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edgwareviabank's reviews
554 reviews
Scontro di civiltà per un ascensore a piazza Vittorio by Amara Lakhous
reflective
sad
fast-paced
3.0
Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands by Kate Beaton
challenging
dark
emotional
hopeful
informative
reflective
sad
medium-paced
4.5
I don't usually read graphic novels, but I'd read plenty of reviews that suggested Kate Beaton's style and tone would resonate with me, so finding Ducks at the library was a great chance to see for myself. I was also curious about the subject matter (the oil sands, and the lives of the people working there), which was completely new to me.
This is excellent for readers who appreciate subtle dark humour, room to make up their own mind on topics that can be bleak and difficult to talk about (there's a lot of subtext, though the author gets to spelling things out more clearly towards the end of the book), and relatable experiences around the concepts of belonging and home.
I loved the illustrations, which give a good idea of the scale of the plants and their impact on the nature surrounding them, even to someone who hasn't ever set foot in Canada (yet). I also appreciated the portrayal of the workers as complex, flawed humans, within a context that could easily have lent itself to clear-cut, black-and-white judgement. For every episode that made me unquestionably angry with men and about the behaviour of men (of which there are plenty), there was one that made me see the contradictions some of those men carried inside them, or remember there are good people to be found even in a harsh environment such as the one of the camps. As Kate Beaton says in her closing notes, this is about her personal experience in the oil sands and the people she met, and given the nature of some of the things she went through, it's remarkable she could write and illustrate it with so much nuance. Her book gives a very clear sense of how and why this is the kind of experience that stays with people for life.
This is excellent for readers who appreciate subtle dark humour, room to make up their own mind on topics that can be bleak and difficult to talk about (there's a lot of subtext, though the author gets to spelling things out more clearly towards the end of the book), and relatable experiences around the concepts of belonging and home.
I loved the illustrations, which give a good idea of the scale of the plants and their impact on the nature surrounding them, even to someone who hasn't ever set foot in Canada (yet). I also appreciated the portrayal of the workers as complex, flawed humans, within a context that could easily have lent itself to clear-cut, black-and-white judgement. For every episode that made me unquestionably angry with men and about the behaviour of men (of which there are plenty), there was one that made me see the contradictions some of those men carried inside them, or remember there are good people to be found even in a harsh environment such as the one of the camps. As Kate Beaton says in her closing notes, this is about her personal experience in the oil sands and the people she met, and given the nature of some of the things she went through, it's remarkable she could write and illustrate it with so much nuance. Her book gives a very clear sense of how and why this is the kind of experience that stays with people for life.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Sexual harassment
Moderate: Sexism and Rape
Niente di nuovo sul fronte di Rebibbia by Zerocalcare
challenging
emotional
hopeful
reflective
medium-paced
3.0
The Other Half by Charlotte Vassell
adventurous
funny
mysterious
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
Is it possible to enjoy a book where most of the characters are so despicable I want them dead? Turns out the answer is yes, and The Other Half is that book.
Its fast-paced, meandering plot revolves around a group of despicable rich people. When one of them is found dead in Hampstead Heath, the relationships between the others begin to unravel, and clues about a criminal conspiracy start to surface.
The words "eat the rich" may come to mind several times per chapter as you read this, which I'd guess was precisely the author's intention. Some of the characters sound outright evil, entitled or delusional (in some cases, all of these at once). Others have their redeeming features, and may be more victims than perpetrators, or at least more inclined to question the status quo. But even these people seem to have a hard time letting go of their privilege, and so, ultimately, everyone ends up sounding out of touch with reality in their own way: I could only empathise with them up to a point.
Detectives Caius, Matt, and Amy are good fun, though. A crime novel where the investigators work well together and is a refreshing change from what I've grown accustomed to with the genre. Most of the book's funny side comes from the chemistry between them, and from their interactions with the suspects, where the opposing forces of entitlement and obliviousness vs. human and down-to-earth mindsets clash in ways the author handles with a sense humour that's very on-point (as well as offering food for thought on more serious topics, such as racism and abuse). I'd love to read another novel that features these three characters, so I hope a sequel is in the works.
Its fast-paced, meandering plot revolves around a group of despicable rich people. When one of them is found dead in Hampstead Heath, the relationships between the others begin to unravel, and clues about a criminal conspiracy start to surface.
The words "eat the rich" may come to mind several times per chapter as you read this, which I'd guess was precisely the author's intention. Some of the characters sound outright evil, entitled or delusional (in some cases, all of these at once). Others have their redeeming features, and may be more victims than perpetrators, or at least more inclined to question the status quo. But even these people seem to have a hard time letting go of their privilege, and so, ultimately, everyone ends up sounding out of touch with reality in their own way: I could only empathise with them up to a point.
Detectives Caius, Matt, and Amy are good fun, though. A crime novel where the investigators work well together and is a refreshing change from what I've grown accustomed to with the genre. Most of the book's funny side comes from the chemistry between them, and from their interactions with the suspects, where the opposing forces of entitlement and obliviousness vs. human and down-to-earth mindsets clash in ways the author handles with a sense humour that's very on-point (as well as offering food for thought on more serious topics, such as racism and abuse). I'd love to read another novel that features these three characters, so I hope a sequel is in the works.
The Axe Woman by Håkan Nesser
emotional
hopeful
mysterious
sad
slow-paced
3.0
The Axe Woman felt more literary than the average Nordic noir. I sometimes lost patience with its slow pace, as the solution to the mystery at its core is fairly predictable. There's more to the book than a criminal case, though, and I did enjoy the way Håkan Nesser dives deep into his characters' inner worlds. The people he writes about are complex, imperfect humans, trying to handle the blows life deals them, and sometimes having to unlearn what they think they know about right and wrong. Grief is a constant presence, and it looms big over the story, so that a few chapters can be a heavy read - though there is room for hopeful notes towards the end.
Fuori dai confini. La 'ndrangheta nel mondo by Antonio Nicaso, Nicola Gratteri
informative
fast-paced
2.5
Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty by Patrick Radden Keefe
challenging
informative
reflective
medium-paced
5.0
Empire of Pain is every bit as well written, gripping, and infuriating as I'd been promised. I came to it through a recommendation by someone who'd heard I enjoyed John Carreyrou's Bad Blood; they said this would be even better. So here I am, urging all enthusiastic Bad Blood readers who haven't yet read Empire of Pain to pick it up. I found both books just as compelling, and for similar reasons, though Empire of Pain is longer and broader in scope: equal parts family saga, journalistic exposé, and legal thriller.
Its narration begins at the start of the 20th century, when young Arthur Sackler established himself and paved the way for his younger brothers to join him in building the family empire. There's a lot of ground to cover about the origins of medical advertising, before opioids and OxyContin even enter the stage, and it's all fascinating stuff: I've always taken it for granted that the marketing of pharmaceuticals is as old as the practice of marketing itself, when it's in fact more recent, and almost completely a Sackler creation. The author sets the stage slowly and carefully for readers to understand all the factors at play in the boom of OxyContin prescriptions, and in the subsequent, decades-long opioid crisis in the US. As all the pieces come together, I kept asking myself, page in and page out, "how on earth did anyone allow them to do that?" (sometimes, it happened multiple times per page).
The answer is everything but surprising. A quote fairly early on in the narration states that, when it comes to pharmaceutical controversies, history repeats itself. Empire of Pain shows just how true that is, in every aspect: unchecked medical claims, pharma companies dictating their agenda to regulators, corruption, and much more.
Aside from everything I've learned about the topics at the heart of the story, my takeaway is that I must read all the other books Patrick Radden Keefe has written (I got a headstart with Rogues earlier this year, also highly recommended). I really appreciate his clarity, and how at ease I felt, as a reader, seeing that a subject matter I worried I'd find obscure was presented in a very accessible way.
Its narration begins at the start of the 20th century, when young Arthur Sackler established himself and paved the way for his younger brothers to join him in building the family empire. There's a lot of ground to cover about the origins of medical advertising, before opioids and OxyContin even enter the stage, and it's all fascinating stuff: I've always taken it for granted that the marketing of pharmaceuticals is as old as the practice of marketing itself, when it's in fact more recent, and almost completely a Sackler creation. The author sets the stage slowly and carefully for readers to understand all the factors at play in the boom of OxyContin prescriptions, and in the subsequent, decades-long opioid crisis in the US. As all the pieces come together, I kept asking myself, page in and page out, "how on earth did anyone allow them to do that?" (sometimes, it happened multiple times per page).
The answer is everything but surprising. A quote fairly early on in the narration states that, when it comes to pharmaceutical controversies, history repeats itself. Empire of Pain shows just how true that is, in every aspect: unchecked medical claims, pharma companies dictating their agenda to regulators, corruption, and much more.
Aside from everything I've learned about the topics at the heart of the story, my takeaway is that I must read all the other books Patrick Radden Keefe has written (I got a headstart with Rogues earlier this year, also highly recommended). I really appreciate his clarity, and how at ease I felt, as a reader, seeing that a subject matter I worried I'd find obscure was presented in a very accessible way.
The Office of Historical Corrections by Danielle Evans
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
5.0
The Office of Historical Corrections earned a place in the list of short story collections I'll be recommending to everyone. All of Danielle Evans's complex, sometimes controversial characters were fascinating to follow, and I really enjoyed her writing.
My thoughts on the individual pieces:
My thoughts on the individual pieces:
- Happily Ever After: A story that starts with a one-night stand, and evolves into an exploration of grief (particularly the denial stage), with hints of the uphill struggle Black people face to gain trust and acceptance. It set the tone for the rest of the collection: I remember thinking that if every main character was as well-rounded and complex as Lyssa, then I could be sure that I'd love every story.
- Richard of York Gave Battle In Vain: A single woman attends a male friend's wedding, and has to deal with the bride's insecurity around the relationship, as well as the dregs of her own past trauma. Rena, the main character, was so relatable in her uncertain search for hope after years of self-sabotage.
- Boys go to Jupiter: a white college student wears a Confederate flag bikini in a naive act of defiance towards her stepmother. When she goes viral and gets cancelled, she shows more conviction than remorse, seemingly surprising even herself; but whose side is she on, really?
- Why Don't Women Just Say What They Want: An inventive take on a powerful man's non-apologies to the women in his life, in tune with the #MeToo era. The humour is spot-on, very much the "funny because it's true" kind (or, perhaps, "laugh not to cry").
- Alcatraz: Two estranged strands of a multi-racial family reconnect after decades; one haunted by a past tragedy, the other completely unaware. As well as grief and loss of various kinds, there's something bittersweet and hopeful in this story and its ending, which I enjoyed.
- Anything Could Disappear: One of my favourites in the collection. It follows a young woman who lands in New York City for a shady job, and finds precarious happiness raising an abandoned baby. It read to me like the opposite of Alcatraz: where the previous story started bleak and ended on more positive notes, this one raises the reader's hopes early on, building the foundations for a happy ending that ultimately can't be.
- The Office of Historical Corrections: this is a novella that takes up most of the book. I didn't love it at first sight, in the way I did the shorter pieces: it grew on me more slowly, as the setting changed from Washington DC to a small town where a mystery that spans decades is unfolding. The cast of characters broadened, and their motivations and contradictions became clearer, making it a compelling read. My only complaint, now I've read it in its entirety, is the last page feels a little rushed.
The Falconer by Dana Czapnik
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
4.0
The Falconer reminded me what being 17 and feeling like there's nowhere in the world I'll ever fit in was like.
The main character, Lucy, does things I could only ever dream of growing up (living in and discovering NYC! Seeing Nirvana live!), which only made me love her more. Here and there, I spotted quotes about love, art and sense of self that sounded a lot like I used to: restless, sometimes big-headed, always hopeful behind a front of skepticism and indifference. They made me feel seen, all these years later, in a way people around me growing up rarely did. At the same time, there's no denying Lucy and past me had very different upbringings, and that she, the main character in a novel about a girl who's wise well beyond her years, is a lot more articulate and eloquent. Her experience of coming of age and womanhood matches mine in many ways, but I could never have expressed it as intelligently as she does. At twice her age, now, I have to thank her (and of course the author) for helping me put into words feelings that defined me but I had a hard time explaining even to myself. And all this, ultimately, makes me think that perhaps there are aspects of being a teenager that almost universal: widely felt, and often overlooked despite their lasting impact later in life, because the kind of story Dana Czapnik tells here is often dismissed as "young adult" (as if that was a flaw).
Or maybe not. Maybe I'm still seeing this from inside my own kind of bubble (I may not be as well-off as Lucy, and I'm definitely not American or a New Yorker, but still very much white and Western), and readers who come at it from a different angle might point out differences I'm overlooking. There is a passage in the book that suggests I'm not so wrong: late in the story, when Lucy and her best friend Alexis celebrate the New Year, and share highlights from their year that are wildly different in emotional magnitude and concern but reflect the same kind of longing.
I found some of the passages that establish sense of place rambled a bit too much for my taste, though I'm sure I'd have appreciated them more if I was more familiar with New York City and the continuous changing of its landscape. Other than that, I found the writing almost flawless, with Lucy's reflections and observations carrying the entire book, when the plot itself isn't meant to be particularly complex or layered. I couldn't say this enough: teenage me would have absolutely loved this book. Adult me would like to shove in the hands of every younger woman I know.
The main character, Lucy, does things I could only ever dream of growing up (living in and discovering NYC! Seeing Nirvana live!), which only made me love her more. Here and there, I spotted quotes about love, art and sense of self that sounded a lot like I used to: restless, sometimes big-headed, always hopeful behind a front of skepticism and indifference. They made me feel seen, all these years later, in a way people around me growing up rarely did. At the same time, there's no denying Lucy and past me had very different upbringings, and that she, the main character in a novel about a girl who's wise well beyond her years, is a lot more articulate and eloquent. Her experience of coming of age and womanhood matches mine in many ways, but I could never have expressed it as intelligently as she does. At twice her age, now, I have to thank her (and of course the author) for helping me put into words feelings that defined me but I had a hard time explaining even to myself. And all this, ultimately, makes me think that perhaps there are aspects of being a teenager that almost universal: widely felt, and often overlooked despite their lasting impact later in life, because the kind of story Dana Czapnik tells here is often dismissed as "young adult" (as if that was a flaw).
Or maybe not. Maybe I'm still seeing this from inside my own kind of bubble (I may not be as well-off as Lucy, and I'm definitely not American or a New Yorker, but still very much white and Western), and readers who come at it from a different angle might point out differences I'm overlooking. There is a passage in the book that suggests I'm not so wrong: late in the story, when Lucy and her best friend Alexis celebrate the New Year, and share highlights from their year that are wildly different in emotional magnitude and concern but reflect the same kind of longing.
I found some of the passages that establish sense of place rambled a bit too much for my taste, though I'm sure I'd have appreciated them more if I was more familiar with New York City and the continuous changing of its landscape. Other than that, I found the writing almost flawless, with Lucy's reflections and observations carrying the entire book, when the plot itself isn't meant to be particularly complex or layered. I couldn't say this enough: teenage me would have absolutely loved this book. Adult me would like to shove in the hands of every younger woman I know.