I can’t express much about my opinion without describing the overall structure of this book. This may be a spoiler for some, so proceed with caution.
Trust is divided into four parts:
A novel about a wealthy New York couple who made their fortune on stocks, and weathered the 1929 crash so well that it’s suspected that the man manipulated the markets.
A memoir written by the man on whom the novel in part one is based. He defends his wealth on the grounds that his personal gain benefits society as a whole. Growing the pie and all that.
Another memoir written by the ghostwriter of part two. Through her eyes, we see just how much part two was an exercise in self-aggrandizing myth-making.
The unearthed private diaries of the wealthy man’s wife, who was more involved in the business than she was given credit for.
My enjoyment of this book was driven mostly by the structure and the way each section reveals a new layer of truth. It does a less extreme version of what Cloud Atlas does.
But on the other hand, I didn’t really like the writing style. The first two parts are especially dry, observing the characters from a cold distance. And ultimately, the truths that the book reveal feel obvious. The wealthy can get away with anything, and women are neglected by history? Tell me something I don’t know.
This is a short story collection centred around a single character. Therefore, I wouldn’t hesitate to accept this as a novel if it had been published as such.
Soma is a character who’s been scarred in many ways by the hardships in her life: an abusive and eventually absent mother, the loss of a close friend to suicide, a break-up with someone who seemed not to respect her Jewish heritage. I appreciated the layers of character detail in this book, like Soma’s proficiency at cooking. It’s a skill she’s proud of, but at the same time, it’s a constant reminder that she had to learn how to feed herself because her mother was gone, and she had to take on the responsibility at a younger age than the average person.
The centrepiece of the book for me is the story titled “Who You Start With Is Who You Finish With,” which threads together Soma’s life and her grandmother Charna’s youth in wartime. The grandmother suffered the horror of watching the Holocaust unfold over the Atlantic, as well as the pain of being shunned by the Jewish community for marrying outside of her religion. Her cultural identity was under attack in two ways, and so when we see Soma’s efforts to celebrate her grandmother with traditional prayer, it feels like a happy ending for Charna, in a way.
There are a couple of stories in the collection which are more experimental and surreal, almost like poetry. It’s not really my thing, but your mileage may vary.
Humankind by Rutger Bregman is a book that attempts to overturn the prevailing view that people are inherently selfish and malevolent. From the oft-referenced stories of the Stanford Prison Experiment and Kitty Genovese, to the everyday news, we hear a lot about the sins of humankind. Bregman dismantles these stories, arguing that they only preserve existing power and economic structures. Instead, he aims to show that we’re motivated by kindness towards others.
The book is a breezy read, filled with snappy anecdotes and factoids. It worked on me: at the beginning, I read with skepticism, trying to poke holes in his arguments; but by the end, I found everything he was saying to be obvious. Run a school without classes and lesson plans, because the students will naturally find their own path to learning? Of course! Run a prison without cells, and where the guards play games and sing songs with the inmates? Sounds like a great idea!
It was as if the book had created a new intuition in me: take everything that is considered conventional in modern society, and do the opposite.
In terms of subject matter, Milkman is like the song “Zombie” in book form. There are bombs and bombs and guns. But where the Cranberries’ song is filled with anger, Anna Burns uses a more delicate touch.
The unnamed protagonist is a young woman who is being pestered “the milkman,” who is romantically interested in her and also happens to be a member of a paramilitary organization. The stalking alone makes for anxious reading, but the real tragedy is that she has nobody to turn to. Because they live in basically a warzone, the entire community is in a constant state of mistrust and paranoia, and her personal struggles are only seen in the context of which side of the political conflict she may or may not be on.
Despite the dark story, the writing style is quirky and playful, in a way that reminds of a bit of George Saunders. There’s a lot of absurdist humour, like how the parents of the protaganist’s “maybe-boyfriend” have abandoned their family to become internationally famous ballroom dancers. I enjoyed this read, even if it does feel little bit repetitive and long-winded at times.
A short novella that you can read in one sitting, but may be worth savouring over a few quiet evenings. The story tells of a young girl whose overwhelmed parents drop her off with another couple for the summer. The setup is inherently sad, and the feeling of being unwanted is always hanging there, even though it’s not spoken.
There’s also a sense of timelessness about the setting; there’s no specific mention of when the story occurs. There’s no obvious references to cellphones or present-day technology, but you could believe that it’s happening now.
I admit I found it a bit slow at times, but the devastating final lines really grabbed me and made me want to read it again someday.
Third book: Here’s a new character! A pastor, whose job it is to talk about the philosophical implications of discovering alien life. But she ends up saving the day in a drug-addled action scene.
I preferred the second book to this one. The attempts to bring more philosophical discussion into the mix felt underdeveloped, in favour of a final action sequence that lasts way too long, in my opinion.
I was sucked in for most of this novel, which tells the story of a middle-aged man who meets two mysterious women in the wake of his wife’s death. Each of the three characters have painful secrets in their past, and I was fascinated by how they each tried to hide themselves from the others, while still trying to grow closer.
Unfortunately, I didn’t think that the final revelations were very satisfying. The plot introduces one too many extramarital affairs, in my opinion. Even though it is meant to mirror another affair, it just felt like it came out of nowhere. Also, I found the prose style (or the translation) to be a bit repetitive (“It was the most unusual winter…“)
I don’t want to criticize this book too harshly. It’s well-written and readable, and my wife really loved it and got a lot out of it.
The author’s main argument can be summed up as: “Work sucks sometimes, but you are not your job, so don’t take it personally.” Each chapter is a mini-profile of someone who has experienced the suckage of work, and how they have learned the lesson that they shouldn’t have felt so bad about it, and that they should focus on what really matters.
But the things that suck about work still suck, whether you take it personally or not. It’s easy in hindsight to make the case that you should detach from the job, but it’s not so easy when it’s happening to you. I found myself wishing for justice from the employers who caused the suckage, but I suppose that would be another type of book.
My main takeaway from this book is to try to see social issues in terms of insecurity instead of inequality. It’s easy to blame inequality on greedy wealthy people, which amplifies the divisions between people, whereas insecurity is a function of the capitalist system, and affects everyone. The reason that greed is such a powerful force is because everyone is afraid is losing it all, no matter how much they have.
I’m not sure if the book really sticks to this idea, though. We get the historical background of the origins of capitalism, which is a story about barons and commoners, which brings us back around the division between haves and have-nots all over again.
While I appreciated the historical and especially the Canadian context in this book, it felt overall like preaching to the choir. (I’m already quite the socialist.) It’s also written in a somewhat academic style, which made it increasingly skimmable towards the end.
Things that are spirals in Uzumaki (lit. “Spiral”): dust devils, tongues, snails, water draining from bathtub, smoke, people who have turned into snails, people in general, hair, a hurricane, growths from a skin condition, staircases, etc.
This horror manga series was not the most narratively satisfying, but works great as a creative exploration of the visual motif of a spiral. So much in nature takes the form of spirals, so there’s nothing inherently scary about the shape, but when it invades and twists human bodies, the result is effectively stomach-churning.
