How to Be a Good Savage and Other Poems (Sanchez, trans. by Wendy Call and Shook)

Cheers for Milkweed! This collection of poems was written in Zoque and Spanish (neither of which I read) and translated into English. I am enjoying what seems to me to be a new trend of having all of the languages together on the page.

These poems have a bite, as the title suggests, particularly when it comes to indigeneity and femininity. Others, though, eluded me, speaking, as they did, of a culture, of a way of thinking, that I have almost no experience with. But that’s okay. Not everything is here for me to understand; nor is anyone required to explain it to me. I found myself mouthing the words to many of these poems and, even if I didn’t understand their meaning, I relished their music.

https://milkweed.org/author/mikeas-sanchez

This poem reminds me of some of the moments in Teju Cole’s Tremors.

https://poets.org/poem/were-all-maroons

Biography of X (Lacey)

The best word to describe this novel (and it is, despite the title, a novel) is “ambitious.” It is part-dystopia, and the central events of the dystopia are major, though Lacey never makes them necessary. The commentary on the art word seems a more elaborated version of Neil Labute’s work in The Shape of Things. There is a feminist angle as well, though again, nothing about it seems fresh. There are footnotes and photos as though this is, in fact, a biography, The protagonist is somewhat bland, though that might be part of the artistic commentary – she has become only X’s creation – and now that X has died, what’s left? Some of the writing felt sloppy – the introduction of real historical names and medical conditions that get introduced late – all made it feel like Lacey struggled to find an ending,

Indigenous Continent (Hamalainen)

I almost abandoned this book early. There was just more detail about the development of North America than interested me. Then I noticed I was having a different kind of discomfort. Hamalainen’s thesis – that Indigenous peoples did more to shape this continent than colonists – was making me uncomfortable. I even did the thing of looking into the author to see who he was and what his agenda might be. Once I realized that was going on, I was determined to finish, to try to figure out what was making me so uncomfortable.

So I pressed on – slowly – and saw the impact of what happens when history starts before you’re used to it starting, how the people I’ve known as at first leaders and later as colonizers, were manipulated and managed by those already present on the continent. The American Revolution barely rates a mention. The Civil War gets similar treatment. Though I understood the concept of “centering” before this, I think this was my first experience with it. And I admit. It definitely threw me off.

So even if I wish it was maybe a bit shorter, I do recommend it. Give it 50 pages. If you find yourself as uncomfortable as I was, carry on. While I may not retain many of the details from this account, I did learn a great deal about myself.

Under the Skin: The Hidden Toll of Racism on Health in America (Villarosa)

I’m going to go ahead and put this in your “must read” pile. Villarosa is a compelling writer. She telescopes between stories of individuals and policy issues in an extremely effective manner. She is also very direct. There are no qualifiers here (not that there should be). If you want statistics, she’s got those too. You can not read this book and remain unmoved. Villarosa and others have done the research. No more studies, commissions, or conferences. Action. It’s long past time for action.

A Year of Last Things (Ondaatje)

This collection seems to have Ondaatje looking back, not so much nostalgic as reflective. The poems – admittedly not always accessible to me – feature his lilting style and seem to be a call to remember. A piece about a photograph of his boarding school stood out for me. Generally, I found the tone of the book to be somber, and, as an Ondaatje fan (moreso of his novels), I hope this is not his farewell letter.

Erasure (Everett)

I did this backwards and saw American Fiction first, and all the praise to Cord Jefferson for his much-deserved Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar. I’m going to go ahead and say it – the movie is better. I think Jefferson made the wise choice to include less of Everett’s novel-within-the-novel and develop more of Monk’s internal conflict about whether to write it. The scene in his father’s study where he interacts with the characters he’s creating is a masterpiece. There are various other asides that were likely easy to dispense with, and Hollywood did what Hollywood does with love stories. I think both the movie and the book end well. Since I was disappointed by the ending of Everett’s The Trees, I was pleased with how he wrapped this one up – the pacing was better and the choices seemed earned. Looking forward to James.

I Have Some Questions for You (Makkai)

I really, really liked The Great Believers. This one, however, came across more like the work of Donna Tartt, whose books I do not enjoy and whose reputation I do not understand. The construction of the plot is solid, and I was pleased that Makkai didn’t reach for the predictable ending, but mostly I found that I just didn’t care about these people. Everyone in the novel has their story and their flaws, and that’s an admirable road to attempt, but it seemed like in the interest of being comprehensive, Makkai sacrificed depth, particularly when it came to the person in prison. Another very forgettable boarding school novel.

Clay’s Quilt (House)

It merited a 20th Anniversary Edition, so that says something. It’s easy to see the talent here in what was, I believe, House’s first novel. He creates a world and its inhabitants quite effectively. If his shifting between points of view feels a little loose at times, just roll with it. There’s also too much self-conscious dialogue. Remember that scene in Wall Street where Charlie Sheen goes out on the balcony and says, “Who am I?” The thing is, nobody actually says stuff like that, and House falls into that trap on a somewhat regular basis.

The Prologue is absolutely gripping. I immediately felt comfortable in House’s hands. It didn’t surprise me that the pace had to slow somewhat for the story, but he also seemed on less certain footing, prone to the first novelist’s flaw of trying to stuff everything into that first novel.

I will certainly try another one of his books. I suspect his writing improves over time.

Eleven Kinds of Loneliness (Yates)

When Revolutionary Road was revived some 20 or so years ago, I caught the wave and loved it. But I don’t know if I tried any more Yates after that. For some reason, a collection of his short stories, aptly named Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, appealed to me as a way to find him again.

While, as with all period writing (see Sinclair Lewis, for example), the dialogue does not always ring true, Yates is again very skilled here at creating that aching feeling of being alone in a crowd. Think of the scene in the Revolutionary Road movie (which I thought was pretty good) in which DiCaprio adjusts his hat as he’s leaving the train station (I think – it’s been a while) and the camera reveals dozens and dozens of men who look exactly like him, all commuting from what was perceived as the promised land of the suburbs into the city for work.

Here, we find decent people in trying circumstances (sometimes related to the war) that just can’t seem to do what another writer advises us to do – “Just connect.” And again, it’s not as if they are off in the woods alone. We have married people, soldiers in a company, old friends. Things just misfire because, I think – and this is the core of Yates’ emotional honesty – they so often do.

The Other Name: Septology I-II (Fosse, trans. by Searls)

Well, imagine the movie Sliding Doors, but instead of separate stories, the stories merge – not only the current ones, but the ones from the past as well. Add a healthy serving of Catholocism and the same ideas about punctuation as you find in Ducks, Newburyport. At first, I found it a bit pretentious and, since it lacks a single period or really any significant white space, it’s hard to pick up and put down. I was engaged by the discussion about art – maybe I’m just on a roll with that topic (see review of Teju Cole’s Tremor). And I began to wonder if Fosse would have these worlds collide in any way. There are even some genuinely suspenseful moments, like when the two children go for a walk or the young boy accepts a ride he’s been told to refuse. And, since it’s Norway, there’s a strong sense of isolation. And lutefisk. Will I read the next 5 parts? Maybe, but I’m not in a hurry to get to them.