist the temptation to put a lot of effort into making guesses, and read on, knowing at some point the plot will subvert all of my expectations. It's become a part of the enjoyment.
This time, I got some things right. I was surprised Nesbø made them so easy to predict! My very first instinct about the killer wasn't the right one, but, unlike in previous Harry Hole novels, the dots to connect to work it all out appear much earlier on in Killing Moon. Still, even when I was certain I knew, I couldn't put the book down: spending time with the cast of familiar characters, and finding out how exactly they would get to the truth, was at least half the fun.
Now, does the series tend to rely on the same elements over and over? Definitely. Does it get old? Hell no. Harry Hole's investigations and thought processes follow a similar structure in many of the novels. Even when it's hard to guess who the killer is, it's clear who the author will prompt the reader to suspect. The "aging detective on a self-destructive drinking spiral" angle is played with as heavy a hand as ever, and of course, after the life-shattering events of The Knife, the novel that followed was bound to double down. A bit repetitive at times; but also, it's what makes it so easy to pick up any of the Harry Hole books as standalones, or to read them out of order (I started from The Snowman, and am still missing a few of the earlier novels, which I'll get to at some point).
I can think of a few crime authors that have overplayed their tropes to the point of making me scream at books in frustration. With Jo Nesbø, I see the repetition as part of a package I will buy any time it's on offer: the complex and well-constructed plots with continuous twists and hardly ever a loose end more than make up for it. I'm glad that The Knife wasn't the end of Harry Hole, as it so easily might have been. His adventures are Nesbø's best work, and one of the most consistently excellent series Nordic Noir has to offer.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Child abuse, Murder, Injury/Injury detail, Gore, Medical content, Sexual content, and Incest
Moderate: Sexual assault, Terminal illness, Cannibalism, and Fire/Fire injury
Crossroads by Jonathan Franzen
challenging
reflective
sad
slow-paced
3.5
Very few writers I've read can write dysfunctional families as well as Jonathan Franzen. After a mixed experience with Freedom (a book I enjoyed and yet am not sure I completely understood), and giving Purity a miss, I was hoping Crossroads would be closer to The Corrections, which I absolutely loved many years back.
I found Crossroads very well written, with brilliant observations on both individual personalities and the situations that shape families and communities; in that sense, I got my wish. But it was a slog. A beautifully written slog I'm glad to be done with. If it's true there are sequels in the works, I have to ask myself whether I really want to spend more time with the Hildebrandt family. I do love Franzen's writing, and so, the odds are I'll stick with them for at least another book. After I take a long break from them, which may have to be at least a few years.
The amount of (especially religious) guilt weighing on the characters at almost any given moment is the element that slowed down my progress. From a character development point of view, it makes perfect sense: the way these people tie themselves into knots to justify their desires to themselves, as they live within a system that forces their hand into denying they have desires at all, is presented in a very powerful way. From a reader point of view, and especially a reader who has little patience for the mental gymnastics organised religion gets believers to engage in, it can be exhausting to read. It is, still, proof of how well Franzen has brought the Hildebrandts and their world to life: I often felt an almost physical need to grab them by the shoulder and shake them.
I could spend a lot of time talking about all the ways character development, conflict, and sense of time and place make Crossroads worth reading, but the more I think about it, the more I feel that what I've written so far is all it comes down to for me. My star rating would be higher if I'd enjoyed spending time with the Hildebrandts, as opposed to feeling, at times, as if seeing their inner lives unravel was some kind of penance the book demands of the reader. Now that would be very on-brand, considering much of the subject matter.
I found Crossroads very well written, with brilliant observations on both individual personalities and the situations that shape families and communities; in that sense, I got my wish. But it was a slog. A beautifully written slog I'm glad to be done with. If it's true there are sequels in the works, I have to ask myself whether I really want to spend more time with the Hildebrandt family. I do love Franzen's writing, and so, the odds are I'll stick with them for at least another book. After I take a long break from them, which may have to be at least a few years.
The amount of (especially religious) guilt weighing on the characters at almost any given moment is the element that slowed down my progress. From a character development point of view, it makes perfect sense: the way these people tie themselves into knots to justify their desires to themselves, as they live within a system that forces their hand into denying they have desires at all, is presented in a very powerful way. From a reader point of view, and especially a reader who has little patience for the mental gymnastics organised religion gets believers to engage in, it can be exhausting to read. It is, still, proof of how well Franzen has brought the Hildebrandts and their world to life: I often felt an almost physical need to grab them by the shoulder and shake them.
I could spend a lot of time talking about all the ways character development, conflict, and sense of time and place make Crossroads worth reading, but the more I think about it, the more I feel that what I've written so far is all it comes down to for me. My star rating would be higher if I'd enjoyed spending time with the Hildebrandts, as opposed to feeling, at times, as if seeing their inner lives unravel was some kind of penance the book demands of the reader. Now that would be very on-brand, considering much of the subject matter.