Katheryn Thompson's Blog, page 9
July 31, 2020
The Godfather by Mario Puzo
Confession time: I've never seen The Godfather. (I know.) So when someone recommended the book to me, I decided it was a good opportunity to read the book and then watch the film (one of my favourite ways to experience a story).
The Godfather is the story of the fate of the Corleone family after its patriarch, the eponymous Don Vito Corleone, is shot. His eldest son, Sonny, takes over the family business while the Don is incapacitated, but the ensuing gang war has consequences for the entire family and its network of friends.
I like that the book starts with the wedding of the Don's daughter, Connie Corleone, since it gives us an opportunity to meet most of the main characters, and it also introduces several subplots, which overlap with the main plot in interesting ways. The book moves fluidly between the main plot and the subplots, and between the perspectives of different characters. I quite liked this mode of narration, once I got used to it; I became invested in the subplots as well as the main plot. The method of telling the main story through different perspectives was especially effective for building tension, but the resulting movement forwards and backwards in time could be a little off-putting. If the plot can progress a considerable distance without telling us exactly what happened to a particular character, we probably don't care exactly what happened. However, I did think that the flashbacks were handled well (which isn't always the case).
I liked how vividly the characters were portrayed, even reasonably minor characters, and I loved seeing the Don in action. I enjoyed reading about the family business. My main quarrel with the book was its depiction of women. The way Puzo described women, especially in sexual scenes, was frequently ridiculous. It took me out of the story, and made me less patient with the way the female characters are treated (and written), which otherwise I might have borne better; after all, I'm not reading this book for realism. It also wasn't just that the male characters are misogynistic, which I can live with, but that the narrator imposes misogyny on certain scenes. It undermines the careful individualisation of the male characters when they all - at points - sound the same.
For this reason, I'm torn between three and four stars. But, since I raced through the last half in one night, I'll be generous and go with four. Now, onto the film!
The Godfather is the story of the fate of the Corleone family after its patriarch, the eponymous Don Vito Corleone, is shot. His eldest son, Sonny, takes over the family business while the Don is incapacitated, but the ensuing gang war has consequences for the entire family and its network of friends.
I like that the book starts with the wedding of the Don's daughter, Connie Corleone, since it gives us an opportunity to meet most of the main characters, and it also introduces several subplots, which overlap with the main plot in interesting ways. The book moves fluidly between the main plot and the subplots, and between the perspectives of different characters. I quite liked this mode of narration, once I got used to it; I became invested in the subplots as well as the main plot. The method of telling the main story through different perspectives was especially effective for building tension, but the resulting movement forwards and backwards in time could be a little off-putting. If the plot can progress a considerable distance without telling us exactly what happened to a particular character, we probably don't care exactly what happened. However, I did think that the flashbacks were handled well (which isn't always the case).
I liked how vividly the characters were portrayed, even reasonably minor characters, and I loved seeing the Don in action. I enjoyed reading about the family business. My main quarrel with the book was its depiction of women. The way Puzo described women, especially in sexual scenes, was frequently ridiculous. It took me out of the story, and made me less patient with the way the female characters are treated (and written), which otherwise I might have borne better; after all, I'm not reading this book for realism. It also wasn't just that the male characters are misogynistic, which I can live with, but that the narrator imposes misogyny on certain scenes. It undermines the careful individualisation of the male characters when they all - at points - sound the same.
For this reason, I'm torn between three and four stars. But, since I raced through the last half in one night, I'll be generous and go with four. Now, onto the film!
July 25, 2020
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
This is the last of the three Jane Austen books I recently bought (the first two being Pride and Prejudice and Emma). I'm glad to be able to tick some more "classics" off my to-read list, especially because all three were really good reads.
Sense and Sensibility invites comparison with Pride and Prejudice, as both are about young women of a moderate income seeking marriage. While all three of the Austen books I read share similarities, however, they are all very different stories, largely because of the brilliantly imagined characters populating them. All three focus on a "strong female character", which I appreciate, and feature highly enjoyable, and often eccentric, minor characters. My favourite aspect of all three books was the unreliability of the narrator in regard to the inevitable marriages. I loved guessing what the different characters were thinking and feeling, and laughing at all their mistakes and misinterpretations.
I really liked the main character in Sense and Sensibility, Elinor Dashwood. I liked her competence and capability, and her capacity for self-control, and the way these characteristics were portrayed through the book's narration. However, Pride and Prejudice remains my favourite Austen novel so far, because I found the ending more satisfying than that of Sense and Sensibility, and, out of all the protagonists, I related the most to Elizabeth Bennet.
It took me a while to pluck up the courage to try any Jane Austen books, because I wasn't sure I would enjoy them. While they are relatively slow books, I think they're much fiercer and funnier than their reputation suggests. With Sense and Sensibility, I found myself constantly eager to find out what happened next, but the style of writing did mean I wouldn't have wanted to read the whole book in one sitting.
I look forward to watching Emma Thompson's adaptation.
Sense and Sensibility invites comparison with Pride and Prejudice, as both are about young women of a moderate income seeking marriage. While all three of the Austen books I read share similarities, however, they are all very different stories, largely because of the brilliantly imagined characters populating them. All three focus on a "strong female character", which I appreciate, and feature highly enjoyable, and often eccentric, minor characters. My favourite aspect of all three books was the unreliability of the narrator in regard to the inevitable marriages. I loved guessing what the different characters were thinking and feeling, and laughing at all their mistakes and misinterpretations.
I really liked the main character in Sense and Sensibility, Elinor Dashwood. I liked her competence and capability, and her capacity for self-control, and the way these characteristics were portrayed through the book's narration. However, Pride and Prejudice remains my favourite Austen novel so far, because I found the ending more satisfying than that of Sense and Sensibility, and, out of all the protagonists, I related the most to Elizabeth Bennet.
It took me a while to pluck up the courage to try any Jane Austen books, because I wasn't sure I would enjoy them. While they are relatively slow books, I think they're much fiercer and funnier than their reputation suggests. With Sense and Sensibility, I found myself constantly eager to find out what happened next, but the style of writing did mean I wouldn't have wanted to read the whole book in one sitting.
I look forward to watching Emma Thompson's adaptation.
July 17, 2020
Afropean by Johny Pitts
Afropean: Notes from Black Europe is this year's winner of the Jhalak Prize, and the third book I've read from their 2020 longlist. They have all been fantastic.
This is absolutely one to judge by its cover. I can't get over how beautiful this book is, and I've greatly enjoyed carrying it around with me and snatching in a few pages' worth of reading wherever possible.
"Afropean" is an abstract notion, and Pitts' quest to pin it down only serves to illustrate how varied Black European life can be. It is a relief, therefore, to find a coherent narrative at the heart of this book: Pitts' journey through Europe. I'm impressed by how easy Pitts makes it look to stick to this driving narrative; any later revisions, or earlier reference points are always succinct and essential to the story. Interwoven into this narrative, which has been condensed into the most important and interesting experiences, interviews, and anecdotes, are black-and-white photographs of everyday life, illuminating historical narratives, and literary quotations. I particularly enjoyed Pitts' honest reflections, and his musings on visiting James Baldwin's house in Saint-Paul-de-Vence - one of my favourite parts of the book.
I usually prefer non-fiction that is personal, because that seems to be what makes the book unique. When non-fiction tries to be objective, I often find myself distracted by wondering why this author is the most qualified to tell this story. Afropean is exactly my kind of non-fiction. Reading the book, which is broken down into sections on the different cities Pitts visited, feels like you're being told a story. I especially like how Pitts incorporates the stories of the people he meets into the book. He has a knack for finding the right balance between direct and indirect quoting, retelling the story in the most efficient and effective way without losing the sense of the original teller's voice.
Some non-fiction can be tiring to read, because of the amount of information being absorbed. But whenever I reached the end of a chapter and considered taking a short break, I always found myself being pulled into the next chapter. The sign of a good book.
This is absolutely one to judge by its cover. I can't get over how beautiful this book is, and I've greatly enjoyed carrying it around with me and snatching in a few pages' worth of reading wherever possible.
"Afropean" is an abstract notion, and Pitts' quest to pin it down only serves to illustrate how varied Black European life can be. It is a relief, therefore, to find a coherent narrative at the heart of this book: Pitts' journey through Europe. I'm impressed by how easy Pitts makes it look to stick to this driving narrative; any later revisions, or earlier reference points are always succinct and essential to the story. Interwoven into this narrative, which has been condensed into the most important and interesting experiences, interviews, and anecdotes, are black-and-white photographs of everyday life, illuminating historical narratives, and literary quotations. I particularly enjoyed Pitts' honest reflections, and his musings on visiting James Baldwin's house in Saint-Paul-de-Vence - one of my favourite parts of the book.
I usually prefer non-fiction that is personal, because that seems to be what makes the book unique. When non-fiction tries to be objective, I often find myself distracted by wondering why this author is the most qualified to tell this story. Afropean is exactly my kind of non-fiction. Reading the book, which is broken down into sections on the different cities Pitts visited, feels like you're being told a story. I especially like how Pitts incorporates the stories of the people he meets into the book. He has a knack for finding the right balance between direct and indirect quoting, retelling the story in the most efficient and effective way without losing the sense of the original teller's voice.
Some non-fiction can be tiring to read, because of the amount of information being absorbed. But whenever I reached the end of a chapter and considered taking a short break, I always found myself being pulled into the next chapter. The sign of a good book.
July 13, 2020
Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams
Queenie has been out for a while now (it was first published in March 2019), so I was surprised by how topical it was. It found it topical partly because it's a contemporary novel, which explores a lot of timeless issues, but also because its messiness and honesty reminded me a lot of I May Destroy You, which I'm currently nearing the end of on iPlayer. It also feels topical because Queenie (the eponymous character) does a brilliant job of vocalising the pain and anger she feels, as a Black woman, at the police killings of Black people. It makes me so sad and so frustrated that, over a year after publication, this is still so topical.
Queenie is the story of a young Black woman whose life begins to fall apart, when her boyfriend decides he needs a break.
I like these kinds of stories (Fleabag is another example, as is Nina is Not OK), not because my own life is falling apart, but because I think they do such a good job of talking about issues which people often feel they cannot talk about. They also cover so much ground that I always find relatable aspects. These type of honest stories appeal to me because one of the reasons I read is to remind myself that I'm not alone.
However, I also read to challenge myself, by inhabiting a perspective different from my own. There is a lot of Queenie's story that I cannot relate to, if only because of my skin colour. Queenie explores issues of race and gender in a wholly natural way, because it is the story of a Black woman. I loved seeing her perspective on current issues, and inhabiting that perspective in her encounters with white people.
For all its brutal honesty, I think Queenie is an understated book. It quickly drew me in, and I flew through it over the weekend. Ever since, I can't stop thinking about it and its quiet brilliance.
Queenie is the story of a young Black woman whose life begins to fall apart, when her boyfriend decides he needs a break.
I like these kinds of stories (Fleabag is another example, as is Nina is Not OK), not because my own life is falling apart, but because I think they do such a good job of talking about issues which people often feel they cannot talk about. They also cover so much ground that I always find relatable aspects. These type of honest stories appeal to me because one of the reasons I read is to remind myself that I'm not alone.
However, I also read to challenge myself, by inhabiting a perspective different from my own. There is a lot of Queenie's story that I cannot relate to, if only because of my skin colour. Queenie explores issues of race and gender in a wholly natural way, because it is the story of a Black woman. I loved seeing her perspective on current issues, and inhabiting that perspective in her encounters with white people.
For all its brutal honesty, I think Queenie is an understated book. It quickly drew me in, and I flew through it over the weekend. Ever since, I can't stop thinking about it and its quiet brilliance.
June 16, 2020
The Good Immigrant edited by Nikesh Shukla
I love the title The Good Immigrant. It reminds me of the unfairly high standard to which people of colour are often held, and especially of the way refugees and immigrants are made to feel they have to earn a place in their new country. I often think about the fact that I didn't earn a place here, nor does anyone expect me to. The media attention around Mamoudou Gassama (dubbed Paris' "Spider-Man"), who was offered citizenship after climbing up a four-storey building to save a child, raised some worrying questions about the way we not only treat, but think about migrants.
Thanks to the brilliant Big Green Bookshop for this one.
The Good Immigrant is a collection of essays from Black and Minority Ethnic authors about their experiences of living in the UK. I think the format is perfect for this, because it gives plenty of room for flexibility; while I would describe all the chapters as essays (as opposed to something like Common People: An Anthology of Working Class Writers, which includes other formats such as short stories and poems), they are all very different in tone and scope.
The format also allows for individuality. Several of the authors express their understandable dissatisfaction with terms such as 'People of Colour' and 'Black and Minority Ethnic', wanting to avoid generalisation. I learnt the alternative term 'Global Majority' in this book, which is probably too cheesy to start using regularly, but I do like the point it's making. It's so difficult to think of a term to group BAME people together, but maybe that's because they shouldn't be grouped together. I can't see a way around using such terms for practical reasons (as here), but it's good to remember that they are encompassing such an enormous range of people.
The individuality of the voices and experiences in this book was probably my favourite aspect. And kudos to Shukla for ordering them in a way that smoothed the transitions between essays.
Most of the essays talked about their authors' experiences of racism, but this isn't a book about racism. Some of the authors chose to talk explicitly about race, but a lot of them chose simply to talk about their lives, and, unfortunately, living in the UK in a body that's not perceived as white entails racism. But many authors also echoed what I've seen people saying elsewhere recently, about too often finding themselves limited to writing about race. I loved this book, but I also hope to be able to read books - and watch films or TV programmes - where people of colour aren't limited to talking about race.
Thanks to the brilliant Big Green Bookshop for this one.
The Good Immigrant is a collection of essays from Black and Minority Ethnic authors about their experiences of living in the UK. I think the format is perfect for this, because it gives plenty of room for flexibility; while I would describe all the chapters as essays (as opposed to something like Common People: An Anthology of Working Class Writers, which includes other formats such as short stories and poems), they are all very different in tone and scope.
The format also allows for individuality. Several of the authors express their understandable dissatisfaction with terms such as 'People of Colour' and 'Black and Minority Ethnic', wanting to avoid generalisation. I learnt the alternative term 'Global Majority' in this book, which is probably too cheesy to start using regularly, but I do like the point it's making. It's so difficult to think of a term to group BAME people together, but maybe that's because they shouldn't be grouped together. I can't see a way around using such terms for practical reasons (as here), but it's good to remember that they are encompassing such an enormous range of people.
The individuality of the voices and experiences in this book was probably my favourite aspect. And kudos to Shukla for ordering them in a way that smoothed the transitions between essays.
Most of the essays talked about their authors' experiences of racism, but this isn't a book about racism. Some of the authors chose to talk explicitly about race, but a lot of them chose simply to talk about their lives, and, unfortunately, living in the UK in a body that's not perceived as white entails racism. But many authors also echoed what I've seen people saying elsewhere recently, about too often finding themselves limited to writing about race. I loved this book, but I also hope to be able to read books - and watch films or TV programmes - where people of colour aren't limited to talking about race.
June 14, 2020
Their Brilliant Careers by Ryan O'Neill
This one has been on my to-read shelf for too long. If it's currently on yours, I highly recommend you read it next.
Their Brilliant Careers is a collection of sixteen short biographies of Australian writers you will never have heard of. This is because they don’t exist. (I borrowed this description from this review, because I couldn't have put it better myself.)
I flew through this book, whose short chapters (one for each writer) made for particularly easy reading. The chosen writers are all different and interesting enough that the book doesn't become repetitive, but O'Neill manages to make the book one coherent whole by linking the writers together to create a tangible literary world. I'm sure there are connections that I missed - this is definitely a book that would benefit from a reread - but there was nothing left unclear.
This book's humour stems not only from the basic facts of the lives of the authors, but also from the way O'Neill satirises the literary world. I especially liked his attention to the sexism and racism of the literary canon; his chapter on a historian known for denigrating Aboriginal culture is particularly good. Again, I'm sure there are lots of jokes and references I didn't pick up on, but I never felt like there was anything I didn't understand.
The metaliterary nature of this project raises particularly interesting questions about plagiarism - which is a recurring topic of discussion in O'Neill's mini-biographies - and truth. I love the extent to which O'Neill commits to the fiction of these biographies, not only in his remarkable world-building, but also in his presentation of the book. This is one book where you'll want to read the Foreword, Acknowledgements, and Index (trust me).
If you liked this book, I'd recommend The Last Days of Jack Sparks. Also, make sure to check out other books published by the brilliant Lightning Books.
Their Brilliant Careers is a collection of sixteen short biographies of Australian writers you will never have heard of. This is because they don’t exist. (I borrowed this description from this review, because I couldn't have put it better myself.)
I flew through this book, whose short chapters (one for each writer) made for particularly easy reading. The chosen writers are all different and interesting enough that the book doesn't become repetitive, but O'Neill manages to make the book one coherent whole by linking the writers together to create a tangible literary world. I'm sure there are connections that I missed - this is definitely a book that would benefit from a reread - but there was nothing left unclear.
This book's humour stems not only from the basic facts of the lives of the authors, but also from the way O'Neill satirises the literary world. I especially liked his attention to the sexism and racism of the literary canon; his chapter on a historian known for denigrating Aboriginal culture is particularly good. Again, I'm sure there are lots of jokes and references I didn't pick up on, but I never felt like there was anything I didn't understand.
The metaliterary nature of this project raises particularly interesting questions about plagiarism - which is a recurring topic of discussion in O'Neill's mini-biographies - and truth. I love the extent to which O'Neill commits to the fiction of these biographies, not only in his remarkable world-building, but also in his presentation of the book. This is one book where you'll want to read the Foreword, Acknowledgements, and Index (trust me).
If you liked this book, I'd recommend The Last Days of Jack Sparks. Also, make sure to check out other books published by the brilliant Lightning Books.
June 13, 2020
Don't Touch My Hair by Emma Dabiri
I was intrigued by the title of this one, since I too have often had to deal with people wanting to touch my hair. I'm white, but I have curly hair unlike anything you see in mainstream media. When I was younger, my hair grew up for a long time before it finally started growing down. As a result, I often relate to comments I see Black people making about their hair and others' perceptions of it. I obviously understand the difference, coming, as I do, from a place of privilege, but I will admit to having had occasional moment of jealousy, towards Black people who have a history for and a knowledge of their hair, which I lack.
Mixed race, born to a white Trinidadian mother and Black Nigerian father, baby Dabiri did not have the loose curls synonymous with those with a lighter skin tone. Her hair quickly became a battleground until, around seven years ago, she realised that her politics and her presentation didn’t correspond: her chemically straightened hair needed to go. It is through this personal experience, and an understanding that black racialisation is as much bound up in coiled hair as it is in colour, that Dabiri begins to take us on an unapologetic and intellectual journey, bursting with new theories and forgotten tales. (Summary taken from The Guardian.)
Don't Touch My Hair wasn't quite what I was expecting it to be. Dabiri starts off by talking about her own life, but, although she often writes in first person, her own experiences are not the driving force of the book. I tend to find that the best non-fiction is personal, because that's what makes it unique (Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race and The Gene: An Intimate History spring to mind). While everything Dabiri wrote about was interesting, and I learnt lots of information, I kept wondering why she was the one telling the story. If it's not an objective study, especially when it involves so much history, it feels more like it should be the subject of an academic book. I know that Dabiri is an academic, so I don't doubt that she is qualified to write such a book, but Don't Touch My Hair is marketed at a popular audience, and Dabiri advertises her personal credentials over her academic ones.
Don't Touch My Hair just felt, to me, a little disorganised. I don't think the titles of the chapters or (in my opinion too frequent) subdivisions were particularly helpful, and I didn't feel an overriding argument or structure - to the extent that turning the page to find 'Notes' (i.e. the end of the book) was a surprise. The blurb on Goodreads describes this book as a collection of essays. I think the lack of structure would make more sense if this were a collection of essays, but that was never made clear to me while reading the book. I think this circles back to the fact that the book didn't feel personal enough to be a collection of essays.
I don't want to sound too negative. This is wholly my own opinion, and I'm sure many people disagree with me. I did enjoy this book, and I definitely learnt a lot from it - in particular, Dabiri explains some complex issues in impressively coherent language - but I just found it a little disjointed and, as such, had to push myself to keep reading. I imagine it's difficult to teach your reader about extensive periods of history in a personal essay format, which is perhaps where I felt a disjunction -- and that is entirely my own fault, for not already knowing this history. I'm definitely glad I read this book, even if it wasn't what I was expecting, and maybe the book's structure will become more apparent to me on a reread.
There are several important concepts I will take away from this book, including the way we judge things (including African culture) by western standards. Perhaps that was my mistake with this book.
Mixed race, born to a white Trinidadian mother and Black Nigerian father, baby Dabiri did not have the loose curls synonymous with those with a lighter skin tone. Her hair quickly became a battleground until, around seven years ago, she realised that her politics and her presentation didn’t correspond: her chemically straightened hair needed to go. It is through this personal experience, and an understanding that black racialisation is as much bound up in coiled hair as it is in colour, that Dabiri begins to take us on an unapologetic and intellectual journey, bursting with new theories and forgotten tales. (Summary taken from The Guardian.)
Don't Touch My Hair wasn't quite what I was expecting it to be. Dabiri starts off by talking about her own life, but, although she often writes in first person, her own experiences are not the driving force of the book. I tend to find that the best non-fiction is personal, because that's what makes it unique (Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race and The Gene: An Intimate History spring to mind). While everything Dabiri wrote about was interesting, and I learnt lots of information, I kept wondering why she was the one telling the story. If it's not an objective study, especially when it involves so much history, it feels more like it should be the subject of an academic book. I know that Dabiri is an academic, so I don't doubt that she is qualified to write such a book, but Don't Touch My Hair is marketed at a popular audience, and Dabiri advertises her personal credentials over her academic ones.
Don't Touch My Hair just felt, to me, a little disorganised. I don't think the titles of the chapters or (in my opinion too frequent) subdivisions were particularly helpful, and I didn't feel an overriding argument or structure - to the extent that turning the page to find 'Notes' (i.e. the end of the book) was a surprise. The blurb on Goodreads describes this book as a collection of essays. I think the lack of structure would make more sense if this were a collection of essays, but that was never made clear to me while reading the book. I think this circles back to the fact that the book didn't feel personal enough to be a collection of essays.
I don't want to sound too negative. This is wholly my own opinion, and I'm sure many people disagree with me. I did enjoy this book, and I definitely learnt a lot from it - in particular, Dabiri explains some complex issues in impressively coherent language - but I just found it a little disjointed and, as such, had to push myself to keep reading. I imagine it's difficult to teach your reader about extensive periods of history in a personal essay format, which is perhaps where I felt a disjunction -- and that is entirely my own fault, for not already knowing this history. I'm definitely glad I read this book, even if it wasn't what I was expecting, and maybe the book's structure will become more apparent to me on a reread.
There are several important concepts I will take away from this book, including the way we judge things (including African culture) by western standards. Perhaps that was my mistake with this book.
June 9, 2020
The End of Policing by Alex S. Vitale
Like a lot of people, I've been trying to learn more about the reasons underlying structural racism and police brutality. However, until recently, I never imagined a solution other than police reform. The end of policing is difficult to imagine - and I'm only starting to see the extent of the media's influence over this difficulty. That is why I wanted to read this book: to help me imagine alternatives to the police.
The End of Policing is about so much more than structural racism; different chapters cover different problems with the police force as it stands, including the criminalisation of homelessness, sex work, and drugs. Vitale, however, is always aware of the overlaps, and constantly draws the reader's attention to the way the police disproportionately target people of colour and people living in poverty. The book's conclusion also neatly ties the book together without simply repeating previous content. The breadth of subject-matter was much greater than I had been anticipating, and made me realise the extent of the problem.
Vitale breaks down the chapters into small sub-sections, which look at the current problems; suggestions for reform, and why these are inadequate; and plausible alternatives. The writing is clear and accessible throughout, real-life examples are given to help illustrate the points being made, and statistics are used sparingly. Even though the alternatives were of most interest to me, I was never bored by the laying-out of problems with the current system, even where there was information I already knew. I think this has a lot to do with the importance of what is being said, although Vitale's concise writing style also helped.
While a lot of the book's focus is on the US, the larger issues being discussed are of just as much relevance to other countries, and Vitale does draw other countries (including the UK) into his discussions. This book was published in 2017, but feels so relevant to our current moment.
The title of this book might have put me off not so long ago, but I was surprised by how much of what Vitale writes felt like common sense. I found myself nodding along throughout. If you've been reading about structural racism recently, I really think this book is the logical next step. It shows that there are alternatives to the police. It shows that there is the possibility of a better future.
If you want to learn more about structural racism in the UK, I'd recommend Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race; for mass incarceration, I'd recommend the documentary 13th (2016); and for the criminalisation of sex work, I'd recommend Revolting Prostitutes: The Fight for Sex Workers’ Rights.
The ebook of The End of Policing is currently free (you might want to consider donating the money you've saved to a relevant cause, if you feel able). Ava DuVernay's 13th is currently free on Netflix and (if you don't subscribe) YouTube. Also, Reni Eddo-Lodge has asked that people, where possible, borrow Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race and donate what they would have spent; or buy it from their local independent bookshop, and also donate to their local and national racial justice organisations.
The End of Policing is about so much more than structural racism; different chapters cover different problems with the police force as it stands, including the criminalisation of homelessness, sex work, and drugs. Vitale, however, is always aware of the overlaps, and constantly draws the reader's attention to the way the police disproportionately target people of colour and people living in poverty. The book's conclusion also neatly ties the book together without simply repeating previous content. The breadth of subject-matter was much greater than I had been anticipating, and made me realise the extent of the problem.
Vitale breaks down the chapters into small sub-sections, which look at the current problems; suggestions for reform, and why these are inadequate; and plausible alternatives. The writing is clear and accessible throughout, real-life examples are given to help illustrate the points being made, and statistics are used sparingly. Even though the alternatives were of most interest to me, I was never bored by the laying-out of problems with the current system, even where there was information I already knew. I think this has a lot to do with the importance of what is being said, although Vitale's concise writing style also helped.
While a lot of the book's focus is on the US, the larger issues being discussed are of just as much relevance to other countries, and Vitale does draw other countries (including the UK) into his discussions. This book was published in 2017, but feels so relevant to our current moment.
The title of this book might have put me off not so long ago, but I was surprised by how much of what Vitale writes felt like common sense. I found myself nodding along throughout. If you've been reading about structural racism recently, I really think this book is the logical next step. It shows that there are alternatives to the police. It shows that there is the possibility of a better future.
If you want to learn more about structural racism in the UK, I'd recommend Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race; for mass incarceration, I'd recommend the documentary 13th (2016); and for the criminalisation of sex work, I'd recommend Revolting Prostitutes: The Fight for Sex Workers’ Rights.
The ebook of The End of Policing is currently free (you might want to consider donating the money you've saved to a relevant cause, if you feel able). Ava DuVernay's 13th is currently free on Netflix and (if you don't subscribe) YouTube. Also, Reni Eddo-Lodge has asked that people, where possible, borrow Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race and donate what they would have spent; or buy it from their local independent bookshop, and also donate to their local and national racial justice organisations.
June 8, 2020
Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Like so many people, the recent media focus on Black Lives Matter made me realise (to my shame) how few books I've read by Black authors, and authors of colour more generally. So I've decided to more consciously alternate my reading choices - as I already try to do with female writers. I chose this one because it was available at the library, and I'd already read, and really enjoyed, Americanah and We Should All Be Feminists by the same author.
This book tells the story of Biafra and the Nigerian civil war of the 1960s, through the lens of one family. Ugwu, a boy from a poor village, works as a houseboy for Odenigbo, a university professor living in Nsukka. Olanna has abandoned her life of privilege in Lagos to live with her lover, Odenigbo, while Richard, an English writer, has fallen for Olanna's twin sister Kainene. As the Biafran War engulfs them, they are thrown together and pulled apart in ways they had never imagined.
Half of a Yellow Sun is written in third person, in chapters that move through the perspectives of Ugwu, Olanna, and Richard. The lack of a structural formality - the chapters aren't named after the characters whose perspective they focus on, nor is there any obvious pattern according to which the characters' perspectives alternate - makes this feel more natural, especially as the story interweaves the narratives of each character in interesting ways. I was impressed by how well Adichie captured the personalities of the different characters, who encompass such different genders, races, and social classes, to the extent that she is able to write in their voices. All of the characters - not only these three - are brilliantly imagined.
I love how Adichie draws characters from such different backgrounds together, making me realise how rarely books have such a diverse cast. This is very much part of the story, since we see how the war affects different people in different ways. Adichie's depiction of war is breathtaking.
I knew nothing about any of this history before reading this book, and, especially at the start when information was being given in fits and starts, I often felt a bit adrift. Like Ugwu, I was hearing parts of heated discussions I didn't really understand. This is one of the reasons why Half of a Yellow Sun was, for me, a four- rather than a five-star read.
The ending was perfect - almost enough for me to consider rating this one five stars, despite feeling it to be a four-star read for the large majority of the book. I look forward to reading more of Adichie's work.
This book tells the story of Biafra and the Nigerian civil war of the 1960s, through the lens of one family. Ugwu, a boy from a poor village, works as a houseboy for Odenigbo, a university professor living in Nsukka. Olanna has abandoned her life of privilege in Lagos to live with her lover, Odenigbo, while Richard, an English writer, has fallen for Olanna's twin sister Kainene. As the Biafran War engulfs them, they are thrown together and pulled apart in ways they had never imagined.
Half of a Yellow Sun is written in third person, in chapters that move through the perspectives of Ugwu, Olanna, and Richard. The lack of a structural formality - the chapters aren't named after the characters whose perspective they focus on, nor is there any obvious pattern according to which the characters' perspectives alternate - makes this feel more natural, especially as the story interweaves the narratives of each character in interesting ways. I was impressed by how well Adichie captured the personalities of the different characters, who encompass such different genders, races, and social classes, to the extent that she is able to write in their voices. All of the characters - not only these three - are brilliantly imagined.
I love how Adichie draws characters from such different backgrounds together, making me realise how rarely books have such a diverse cast. This is very much part of the story, since we see how the war affects different people in different ways. Adichie's depiction of war is breathtaking.
I knew nothing about any of this history before reading this book, and, especially at the start when information was being given in fits and starts, I often felt a bit adrift. Like Ugwu, I was hearing parts of heated discussions I didn't really understand. This is one of the reasons why Half of a Yellow Sun was, for me, a four- rather than a five-star read.
The ending was perfect - almost enough for me to consider rating this one five stars, despite feeling it to be a four-star read for the large majority of the book. I look forward to reading more of Adichie's work.
June 5, 2020
Emma by Jane Austen
After enjoying Pride and Prejudice so much (you can read my review here), I decided to read another by Jane Austen.
Emma Woodhouse is beloved in her village of Highbury, and mistress of her father's estate at Hartfield. It is no surprise, therefore, that Emma is absolutely confident in her own opinions and abilities. Although determined not to marry herself, Emma, with (mostly) good intentions, decides to turn her hand to matchmaking.
Emma is a surprisingly subtle book. Much of its entertainment derives from the way characters, most notably Emma herself, misinterpret events. While this misunderstanding does extend to Emma and Mr Knightley (most notably at the novel's conclusion), reminiscent of the misunderstanding between Elizabeth Bennett and Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, the plot of Emma depends a lot more on various misunderstandings. I read one review which observes that all the interest, in Emma, comes from events which, in the hands of a less accomplished author, might be mundane. Instead, Emma's conviction that she must be right leads the plot through several interesting developments.
Of course, it is not only the characters who get things wrong. While it was entertaining to laugh knowingly at Emma's mistakes, I also enjoyed trying to guess, along with Emma, what various characters really thought or meant. It was particularly fun playing the matchmaker along with Emma, and guessing which characters I thought would end up together. As a fan of Clueless (1995), I also enjoyed working out which characters were based on which, and how the plots of book and film mapped onto the other.
I found Emma a very engaging book, although, as I found with Pride and Prejudice, it took a little while for the story to get going before I was hooked. There are plenty of interesting and amusing characters besides Emma - I am particularly fond of Mr Woodbridge. I loved how easy it was to share so many of Emma's opinions about the book's characters. While there were some lengthy speeches from Miss Bates or Mrs Elton that I was tempted to scan over, I think these are very deliberate on Austen's part; when Mr Knightley criticises Emma for her irritation with (the dull, but well-meaning) Miss Bates, we too share in some of that criticism.
On to Sense and Sensibility! (after a short break)
Emma Woodhouse is beloved in her village of Highbury, and mistress of her father's estate at Hartfield. It is no surprise, therefore, that Emma is absolutely confident in her own opinions and abilities. Although determined not to marry herself, Emma, with (mostly) good intentions, decides to turn her hand to matchmaking.
Emma is a surprisingly subtle book. Much of its entertainment derives from the way characters, most notably Emma herself, misinterpret events. While this misunderstanding does extend to Emma and Mr Knightley (most notably at the novel's conclusion), reminiscent of the misunderstanding between Elizabeth Bennett and Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, the plot of Emma depends a lot more on various misunderstandings. I read one review which observes that all the interest, in Emma, comes from events which, in the hands of a less accomplished author, might be mundane. Instead, Emma's conviction that she must be right leads the plot through several interesting developments.
Of course, it is not only the characters who get things wrong. While it was entertaining to laugh knowingly at Emma's mistakes, I also enjoyed trying to guess, along with Emma, what various characters really thought or meant. It was particularly fun playing the matchmaker along with Emma, and guessing which characters I thought would end up together. As a fan of Clueless (1995), I also enjoyed working out which characters were based on which, and how the plots of book and film mapped onto the other.
I found Emma a very engaging book, although, as I found with Pride and Prejudice, it took a little while for the story to get going before I was hooked. There are plenty of interesting and amusing characters besides Emma - I am particularly fond of Mr Woodbridge. I loved how easy it was to share so many of Emma's opinions about the book's characters. While there were some lengthy speeches from Miss Bates or Mrs Elton that I was tempted to scan over, I think these are very deliberate on Austen's part; when Mr Knightley criticises Emma for her irritation with (the dull, but well-meaning) Miss Bates, we too share in some of that criticism.
On to Sense and Sensibility! (after a short break)
