Not to toot my own horn, but most of the mathematical concepts covered in this book are things that I already knew. It’s enjoyable to read, but it felt like a superficial tour of the most famous ideas in math and physics. When we reach the latter topics (e.g. relativity, string theory), the connection to the original focus on zero becomes a bit tenuous.
I had one big problem with this book. It repeatedly insists that the West rejected the idea of zero for much of history, while the East accepted it much earlier. But then, most of the book is about Western mathematicians and philosophers, while the East only gets a few pages. If the book is supposed to be about zero, it needs to give us more details about the ideas that the East developed.
An improvement over the first entry, mostly because the cast of characters is more diverse. The core characters that span both books (the crew of the Rocinante) are growing on me, which is what you want in a spacefaring series. If you’re looking for more heady ideas, or a more thematically rich story, this isn’t it. This is more like an action thriller than an intellectual exploration.
In this book, you read short stories from legendary Russian writers, followed by an analysis of the story by George Saunders. What’s cool is that you get great writing from the stories, and then you get great writing about why it’s great, from Saunders.
I only hope that I’m able to apply the lessons learned here to my own writing. I think my biggest takeaway is the idea of ambiguity: inexperienced writers like myself have the tendency to try to make a clear point in their writing, whereas the strength of these stories is their openness to be interpreted in many ways. That’s probably a lesson that I knew before, but it comes through so much brighter here under Saunders’s guidance.
It’s been a while since I dove into a big series. I don’t think I’ve ever tackled a series of this length. After the first entry, I would say it’s not a home run, but it’s intriguing enough to continue. The plotting and action kept me hooked (except for a short detour into zombie territory that almost made me quit—I’m just really not into zombie stuff), but the characters were a bit bland. There are two point-of-view characters with alternating chapters, and when their paths inevitably cross, I had a hard time distinguishing the two.
I could only read short sections of this book at a time, because the account of life in a concentration camp is so harrowing. Frankl’s background as a psychiatrist allows him to effectively explain the psychology of incarceration and trauma, but I’m not sure what to make of logotherapy, the system of therapy that he invented. The second part of the book is a somewhat vague and jargon-y explanation of his theory. The core concept, that humans are motivated by finding meaning in their lives, seems almost tautological to me. Meaning is purpose, and purpose is motivation. Do we really need a formal theory to say that we’re motivated by motivation?
What I liked was how the portrait of David Starr Jordan progressed, from hero to villain, leading to the final posthumous dispensation of justice that leads to the title of this book. The weaker parts for me were the personal philosophical musings about how to place yourself in a nihilistic universe. The attempts to link Jordan’s disturbing worldview with the author’s relationship troubles were muddy, and felt like a stretch. But I still enjoyed the breezy writing style and murder-mystery-like structure, the latter of which might remind some of podcasts, which makes sense considering the Lulu Miller’s Radiolab credentials.
A courtroom drama/murder mystery with plenty of plot twists and revelations, so much so that it’s almost not believable. I mainly appreciated the honest depiction of the Korean-American immigrant experience, and the challenging lives of parents of children with disabilities. There’s a huge gulf between entertaining the thought that your life might be better without your afflicted child, and actually murdering the child, but in the logic of a high-pressure “parents-must-be-saints” society, the former makes you guilty of the latter. This book does a good job of exposing the flaws in that logic.
The me of today would like to believe that the me of 10 years ago, i.e. the perpetually single me, would have felt kinship with Keiko Furukara, the protagonist of this book. She’s happily unattached, and bristles against all of the people around her who disapprove of her menial job and lack of relationship status.
On the other hand, if the me of 10 years ago had taken a different path, had not found a partner, who would the me of today be? I fear I might have ended up like the angry and deeply unpleasant Shiraha, Keiko’s foil. He is basically what we would call an incel, although I’m not sure if that label is meaningful in Japanese culture.
It’s a fine line between accepting yourself despite not fitting in, and blaming the world for not accepting you. I commend this book for putting me on both sides of that line.
A collection filled with the type of true crime article that I regularly save to Pocket. I probably wouldn’t recommend reading the book cover-to-cover, but I had to because it was a library loan. In my opinion, it would be better enjoyed by cherry-picking an article from time to time, when you’re in the mood for some moral indignation.
But beyond the morbid point-and-judge tone that’s typical of true crime, I do appreciate that Keefe offers empathy and compassion towards his so-called “rogues.” This is especially evident in my favourite article.
“Loaded Gun” explores the past of a mass shooter. Twenty years before the crime, she shot and killed her brother, in what may or may not have been an accident. I especially liked this article because Keefe inserts his first-person ruminations on the ambiguity of what happened, and what the ambiguity means.
