Foundation’s Edge was published almost 30 years after the original Foundation trilogy, and you can feel that distance when you’re reading it. The sociological ideas that were at the forefront of the original books are kind of in the background now, replaced by a more conventional sci-fi adventure.
The setup of the novel doubles down on the mind-control conceit introduced in the previous books: Trevize, a councilman of the Foundation, suspects that the Second Foundation is secretly pulling the strings of human history using their “mentalic” powers. At the same time, Gendibal, one of the leaders of the Second Foundation, also suspects that there’s yet another more powerful force out there, mentally controlling them.
For me, this made the mind-control plot device feel tired: if there’s always the possibility that some unseen force is actually calling the shots, then as a reader, I lose track of the characters’ motivations. I also found the two protagonists too similar: they’re both young and arrogant iconoclasts who don’t toe the party line, hunting for a hidden adversary, and to me, the two parallel storylines started to blend together.
I tried to tell myself not to read this book when I first heard what it was about. I’m already quite cynical about Big Tech, and I thought that this would only entrench my biases further, with no real benefit to my mental health. But I saw it sitting on the shelf at my library and I just couldn’t help myself.
The author, Sarah Wynn-Williams, worked at Facebook in the global policy department, where her responsibility was (ostensibly) to help the company negotiate with countries around the world. She started with the optimism typical of tech companies in the early aughts, believing that she would “make the world a better place.” But over the course of the book, she becomes disillusioned by Facebook’s relentless pursuit of growth and profit, which came at the high cost of creating political instability in countries like Myanmar and ultimately the US.
None of this is very surprising, if you follow the news about social media companies over the last few years. But Wynn-Williams’ position gave her access to the top brass at Facebook, Cheryl Sandberg and Mark Zuckerberg, and she reveals some really bizarre behaviour by the leaders of the company. For example, Zuckerberg once asked her, on a visit to Indonesia, to organize a “gentle mob,” for no apparent reason other than to make himself look cool. These sections were both hard to read and hard to put down, having the feeling of learning some juicy gossip about someone you don’t like. You kind of have to take her word for it, because corroboration from other sources is not really built into the narrative style, but if it’s true, these incidents confirm the old adage that power corrupts.
Based purely on the title, I went into this book expecting something different. Maybe it’s just where my mind is at these days, but I thought it would be a treatise against the democratic backsliding associated with certain world leaders that I won’t name. But it turns out that Dave Meslin’s book is an exploration of the actual governing process, and reads more like a business/management manual, but applied to the systems of democracy. It’s more about logistics than political ideology.
Personally, my experience with democracy is somewhat intermittent: just go vote whenever there’s an election. It’s not very satisfying because it doesn’t feel like you’re contributing much, especially if your choice doesn’t win. Meslin agrees, and puts the blame on the systems and institutions of the government. And from there, he suggests tons of ideas of ways for those systems to change. I had many “a-ha!” moments reading this book, and I appreciated that the book is Canadian through and through, filled with examples and stories from nearby places.
Meslin is an excellent explainer, and simplifies complicated ideas, making them easy to digest. For example, he spends a lengthy chunk of pages describing alternatives to the first-past-the-post electoral system that we use in Canada. It’s kind of a geeky subject, but he makes it really clear how our current voting system leads to polarization and unfair election results.
A while back, I wrote about my history with e-readers, and highlighted in particular the Pocket app that’s available on Kobo devices. I named it “Kobo’s killer app,” because I think that e-readers hit their sweet spot with long articles: for shorter pieces, I can live with the slight eyestrain of reading on a phone or computer screen, and for full-length books, I’ll always prefer a physical copy. For me, e-readers are perfect for the in-between articles and essays that can be read in 15-30 minutes, and Pocket is the key piece of software that makes it happen. That is, until now.
By coincidence, I experienced a funny bit of synergy by reading this book and watching the show Bad Sisters at the same time. They’re both murder mysteries set in Ireland, and bled together slightly in my mind. I started to imagine the detective character in the book with the same appearance as the actor in the series. And because my ear had been hearing the spoken dialogue, I was able to mentally approximate the sound of the Irish accent while reading.
The novel is told from the perspective of Toby, and before the main mystery even kicks in, he gets assaulted by burglers breaking into his home, leaving him with a head injury. As he’s recovering at his fancy family home, his cousin’s kids accidentally discover a skeleton inside a tree in the yard. It shouldn’t be too much of a spoiler to say that the body belongs to someone from Toby’s high school days1, and various members of his family—his uncle and his cousins—all become suspects. Including Toby himself.
Bad Sisters tells the story of five sisters, one of whom is married to a crappy husband. The other four sisters all hate him, and they hatch a plot to kill him. The show follows two timelines: it starts with the man’s funeral, and depicts the aftermath as insurance investigators dig into the suspicious circumstances of his death; and then, via flashbacks, we see the sisters’ plan(s) come together (or not).
The show is a delicate balance between comedy and drama. It has to make us root for murder, and it almost doesn’t work sometimes. The four sisters have really good chemistry, each likeable in her own way, and it’s often funny to watch them interact. But I think the greatest strength of the show is its depiction of the villain, JP. At first, he seems merely rude and disrespectful towards his wife (and everyone else), and I wouldn’t necessarily have described him as abusive for the first few episodes. But as his bad behaviour escalates, the show effectively redefines his belligerence as the tip of the iceberg, just a subtle sign of the deeper abuses going on.
The fate of JP is fully resolved in the first season, and it’s a satisfying story. There’s a second season, but after watching a couple of episodes, I noticed a significant drop in quality, and decided to quit. I think that the consequences of JP’s death tips the scale towards darkness, so that the light comedic tone is no longer convincing, and ends up feeling discordant and awkward.
I just finished reading the third and final Fitzcarraldo Editions book that I bought in London last year (after The Observable Universe and Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead). I really like the minimalist cover design and the quality of the paper that they use. The books have heft in my hand, and the pages are sturdy and satisfying to turn. I (and most readers, I’m guessing) don’t normally pay much attention to the physical “style” of a given publisher, so kudos to them for creating such a distinctive ethos.
Fifty Sounds is a memoir by Polly Barton about her experiences as an Englishwoman living in Japan. She’s now known for translating Japanese literature to English, which implies that she’s mastered the language, but as she tells it in this book, there’s a gap that’s essentially impossible to cross for a non-native speaker.
In my last newsletter, I shared my first 1 Second Everyday video. It’s been a fun creative experiment, which continued through the month of April. I’m definitely finding it more difficult to capture clips of “new” things… I don’t lead a wildly adventurous life, and I like my routines. Even so, I like the challenge of composing shots and trying to see familiar things from new and interesting angles.
I don’t feel like I can fairly judge this book because I read it during a difficult time. My dog has been having some medical issues and it’s been an emotional roller-coaster. I found myself unable to really connect with anything I was reading. But even through my own numbness, I admired the author’s work.
All Our Ordinary Stories is a graphic memoir by Chinese-Canadian author Teresa Wong, who attempts to bridge the emotional distance between her and her immigrant parents by exploring their histories. Her parents lived through extreme events, escaping from the Cultural Revolution in China by swimming to Hong Kong. Wong struggles to understand their experiences because they don’t talk about their past. Partly, Chinese culture celebrates stoicism, and encourages them to bottle up their traumas; but also, there’s a language barrier between the generations that makes it hard to have any deep conversations.
I also can’t speak the language of my ancestors very well, but I’m uncomfortable speaking English with my parents because it seems disrespectful somehow. Some scenes in this book capture the communication gap so well that it feels both boring and profound at the same time: boring, because I’ve internalized the experience so much that it’s become run-of-the-mill, ordinary; but profound, because someone else has written it down and aired it out and shown how challenging it really is.
It’s a rare occurrence that a book hits this close to home… I may wish to revisit this book sometime when I’m more able to engage with it, but I’m almost afraid to do so because it may destroy me.
Sadly, this movie only impressed me on the superficial and technical level: the Carpathian scenery is gorgeous, and the practical special effects for bringing the ochi creatures to life are great. I don’t think A24 is big on merchandising1, but the toys would fly off the shelves.
Unfortunately, I had a hard time staying engaged because I found the story to be really thin. The main (human) character, Yuri, decides to help the baby ochi, in spite of her father’s hatred of them… but why? Her father later comes around, and supports her quest to return the baby to its family… but, again, why? The movie doesn’t really offer many answers beyond Well, look at the cute little guy!, and because of that, it feels quite empty.
