BRAIN DRAIN

It took me a while to warm up to Joshua Ferris’ Then We Came to the End. In fact I’m not quite sure I ever really did.

In terms of the big picture, I can see why the book has been well received by critics. For one, it’s pretty well crafted office satire, routine drudgery, workplace intrigue, office shenanigans and all. The plot is somewhat intricately structured: the story goes off seemingly in a hundred different directions at once, teasing the readers’ interest all the while, only later coming together to make some modicum of sense. And then there’s the storytelling technique, which can only be described as a remarkable achievement because of the way it makes the reader feel less like a spectator and more a close acquaintance of the different characters involved.

Yet it was the details, as I continued to read and tried to develop an opinion of the book, that never truly resonated with me. Then We Came to the End is good office satire to be sure, but not laugh out loud funny as some critics have suggested. Mostly, this is because the requisite humor involved is overly context specific — the story takes place at an ad agency, arguably the least representative industry for corporate life, and an American one at that.

As for the plot, the novel’s unusual structure will certainly captivate some audiences and infuriate others. I lean towards the latter group. Yes, I will admit that my interest was teased as the story wore on, but there were stretches on end that were positively frustrating to plod through, their significance in the broader scheme of the plot unnecessarily obscure until well too late. And the storytelling technique? It’s fairly obvious at the end that a large part of the novel was just the author experimenting with the narrative style, and quite successfully, too. While I’m of the mind that this alone may be good enough reason to have a go at the book, even I have to ask the obvious question: all that for a gimmick?

By all accounts though, the novel demonstrates that Joshua Ferris is one talented writer. Indeed, the novel’s watershed moment is a section in the middle — uncompromisingly injected at the least predictable of places — that elicits such pathos from the reader and in the process changes one’s perspective on what the story is really about. Few writers could have pulled off much the same with greater success. But whether there is enough merit in that to trumpet the novel’s finer points I have yet to decide. Ultimately, I suppose that what sets Then We Came to the End apart is that it is a very current novel about office life (mostly) to which many should easily relate and which will strike others as so uniquely devised. As such, some will find it a tad unsettling — as I did — even as others struggle to contain their excitement over it.

I can think of at least three good reasons why Paul Torday’s Salmon Fishing in the Yemen is well worth reading.

First, there’s the storytelling approach. The premise of the book involves a seemingly whimsical project to introduce salmon fishing to a wadi in the Yemen. To tell this tale, Torday presents the events not through the lens of straightforward narrative, but rather in the guise of the correspondences and documents which chronicle the project’s progress. On balance, it is an interesting method to get readers acquainted with the book’s dramatis personae and emotionally involved in their undertakings (in this case, the Yemeni Salmon Fishing Project). Granted, the novelty wears off soon enough, especially later in the book when Torday lapses into disguised narrative that detracts from the underlying mechanism and begins to write all characters with practically the same “voice”. Yet it is an entertaining window into the author’s vision, and one that easily draws readers in from beginning to end.

Second, it’s intelligent satire and socio-political commentary. In many ways, the purported Yemeni Salmon Project is a device allowing Torday to present his observations about modern day life, political bureaucracy, and the worldwide battle against terrorism. In this regard, the insights communicated are often humorous and the veiled criticisms rather biting. Even if the book were not intended to be a work of satire, it may as well be one.

Third, there is an inspiring message of faith and hope that underlies the entire story. This, above all else, should be the reason anyone should read Salmon Fishing in the Yemen. In fact, this message is communicated early on in the story — when the protagonist becomes sold on the absurd idea of bringing salmon fishing to the Yemeni desert — but it manages to hook the reader all the way to the end. To some degree this does mean that the bulk of the book is really just an exercise to see how events unfold, and in many ways the book ends somewhat abruptly, even if in the right place. Notwithstanding this, to appreciate the message that Torday attempts to convey and seeing it reinforced all the way through to the book’s conclusion makes for a thoroughly rewarding reading experience.

Finding a good book about science can be challenging. It’s not that there is a dearth of quality material; indeed, in this regard there is probably no better time to be a science buff than the present, with any manner of resources ripe for the picking off bookstore shelves. Rather, the real problem lies in finding material that is accessible to the average reader. Scientists, after all, are neither necessarily gifted writers nor trained journalists, for which reason the Carl Sagans and Stephen Hawkings of this world are true gems.

And then Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything comes along, restoring our faith that there can be informative and entertaining science books that are not the least bit esoteric.

It’s not just the content that makes the book stand out, nor is it only Bryson’s trademark talent and wit. With regard to the former, readers can be assured that the volume is based upon the author’s research and consultation with noted experts in their respective fields. As for the latter, clearly Bryson is in his element, breathing new life to the concepts and controversies that have illuminated (if not occasionally beguiled) our understanding of how the universe works. Instead, where the book truly shines is in its approach of weaving together the great discoveries and debates of scientific inquiry into one coherent story.

This is why the book’s title is no exaggeration: A Short History of Nearly Everything is as much a science book as it is a history of scientific discovery. It is by no means an all-exhaustive one, to be sure, yet it surveys key contributions to geology, chemistry, physics, paleontology and a host of other disciplines in a manner that shows how they interrelate, thereby compelling readers to contemplate what implications these may have upon the human race.

In sum, Bill Bryson’s book is not just a science book done right, but a science book done well.

This is what it’s like being Captain Bluebear:

You find yourself adrift off the continent of Zamonia, rescued and raised by a band of mini-pirates, later abandoned on an island of Hobgoblins and thereafter fighting for dear survival on a carnivorous island. You’ll make a good friend in a pterodactyl and erstwhile patrolling Reptilian Rescuer. You end up enrolled under the tutelage of a Nocturnomath with seven brains, who will in embed an entire encyclopedia in your mind. When not running for dear life from a giant spider or traveling through dimensions or across deserts your travels leave you trapped in a tornado, if not somewhere between a Bollog’s head with the best bad idea you’ve ever met. Once freed, you make your way to the island of Atlantis (which isn’t really an island), making a name for yourself as one of the city’s greatest liars. In the end, it’s also possible you’ll find yourself unraveling the secrets to a mysterious ship, which so happens to contain the deadliest substance in the universe.

Obviously it’s a rough kind of life, which is why it’s good to have twenty-seven of them to spare. Better still if half of them are spent enduring all these. This much Walter Moers would have readers believe in his clever book, The 13½ Lives of Captain Bluebear.

Succinctly, it is a fairytale that will appeal to the child in every adult. As such, it is clearly not something that will appeal to some readers in and of itself, what with its necessarily over-the-top plot, childish illustrations (by the author himself, no less), and occasionally excessive narrative (particularly towards the end, where the prose seems to go on and on without end!). Yet taken for what it is, there is plenty of good clean fun to be had in Captain Bluebear. It is escapist entertainment, but of that rare variety where “whimsical flight of fancy” and “excellent diversion” meet to make for an enjoyable reading experience.

A recent piece by one Bob Harris on Papercuts, the New York Times’ blog about books, examines the curious lingo surrounding book reviews.

The article surveys the “seven deadly words of book reviewing” — those words that, for some reason or another, “crop up in book reviews with wearying regularity”. As one who dabbles in modest reviews myself, I found the list thoroughly educational, if only to be reminded that the desire to write something thoughtful can sometimes result in stringing together words that are otherwise obtuse.

[Read: The Seven Deadly Words of Book Reviewing (Bob Harris via Papercuts)]

Vida Winters is a successful author famous for two things: that one of her anthologies was published with a missing story, and everyone knows that she has lied about herself during each and every public interview she has given throughout her life. In the twilight of her years, she enlists the assistance of one Margaret Lea — a bookseller’s daughter and amateur biographer — to chronicle her life’s story. Will she tell the truth? What secrets will be unearthed? And does Margaret have any secrets that she is keeping herself? This is the premise behind Diane Setterfield’s novel, The Thirteenth Tale.

All in all, it is a mystery — albeit a somewhat unconventional one — that should appeal to bibliophiles on principle, if only for the occasional literary reference (implied or otherwise) thrown into the mix. Yet the novel suffers in at least two respects. First, it is without a doubt a very circuitous way to tell a story. Setterfield’s narrative is a whirlwind that employs unsettling jumps in storytelling, whether in terms of the plot’s heavy reliance on flashbacks or in the way that it is pushed forward via changes in perspective from main to supporting characters. In this regard, reading The Thirteenth Tale sometimes feels like a wearying affair.

Second, and more importantly, there is a psychological element to the story that will for many readers be a hit-or-miss affair. One of the book’s underlying themes involves twins and how having a twin can affect one’s psyche. Some may find this interesting; others will find it hard to relate. Indeed, there are moments where this device comes across as “artsy” and drawn out, to the extent that the book’s critical revelation becomes fairly (and logically) predictable.

Nonetheless, the book is interesting enough, owing mostly to Setterfield’s ability to entrance the reader in the opening chapters and wrap things up quite satisfactorily in the end. It is really in the middle that story and storyteller alike waver, however, in what is evidently an attempt to breathe life to an interesting premise and take the reader from Point A to Point B. On balance, this means that The Thirteenth Tale could have been better, which is really just another way of saying that it could’ve been much worse.

Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner seems to be in vogue these days. Critics adore it, fans can’t get enough of it, and its film adaptation is sure to keep people talking about it for a long time to come. This being the case, could it be that the novel just so happens to be one of those things that is popular for being popular?

Perhaps. But it doesn’t matter. As most anyone who has actually read the book will attest, The Kite Runner is nothing short of remarkable. Wrapped around some vivid prose, it is at once a love letter to a country besieged by conflict, a cautionary tale about the cruelty that children can inflict on one another, and an inspiring piece about coming of age, redemption and forgiveness. It is a truly touching story, one well deserving of the acclaim and attention that have been bestowed upon it by avid reader and critic alike.

[Cross-posted at the BBFI Blog.]

At a time when corporate social responsibility, social entrepreneurship and private philanthropy have moved front and center in the public consciousness, David Bornstein has put together a valuable resource by way of his book, How to Change the World: Social Entrepreneurship and the Power of New Ideas.

The book is structured mostly as a set of “case studies” in social entrepreneurship. It details the experiences of remarkable individuals around the world that have made a difference in their communities or fields of concern. Their achievements have also allowed them to be elected as Ashoka Fellows — Ashoka being the premiere global association for social entrepreneurs. As such, the book not only chronicles cases of ingenuity and perseverance in the realm of social development but also paints a vivid picture of the remarkable work that institutions such as Ashoka and the individuals associated with it do worldwide.

There is no disputing that Bornstein has made yet another important contribution to the literature on social entrepreneurship (the first being his earlier book on the Grameen bank). Indeed, it sometimes seems that the book seeks to do too much. Early on, it becomes clear that How to Change the World is at once a compendium of success stories on social entrepreneurship, a manuscript about the principles and workings of Ashoka, and a collection of personal insights on social entrepreneurship all rolled into one. For the individual sections concerned, the book manages to be each; yet taken as a whole, the discerning reader will find that Bornstein’s work is at best only two of these three things, depending on what she expected of the book coming into it. To be sure, this is not for lack of journalistic ability on the author’s part, but rather demonstrates an abundance of enthusiasm for the subject he is writing about.

Suite Francaise is for all intents and purposes the fictional equivalent of The Diary of Anne Frank.

Meant to be part of a five-volume opus by author Irene Nemirovsky, this posthumously published book depicts life in France during the Second World War as seen through the eyes of its various citizens. The first half of the novel (”Storm in June”) recounts the fall of the country to German hands, during which time individuals of high and low birth alike endured the same adversities in the ensuing confusion. The second half (”Dolce”) focuses on the Nazi occupation, albeit framed in the experience of the community within a small country town taken over by German soldiers.

The novel was never truly finished — though for all intents and purposes the published manuscript tells a reasonably complete set of stories — and in that regard suffers in places where it is clear that the author intended that certain characters be developed further in ensuing volumes. Nevertheless, Suite Francaise remains a standout period piece. If for no other reason, what makes it remarkable is the author’s use of contrast. Whether in terms of how well born and common folk struggled to adapt to trying circumstances (each in their own way) or in the more subtle imagery that manages to evoke a sense of despair one moment then hope, optimism and humanity the next, the result is a novel that is as delicate as it is powerful.

Back in October, Penguin published a book about the design that goes into subway and similar transit systems. As part of the marketing effort, they also released an e-card of the diagram above, reproduced from the book’s opening page . Obviously, it looks just like a generic mass transit system’s map. As the caption explains, however, it’s really an inventive map depicting cities that already have (or are planning to build) some urban railway system or other.

The cities do appear to be grouped together based on their actual geographic location; apart from that, there doesn’t appear to be any particular rhyme or reason to the layout of the passages, nodes and terminal locations. All the same, the map does evoke a certain appreciation of how interconnected the world has become, and makes one wonder what a more “accurate” map of this sort — depicting the relative sizes of each transit system as well as true transborder railway connections — might look like.

(From the look of it, though, the map already seems to get Manila’s location in the grand scheme of things quite right.)

[Via Strange Maps]