Category: Reviews

The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour de France: Doping, Cover-ups, and Winning at All Costs by Tyler Hamilton

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The Secret Race is supposed to be about Tyler Hamilton, about a simple kid from the east coast who has natural talent, funnels that into bike racing, rises, falls, and is now in recovery. It’s supposed to be a book about doping, about how everyone in the cycling world dopes, about how seductive the glory of winning can be, how it can convince an honest kid to play the same game as everyone else. The Secret Race is supposed to be about guts, hard work, insurmountable obstacles. In the end, though, The Secret Race is just another tell-all about Lance Armstrong.

And now that Armstrong has come out and confessed to doping, this is even more true. Can’t really blame Hamilton, though, for writing yet another book about Lance. In America, at least, among those of us who are not die-hard bike-racing enthusiasts, the sport is Lance Armstrong. The sport is doping.

That’s the take away from The Secret Race—the real game is how one finds way to take EPO, use blood bags, testosterone, and a whole plethora of other banned substances. It’s finding ways to avoid the tests, fool the tests, pass the tests. It’s the game of working with—not just against—the officials, to keep the sport alive. And alive, of course, means lucrative. Pro cycling is corrupt because there’s money to be made off of men who have one goal in mind: to win at all costs.

Win at all costs might as well be Armstrong’s mantra, he the patron saint of pro cycling (and doping and playing chess with the officials). Hamilton is his apostle, and The Secret Race is an epistle, an easy to read, fairly compelling tragedy in three acts. Sports writer Daniel Coyle co-authors with Hamilton, and together they keep the pace easy enough to follow along but exciting enough to keep the pages turning.

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Dodger by Terry Pratchett

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Since I don’t pay attention very well, when I saw Dodger in the book store, I assumed it was another Discworld novel. My problem is I came to the Discworld late, and so I read several of the books back-to-back and got used to all the fun. When I caught up, I had to wait a year for the next book, and then another year, and so on. Not fair! Now, every time I see Terry’s name on something, I start to drool.

But Dodger is not a Discworld novel, alas. Oh well. Still a fine book. Hard core Pratchett fans will like it, since Terry knows how to write, plain and simple, handling a wide array of characters and situations with practiced aplomb. You’re on the streets of London with Dodger and Charlie, you’re down in the sewers, you’re there in the barber shop with Sweeney Todd. Pratchett’s Whitechapel is dirty and gritty, but well-loved by its denizens and fun to run around in.

Hardcore Discworld fans will miss the silliness, a little bit, but will identify in Dodger a kind of Vimes-like sensibility, and in his keeper, Solomon, a tiny slice of Granny Weatherwax. That may be purposeful, may be the legacy of having written about them so often, or it might be just me reading into things. There’s no magic in London, although Dodger’s nearly a wizard when it comes to owning his patch and making a reputation for himself.

And as for those who love Dickens, well, I’m not sure what to say. This is no Dickensian novel, to be sure, and takes several liberties with Charlie himself as well as whatever background one might have gleaned about The Artful. Nevertheless, there’s a verisimilitude that Pratchett paints his London with, and that, if for no other reason, makes this a nice little pause in your Late Nineteenth Century English Literature studies.

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Death Warmed Over by Kevin J. Anderson

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Didn’t like this one, almost from the beginning. And since I didn’t like it, my review’s going to be harsh. I mean, I’ll forgive poor writing if I’m enjoying the read. But this was tough for me to even finish. And yes, saying this is “poor writing” might be a bit much. Honestly, if it weren’t for some of the subject matter, I would have assumed this was written for teenagers. Sorry, teenagers, I don’t mean to insult you. But you know how people write down to the young, and that’s what this read like.

Meandering plot, until things sort of linked up– almost as if the author, Kevin J. Anderson, was just writing whatever, and attaching loose ends together as he went along. Maybe that’s fine for deeply introspective drama, but not for light-hearted genre fiction (in my opinion). There’s no real plot, or, if you insist that there is a mystery that was to be solved, fine– there’s certainly no story. Just the main character explaining how the world is now that “unnaturals” have become a normal part of society. No rising action. Just a series of occurrences that get jammed together at the end.

And Anderson doesn’t even do anything interesting with these “unnaturals.” The main character is a zombie, which is only exploited once in the whole novel. His girlfriend’s a ghost, which adds a tiny bit of tension but, again, it’s un-utilized and in the end, pointless. There’s vampires, werewolves… and now that I think about it, not much else.

There are also humans who hate the unnaturals, which Anderson uses for the so-called plot, taking a subject like racism and turning it into something goofy and flat. Towards the end, this serves as the motivation for the “mystery” which isn’t really a mystery because it’s so obvious what’s going on, one wonders how much respect Anderson has for his main character.

Or his reader, I guess. The whole thing felt like Anderson got an idea he thought was clever, and decided that cleverness, alone, was enough reason to write a book. Well, maybe it is. But is it enough reason to read a book? My reading experience is telling me no.

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The Pun Also Rises: How the Humble Pun Revolutionized Language, Changed History, and Made Wordplay More Than Some Antics by John Pollack

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I’m going to start this review with some self-indulgence, which is really par for the course when it comes to my style of reviewing. I’m just a tiny bit drunk, and I could swear I’ve already written a review for this book. But I can’t find that review anywhere. I have a phrase in my head, that I feel I must have written already, something about how John Pollack peppers The Pun Also Rises with puns, which is to be expected. But I can’t for the life of me find on any of my several hard drives and cloud drives and others depositories for expository writing any such file. So, I apologize if this winds up being redundant.

I also apologize for discussing other than the book at hand in this review. The truth is, there’s not much to the book itself. Which is not a castigation on my part. More of a revelation, or whatever the appropriate word is for when someone shows you what you already knew was there: what can really said about puns, at book length? Their history and development over the course of the evolution of language itself warrants not much more than a Wikipedia entry. Puns are, simultaneously, too vague and too specific a subject to say much about, other than to denote their usage. As analyses go, The Pun Also Rises does its best, but can’t help to wander around.

A more philosophical or even argumentative treatment might a larger tome make, but Pollack ’s book is not that. He does start off with an engaging anecdote, and frankly, I would have liked to see more of that kind of thing. A biography of a man’s life in punning would have been worthy of several hundred pages. Instead, we get a kind of history of social attitudes towards puns, some of the rationale behind their usage, a tiny bit of the linguistics involved. But not much else.

And yet, for all that, the book was engaging. I started it when I was on a visit to a friend, came upon the paperback edition, and decided to finish via the ebook. Pollack doesn’t bog the reader down with too much, and treats the subject for what it’s worth: quasi-lightly. It’s a quick read, and a good read, and not a waste of time in the least.

As I write this, I have to say, I’m becoming less and less convinced that I wrote anything about this before now, afterall. Don’t know what that says about me, or about the pilsners I’ve just swallowed. But never mind all that. The dedicated Punshmith will find in Pollack’s book a nice light history, and the language enthusiast, too, will find enough of a treatment to speak on the subject with a tiny bit of requisite authority.

As for me, an unabashed fan of puns and punning, I liked the book enough to get drunk and write about it. Enough said.

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12 Things to Do Before You Crash and Burn by James Proimos

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Oh, the things we read when we’re supposed to be reading something we don’t want to read. I’m in the middle of a few books right now, one of which is sort of awful, and I find myself starting other books to take a break from it. I’m not one of those people who thinks a book started must be finished– but the awful book is for research purposes, shall we say, so I do need to finish it. (Fine, I’ll just say it– I’m writing a novel, turns out someone had the same idea first, so now I need to read it so I don’t accidentally plagiarize. Woe is me.)

In the meantime there’s these other books, and now one more. I was at the library the other day, trying to get some writing momentum going, and when I was done, wandered through the stacks, browsing. Spied 12 Things to Do, and thought, there’s a nice thin tome. I too, write thin tomes. I found the title intriguing, and a quick scan showed short chapters. So on a whim I checked it out.

Didn’t realize it was in the “Young Adult” section, and not sure if that designation matters or is even accurate. Sure, the main character is a kid of about 15, but there’s some language and situations that a “young adult” would maybe find a bit advanced. Or I’m a prude. Or I’m naive and I have no idea what middle-teens get up to these days.

I took the book home, and I made a cup of coffee. Sat down with the book and the cup, and finished both at the same time. Yes, it was a big cup, but this was a short read. So short, that if you’re merely curious and have an hour to kill, go to your local library and give the book a try.

Hercules Martino’s adventures are roughly mapped to a retelling of the Labors of Hercules. Very roughly. Like, almost not at all, except in number. But for what it’s worth, if this is supposed to be a Young Adult novel, if it gets a young adult interested in reading about a few Greek myths, then the Hercules references are fine.

James Proimos’s style reminded me of a young Bret Easton Ellis, but without all the money and angst and depression. A little lighter in tone, sort of like C.D. Payne, but with less absolute absurdity. You get the dead parent and the pseudo-existentialism, but you also get some self-awareness without threat of drug overdose.

All in all fine little book.

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Lost At Sea: The Jon Ronson Mysteries by Jon Ronson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Jon Ronson writes for the Guardian UK, and this is a collection of articles from his works. It’s his third collection of such articles, and while the first two are more about himself, this one picks up the thread in his earlier work Them: Adventures with Extremists. He also wrote The Men Who Stare at Goats, and The Psychopath Test.

I read The Psychopath Test based solely on Ronson’s interview on The Daily Show, and picked up Lost at Sea for the same reason. I saw the film version of The Men Who Stared at Goats, though it was awful, but the writing in Lost at Sea is so good, I might change my mind about reading Goats. Ronson’s style is engaging, but light, easy to read and easy to get lost in.

Ronson paints himself as a cowardly, neurotic type, but his subject matter tells another story, and he’s got more guts than I do. The people he talks to in Lost at Sea are strange, and rather than indulge them, Ronson asks the tough questions and gets to the root of things.

At the same time, he editorializes without being judgmental, and is willing to accept that the obsessions these people have are complicated, and not merely to be dismissed for their weirdness.

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Syrup by Max Barry

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I read Syrup a few weeks ago, so this review might be a bit vague. Short version: I liked it. I read Jennifer Government years ago, Company before realizing it was also by Max Barry, and jumped on Machine Man as soon as I saw it on the shelves. I liked them all, for different reasons, and so when I came across Syrup in a used book store, buying it was a no brainer.

I read the book as a “break” from trying to plow through this year’s Booker Prize long list. So, right there, I’m calling out Syrup as “light” reading. My apologies, to readers and Mr. Barry alike. I do not mean to insult or denigrate. But this is certainly a younger Barry writing, a more eager, maybe even less serious Barry. Which is not to say later works are more “serious.” Just that the wit in his later books is a little more world-wise, while the events in Syrup are little more farcical.

However, rest assured this is still a work written by a gifted hand. Syrup reads easy, flows smoothly, and like a roller coaster either makes you scream or guts you with anticipation. It’s a fun story, silly in places, outright absurd in others.

I’m not sure if I can be objective and judge the book on its own without considering Barry’s other works or the order in which he wrote them. (I did, after all, pick this up just cause I liked his other stuff). But I’ll tell you this: I just found out they’re shooting a film version of Syrup, and I can guarantee you it won’t do justice to Barry’s tone or style. The film could be quite good though, based on the story alone. There’s your review.

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Panorama City by Antoine Wilson

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

There are two connotations of the word “idiot.” Panorama’s Oppen is not the willfully ignorant idiot, the one who holds intelligence in foul regard and ironically is proud of his stolid foundation. Oppen is the other kind of idiot, the one who’s guileless, more innocent than merely stupid. He’s the village idiot (his aunt’s words) and his “adventures,” although confined to a few small places, are a kind of modern picaresque.

Oppen doesn’t tilt at windmills, exactly, and is closer to a Sancho Panza assisting others as they assail pointless endeavors. He’s a fool in as much as he doesn’t understand the people around him are fools as well, trusting in their own trust in themselves. But unlike most of them, he’s no hypocrite, and his earnestness is genuine.

Antoine Wilson’s novel is almost as simple as his main character, and through those simple eyes we see how rural American and big city America is more or less the same when it comes to people and their small-world aspirations. The novel begins with death and ends with new life, a nice backwards trajectory, with the main character’s time in-between spent in a sort of purgatory as he finds a way to re-assert his own small-world aspirations.

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Swimming Home by Deborah Levy

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

It took me 28 days to read a book I didn’t enjoy. It took me about 18 hours to get through Swimming Home, so what does that say? One thing it says: short book. “Slender” is the word I see other reviewers use. Somebody’s probably got something to say about modern attention spans and novels these days, although I wonder if it’s more a matter of readers being smarter than they use to be. I’m rationalizing, trying to justify the book’s brevity, to justify my enjoyment of it. I don’ know the author very well, so who’s to say: in another writer’s hands, there would have been more back story, more history. And that would have been a different novel.

Five people on holiday, each a stranger to the others thanks to the strangeness that intimacy breeds. And then another stranger arrives, stranger than them all, and a new intimacy opens everything up. A tried and true formula, with two possible outcomes: the solid foundation survives, or the crumbling foundation founders. This is a short novel, so you can probably guess the ending.

There’s language and emotion, but not too much to get in the way. There’s economy of scene, nearly but not quite absurd. Maybe that’s how they do things in Europe these days, maybe I’m not worldly enough to know how vacationing Englanders behave in southern France. It was a bit alien though, and I was able to keep the characters at arm’s length enough to keep from being absorbed. A short novel, too brief to immerse yourself in, despite all the obvious symbolism.

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Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

For the sake of brevity, so you can skip my review: did not like this book. Did not enjoy it. Don’t like dream sequences, stream-of-consciousness rambling, random imagery catalogs, pointless meandering. But that’s just me, and if pointless meandering is your cup of tea, you might enjoy the book. No, really: there’s definitely an expertise here, a sense of balance. Some people don’t get “abstract” art (I’m one of them) but we at least recognize that a defter hand than our own created the piece.

Which is not to say, strictly, that Narcopolis is merely “abstract.” This is neither Finnegan’s Wake nor simply the nightmare chapter from Ulysses. There are stories here, of a sort, narrative, as it were. But for me, it’s all a little too self-indulgent, too drugged up and defecated and…. and here only the “F” word will do, which I hesitate to use in this review. But no other synonym suffices.

Maybe I can’t identify, and that’s the problem. I have no perspective on this kind of degradation, very little interest, even, and certainly no patience. I’d love to go back in time and give my younger self, the one who enjoyed Trainspotting, this book, and see if I would have liked it more then.

This book was shortlisted for the Booker prize, which says more to me about the judges than the prize itself. I shouldn’t judge. I should allow for their greater wisdom, insight, patience, and most of all, independence. They’re not picking books strictly as a list of recommended reads. So be it. That I decided to read through the list was my own folly, and, I am realizing, an arbitrary one at that.

Which is my take away. This book took me way too long to read, because I couldn’t get into it. Readers talk about not just what a particular books does but what the art of reading, in general, provides. And this one provided me a reminder: I don’t have to read every darn thing, not even the ones I said I would read, if my reasons for doing so where based on nothing more than a whim.

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