I was quite impressed with this short story by Tomas Hachard that appears in the Summer Reading issue of The Walrus. As the title indicates, it takes place in the future, and features a young girl named Clarissa who dives into an online historical archive, where she finds a journal of a girl living in our present day.

The future society that Clarissa lives in is rebuilding after a climate catastrophe called “the Deluge,” and the journal gives her a glimpse of life before the disaster: the people of that time didn’t know what would soon befall them, and they existed in a mentality split between fear and denial. Sound familiar?

But all is not well in Clarissa’s future either; as the story progresses, she starts to see the same signs of impending doom that she’s reading in the journal, and the two narratives kind of blend together in a way that I started to be confused about which was which, in a good way.

This story really triggered my climate anxiety, especially as I was reading it at around the same time as some horrendous flooding in Toronto.

The cyclical nature of the story is really effective in creating an ambivalent sense of the future. On the one hand, humanity has persisted, after the Deluge, and life seems to be relatively normal. But on the other hand, they don’t seem to have learned enough lessons from the disaster to prevent it from happening again.

I recently tore through this fantasy series, which consists of the novels The Poppy War, The Dragon Republic, and The Burning God. It tells the epic story of a young woman who discovers her magical ability to control fire, and uses it to rise to military power. It’s set in a fictionalized version of Asia, with parallels to China, Japan, Taiwan, and a vaguely European colonial power.

The series kicks off with the protagonist Rin entering an elite military school. It’s a fun way to get introduced to the world, and feels reminiscent of Harry Potter, with her making alliances and rivalries with her fellow students as well as the faculty. But then the stakes escalate very suddenly when war breaks out with a neighbouring country.

I got a kick out of the magic system in this fantasy world. Rin and the other “shamans” harness the power of gods; or rather, they act as conduits for the gods, and are never fully in control. The ability to wield magic is as much a curse as anything, and eventually, all shamans go insane because they’re constantly fighting to keep the gods from taking over their minds. It’s also cool how the interplay between magic and warfare is depicted: geography and natural resources play a big role in how they form military strategies, but as soon as a superpowered soldier enters the fray, it completely turns the tide.

I must confess that I didn’t quite finish the final book. I got a bit fatigued by the relentless violence, but even more than that, the character of Rin is motivated by such anger and hatred that it kind of wore me down. I think the story suffers a bit from being limited to only showing her perspective. As the series progresses, Rin shifts allegiances between the various political factions that are involved in the war, but she’s not driven by any ideology, only by rage against whoever happens to be her enemy at the time. I didn’t get a sense of what she was fighting for.

My read was probably hampered by reading the whole series back to back to back, and within the limited timeframe of library loans. If you want the best experience, I would suggest pacing yourself and letting it breathe.

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It’s hard to review this book without mentioning its structure, including what happens in the story. I don’t think it’s the kind of book that hinges on plot points, but I’ll still put a spoiler warning here.

The prose is structured in short fragments, usually no longer than a few sentences each. It’s reminiscent of Dept. of Speculation and Weather by Jenny Offill, both of which I enjoyed. There are no real “scenes,” just glimpses into the mind of the main character, an unnamed woman who spends a lot of time on the Internet, and becomes famous for a single tweet. Ultimately, I think I prefer Lockwood’s novel to Offill’s, because of how the style changes meaning over the course of the book.

For the first half of this book, the style obviously evokes the flood of unrelated content that you experience when scrolling through social media. It’s filled with references to memes and jokes, and would probably not even make sense for the first dozen or so pages if you hadn’t read the jacket copy.

But then, in the second half, the book shifts focus to a medical emergency involving the protagonist’s infant niece. The protagonist is no longer constantly online, but the style remains fragmentary, taking on a lyrical quality. I came to appreciate that even without the distraction of the Internet, the mind still works this way: when you’re supposedly only thinking about one thing—in this case, love towards an ailing child—you still jump from idea to idea, emotion to emotion. I found it very powerful, and I was brought close to tears by many passages.

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Recently, by sheer coincidence, I read a couple of books whose titles both started with the words how to. What’s more, the reading of one informed and influenced my reading of the other.

(My only regret is that I was unable to complete the trifecta by also watching How To with John Wilson at the same time.)

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The setup of this novel reminded me of Past Lives: the life of a married couple is disrupted by a visitor from one of the partners’ past.

From the start, I found the couple’s behaviour to be not entirely believable: why was one partner so secretive about her past, and why was her wife so jealous about it? I kept thinking that an honest, open conversation would have diffused all of the tension between them. But, through a somewhat repetitive and long-winded exploration of their thoughts and memories, I came to a reluctant understanding: this book is a portrait of a failing relationship.

I commend the novel for presenting a perspective that I don’t see often: that of a queer person living openly in a same-sex relationship, while at the same time staying closeted about her bisexuality.

However, there were enough flaws in the story that I can’t say I recommend it. In particular, there are a couple of “plot twists” near the end that seem to serve no purpose other than to underscore a point that was already clear, and then to punish the main character. There’s also an extended exposition about the plight of Ugandan Indians under Idi Amin, and how it compares with the Syrian refugee crisis. It’s a bit discomfiting to measure traumas against each other, and I wasn’t sure what the author was getting at.

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I picked up this book because I, like many others, feel like I need to reduce my phone usage. It’s a constant distraction and I hate it when I find myself scrolling through some feed, not looking for anything in particular.

Newport does a good job explicitly explaining what I implicitly knew was true: there’s value in solitude and letting your mind think without forcing it to process a constant input of information. The philosophy of digital minimalism aims to reclaim that value by being intentional about technology.

Unfortunately, the book falls short for me when it comes to how to actually achieve this outcome. In its introduction, it states that willpower and superficial lifehacks aren’t enough to break the grip that the attention economy has on us; but, the suggestions given in the book read exactly like superficial lifehacks based on willpower. His biggest idea is the digital declutter, which involves removing all optional technology for 30 days. But how do we do this, if not through willpower?

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I swear, whenever I read this series, I alternate between being thrilled and wanting to throw my copy against the wall. They are undoubtedly page-turners, but that may be a more back-handed compliment than it seems: I always want to find out what happens next, but often don’t care about what’s happening on the pages right in front of me.

This fourth entry has a compelling setup, wherein a settlement on a newly discovered planet comes into conflict with a scientific and mining expedition. As a reader, you root for a peaceful resolution, rather than one side winning over the other, but inevitably, there are aggressors that escalate the conflict. The dynamic reminds me of the brilliant Dawn of the Planet of the Apes.

However, there are some really ridiculous character developments, like the scientist who finds herself attracted to the hero Captain Holden, and becomes so mad with lust that she can no longer do science, but then when her scientist friend makes a move and they have sex, she immediately solves the big science problem and no longer cares one bit for Holden for the rest of the book.

When I finished, I seriously considered giving up on the series, but I read some positive reviews of the next one, which appears to break the mold. Time will tell if I come back to it.

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I read this on the recommendation of a friend. My wife and I asked about how they manage their personal finances, especially in the context of a couple. Not to get too much into my personal life, but money can sometimes be a minefield in our relationship, and we were looking for suggestions.

The first part of this book didn’t really click with me, because it’s about all the pitfalls that cause people to overspend: pressure from one’s social circle (“keeping up with the Joneses”), the distortions of social media, etc. Overspending is not really a problem for us, so I couldn’t relate.

But, I can say that once the book moved into practical advice on how to manage finances, I found a lot to like. Ultimately, it led me to a new perspective on budgeting. (In the book’s rhetoric, it recommends not budgeting, but really, it’s just budgeting in a different way.) To summarize:

The old way: we allocate a budget for expenses, and whatever’s left over is savings. The trouble is, sometimes expenses are unpredictable, so it feels like we’re taking away from our savings. Also, any sort of “fun” spending feels wrong because it’s also taking away from savings.

The new way: allocate a budget for predictable expenses and savings. Savings are further broken down, so that the intent is clear: e.g., is it for retirement, for an emergency repair, for an upcoming big purchase? Then, whatever’s left over can be spent without worry.

It’s a subtle shift in mindset, but one that I hope will take away some of the stress and anxiety around money. I can’t say if it works yet, but maybe I’ll check back in with another post after putting it into practice.

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This was a beautifully written memoir about the experiences of a Korean woman who was adopted by white parents, and her reconnecting with her birth family as an adult. When I say that, you might think that it leads to a tidy ending—now she’s got two families!—but of course, real life is more complicated than the clichés.

A memorable chapter early in the book involves a pair of Nicole’s acquaintances, who are considering adopting a child, asking her if she “minded” being adopted when she was a kid. It’s a question that assumes that the adoptee experience is monolithic, and that as long as Nicole was happy, they could be assured that their kid would be, too. The rest of the book deconstructs that idea, and shows us the messiness that lies behind everyone’s family story.

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As the title suggests, this book is an examination of a tragic character who’s only capable of relating to others by obeying them unquestioningly. She grew up in an oppressive family, and doesn’t seem to know how to exist as her own person.

The pastoral setting and reflective style reminded me of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. Like that book, it’s a challenging read; my experience of it could be described as spending long stretches not really understanding what was going on, but then being knocked over every few pages by a deeply profound sentence or passage. Unlike Dillard’s work, though, Bernstein has the benefit of fiction, so that she can introduce surreal and dark elements, like the image of the protagonist as a baby, taking care of her older siblings before she could even speak; or the Ari Aster-esque cult-like imagery in the finale.

All in all, a bizarre and melancholy read. You really pity the protagonist’s constant negative self-talk. I think there’s more to it than that, though; this book would reward a closer reading than I was able to give it.

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