Tuesday, July 30, 2024

Book Review: "Children of Time" by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Children of Time (2015)
Adrian Tchaikovsky (1972)
600 pages

Successful novelists manage to make readers care about their characters and their characters’ experiences. The best science fiction writers, often setting their stories in distant times or places, and sometimes involving alien lifeforms, have an additional challenge: construct a society or civilization that compels and engages readers, that feels real – successfully accomplish what is referred to as world-building.

In his novel Children of Time, Adrian Tchaikovsky again demonstrates his mastery of the art of character development and world-building. Perhaps most impressively, he does so despite presenting to readers a particularly challenging set of characters for whom to elicit sympathy and empathy.

The story opens in a space station orbiting a planet in a distant star system. The planet’s surface has been terraformed to resemble Earth, and the project’s lead scientist is preparing to seed it by deploying shuttles that contain the seeds of life, including a nanovirus intended to accelerate evolutionary progress toward intelligence, reducing it from millions of years to some centuries. The goal is for a sufficiently advanced human-like intelligence to develop that can become a kind of support staff for future colonists. But even as the lead scientist gives a speech to her team in advance of the launch of the shuttles – her words and thoughts fairly dripping with wild self-aggrandizement and stunning hubris – events go sideways, with radical implications for the future of life on the planet.

When, centuries later, humans arrive again in the system, having escaped a by then dying Earth, they discover a beautiful, green gem of a world, and make plans to settle on it. To their surprise, however, they encounter already established life on the planet – a world-spanning civilization of beings that shock their sensibilities and expectations; and, more importantly, a civilization not ready to step aside for the arriving humans. Thus begins a wild ride of technological and psychological maneuvering to see who will survive a desperate battle for control of the planet.

From its first moments, through to nearly the end, the story becomes a kind of extended allegory of the old adage man plans, and God laughs. The surprise of the opening chapter, in that sense, becomes only the first of many Tchaikovsky presents to readers. Brilliantly, while these unexpected plot twists sneak up on a reader, in retrospect each has its origins in earlier events, if often only cryptically – Tchaikovsky never springs them on us out of the blue.

As I’ve written in other of my reviews, one particular enjoyment I get from reading is making connections to what I’ve read before or have been thinking about, and Children of Time triggered several of these. One such involves the intelligent life on the planet coming to consider the equivalent of the Turing test question: whether, compared to an advanced being, there is a point at which a compute device has “grown sufficiently advanced and complex [that it] would … feel the same to communicate with both?” (445) Certainly, an idea that, if in a radically different context in the novel, touches directly on the current discussions around when an Artificial Intelligence may become indistinguishable from a human being.

As a second example: sometime later in the story the intelligent life on the planet confronts the stark realization that “they are not alone in the universe, and that this is not a good thing.” (489). Precisely this theme lies at the very heart of Cixin Liu’s wonderful The Dark Forest (my review linked to at right).

It is these beings’ reaction to this knowledge, just a few pages later, that has since given me pause as I reflect back on the novel; they find that “little focuses the collective mind more decisively than the threat of utter extinction,” (512) and quickly unify to develop the means to survive. I first encountered this theme in Ursula Le Guin’s The Lathe of Heaven, and I’ve always found it self-evidently true – adversity brings the threatened together. More recently, however, given the events of the past decade or so, I find myself wondering whether it is indeed so obvious what would happen. Even faced with a clearly imminent existential threat, would humankind really unify to deal with it? Consider the current, divisive partisanship in the US: would a substantial portion of the US population simply dismiss such a threat as a liberal or conservative – pick your particular political bogeyman of choice – conspiracy theory, and ridicule it?

And, indeed, Tchaikovsky addresses in his story this social tendency of intelligent beings to devolve into partisanship, blindly following beliefs that have become dogma. Both the humans on the spaceship and the intelligent life on the plant end up in conflict amongst themselves, whether over seemingly parochial and arbitrary beliefs, or an inability to reach some sort of compromise with one another. At least based on a sample size of two radically different intelligent life forms, Tchaikovsky seems to imply that certain forms of socially destructive behaviors come inherently with intelligence.

In demonstrating this, he creates characters as complex entities, with a mix of destructive flaws and good intentions. A sign of his success in this regard is how difficult it is to fully root for or against any of the characters or groups in the story. There are better and worse individuals among them, certainly, but none are idealized, all have flaws they sometimes succeed in overcoming, and other times fail to.

In Children of Time, Adrian Tchaikovsky provides a brilliant and engaging, if for many readers I suspect also psychologically challenging, story of life striving to survive against powerful and often implacable odds. His extraordinary world-building capabilities shine again here, as they have in other of his works, such as, for example, Elder Race and Terrible Worlds: Revolutions (my reviews linked to at right). I look forward to diving into the second book in this trilogy soon.


Other notes and information:


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Monday, June 3, 2024

Book Review: "The Return" by Hisham Matar

The Return: Fathers, Sons and the Land in Between (2016)
Hisham Matar (1970)
243 pages

It’s frightening to think of the hours – soon distant and forgotten, yet so slow and negligible while they’re going by – during which our friends and relatives think we’re alive when in fact we are dead…. This fear isn’t for the dead … but for the living, who will later have to reconstruct those hours … that they lived through unaware their world had changed.
Javier MarĂ­as, Dark Back of Time

In the spring of 2012, writer Hisham Matar returned to Libya with his mother and brother, just months after the conclusion of the civil war that had led to the overthrow of Muammar Gaddafi’s brutal regime. (And, though they could not know it at the time, during an all too brief period peace, as a second civil war broke out only two years later.) Having fled Libya in 1979 to escape the Gaddafi regime, they returned to see their homeland and visit with extended family and friends for the first time in decades.

Matar, however, arrived in Libya freighted with another, quite specific desire: to understand what had become of his father, who had been seized in 1990 by the Egyptian secret police, transferred to Libya, and taken to “Abu Salim prison in Tripoli, which was known as “The Last Stop” – the place where the regime sent those it wanted to forget.” (10)  Until 1996, his family had news of his father; but then, nothing. In The Return: Fathers, Sons and the Land in Between, Matar writes of the many years he spent haunted by the lack of closure regarding his father: “When I think of what might have happened to him, I feel an abyss open up beneath me. I am clutching at the walls.” (43)  His return to Libya in 2011 serves as a framework for his recollections of both his years as an exile and his pursuit of information about his father.

Through flashbacks, Matar tells the story of his father’s growing disillusionment in the 1970’s with the Gaddafi regime, the family’s eventual exile, and his life outside of his homeland. He recalls that

For months after we left Libya, when I was a child, I used to lie staring at the ceiling, imaging my return. I pictured how I would kiss the ground [and] embrace my cousins. (36) 

But months became years, and eventually he left Egypt to attend boarding school in England – under an assumed name for security reasons – which eventually led to university there.

During his time in England came his father’s kidnapping, imprisonment in Libya, and subsequent disappearance, leaving Matar in a kind of twilight state with respect to both his life and his connection to his homeland. He tells of his attempts to uncover what became of his father, his inability to move on from the traumatic uncertainty, and the constant sense of disconnectedness the effort of this search precipitated in his daily life and work.

His pursuit of the truth led him into contact with one of Gaddafi’s sons, who promised to provide him information. His descriptions of this engagement, in which he was strung along for years without resolution, provides a disturbing look into the cavalier disregard for people’s humanity that too often characterizes the behavior of dictators and their entourage, who feel themselves above any law.  He comes to realize that

Power must know how fatigued human nature is, and how unready we are to listen, and how willing we are to settle for lies.  Power must know that, ultimately, we would rather not know.  Power must believe, given how things proceed, that the world was better made for the perpetrator than for those who arrive after the fact, seeking justice or accountability or truth.  Power must see such attempts as pathetic, and yet the bereaved, the witness, the investigator and the chronicler cannot but try to make reason of the diabolical mess. (214)


 In The Return, Matar provides a thoughtful examination of the ties between a father and son, and between a person and their homeland. When these connections become severed, the effects can ripple on through one’s life, he makes clear, in complex and lasting ways. Perhaps most pressingly, he struggles with the question of whether and how to find peace regarding the disruptions and uncertainties that result, and how to decide when to stop trying to achieve some closure regarding what has been lost. Can we, should we, he asks himself and his readers, move on with our lives with such fundamental holes in our being? And if so, how?


Other notes and information:


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Sunday, May 26, 2024

Book Review: "Die Schlacht im Teutoburger Wald" ("The Battle in Teutoburger Forest") by Reinhard Wolters

Die Schlacht im Teutoburger Wald (The Battle in Teutoburger Forest) (2008)
Reinhard Wolters
255 pages

Last year, I watched Barbarians (in the original German, Barbaren) on Netflix, which tells the story of a battle that occurred in 9 AD, in what is present-day Germany, between regional tribes under a leader named Arminius and occupying Roman Legions led by a commander named Varus. While I enjoyed the series as entertainment, I also found myself wondering how accurately it represented historical events.

On one hand, I recalled having learned that fighting did occur between tribes located in what the Romans referred to as Germania, and the Roman Legions. On the other hand, it was clear that, as historical fiction, most of the characters and their interactions would be invented. But, the main characters, the main events – how faithfully does the series represent them?

Other than a few cursory Google searches, however, I didn’t actively follow-up on my questions at the time. Then, recently, a serendipitous find brought them front of mind: I discovered historian Reinhard Wolters’s book Die Schlacht im Teutoburger Wald: Arminius, Varus und das römische Germanien (The Battle in Teutoburger Forest: Arminius, Varus and the Roman Germania) among my parents’ books. My interest peaked, I dove right in.

Perhaps not surprisingly, my questions of authenticity didn’t lend themselves to easy answers. Yes, the battle portrayed in the Barbarians series apparently happened; yes, the various tribes in Germania who participated were led by Arminius, and the Roman Legions by Varus. Beyond these basic facts, however, Wolters makes clear that significant uncertainties and conflicting opinions exist among historians, archaeologists, and the variety of scholars and laypeople who have explored the history of the event. With his book, Wolters describes his goal as being to offer:

an up-to-date, critical as well as transparent introduction to the current state of our understanding about the battle in Teutoburger Forest – to its prehistory, its course, as well as the consequences that resulted from the severe Roman defeat against the Teutons. (7)

Throughout, Wolters references the limited (and exclusively Roman) written sources that have survived to the present day – along with inscriptions on ancient monuments and memorials – from which historians have attempted to reconstruct the reality of a battle that has become the stuff of legend. He notes the challenges faced in attempting to understand these historical sources, and he carefully evaluates the variety of conclusions that have been drawn from them.

The breadth of the uncertainty quickly becomes evident, not only in attempts to clarify the backgrounds of the two protagonists, Arminius and Varus, but also the details of the battle, and even whether it is properly characterized as a battle, with sources “describing in one case an attack by Germanic fighters on a Roman military outpost, while in other cases … a treasonous ambush, set in difficult territory.” (13)

Beyond evaluating the interpretations from the ancient texts of how events played out, and of Arminius and Varus as the protagonists, Wolters provides a fascinating account of the investigation into where the battle took place. Theories and counter-theories have been put forth over the centuries, he notes, by a wide variety of interested parties:

In this debate, have participated and continue to participate not just professional archaeologists and historians; widely differing proposals have been and continue to be put forward by knowledgeable local researchers and laypeople from a wide variety of professional origins. (150)

One might assume that the battle took place in the north-central German region known as the Teutoburger Forest; however, writes Wolters, this name for the area only first appeared a few centuries ago, based on one scholarly interpretation of the ancient texts as to the location of the battle. In recent decades, new archaeological evidence has narrowed the focus to a site some dozen miles north of the Teutoburger Forest, just over a similarly forested ridge. But, as Wolters describes, even with regards to that site, significant questions and contradictory information remain.

While the specific, historical details surrounding the battle and its location make for a fascinating story, I found particularly striking Wolter’s examination of what the engagement with the history of this battle by scholars and others – from Roman times up through the present day – reveals about the process of rendering and interpreting history itself.

In his evaluation of both the historical sources and subsequent works by historians and others who have interpreted them over the centuries, Wolters provides a kind of case study for the trenchant observation of historian Eric Foner in the preface to his excellent essay Who Owns History (my review linked to at right):

Each generation rewrites history to suit its own needs. … In every country, versions of the past provide the raw materials for nationalist ideologies and patriotic sentiments.

Wolters finds this truth to apply not only to the original Roman sources, but also to the wide variety of interpretations of them that have arisen since, calling out:

the fragmentary nature of what has been passed down from, and no less the contradictions already present in, the ancient sources. These written accounts originate from different centuries and stand at different timespans from the events described: they provide information over the changing horizon of meaning already in antiquity – and this meaning was each time guided by the interests of the authors and marked by each of their specific, contemporary experiences. (14-15)

In that vein, he explores the ways in which Roman historians, as well as scholars and others up through to the present-day, have colored their interpretations of the event based on their personal outlook, including the social and political context in which they lived and worked, and with which they wished to either align themselves with or influence the direction of. This has included, in particular, a long line of German historians, writers of literary and theatrical works, and artists who have sought to present Arminius’s rising up to defeat the Roman occupiers as a defining moment in the origin of the idea of Germany as a nation, or as the original example of Germanic pursuit of freedom and independence. The result, he finds, has been centuries of often wildly varying interpretations of the event, that both exploit the conflicting information from the ancient sources and often extrapolate far beyond it, to make a particular political or social statement.

For this one dramatic event, that took place over perhaps a few days some two thousand years ago, Wolters provides a thorough and enjoyable introduction in The Battle in Teutoburger Forest. He leverages the event itself to present an understanding of the Roman state, both in terms of its inner workings, as well as its view of and engagement with the lands to the east of the Rheine that it sought to add to its empire. With that context in place, he explores the understandings historians have developed of the lives of its principal characters, Varus and Arminius, as well as the battle they fought and its aftermath.

And, beyond the instructive examination of the historical events themselves, he provides an engaging and eye-opening look at the challenges present in interpreting ancient sources colored by their authors’ eye to their particular political and social environment, as well as the way subsequent historians, too, have allowed such motivations to influence their interpretation and presentation of the event.

As ever, I suppose, with texts on history that carry a strong bias: caveat emptor…


Other notes and information:

The translations from the original German are mine.


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Friday, March 29, 2024

Book Review: "The Trouble with Reality" by Brooke Gladstone

The Trouble with Reality (2017)
Brooke Gladstone
92 pages


As co-host of the program On the Media, Brooke Gladstone provides listeners with a wide-ranging and trenchant analysis of the media landscape, exposing the reality behind coverage too frequently filled with misleading, unsubstantiated, and facile arguments. As a particular example of this, she and her colleagues have so often had to address a variety of commonly repeated media myths and misinformation during coverage of major incidents – natural disasters, say, or mass shootings – that they have developed a series of Breaking News Consumer’s Handbooks for such events, to help listeners navigate to the reality of what has happened.

With the divisive social environment and political partisanship that has consumed the US over the past decade, however, Gladstone has shifted her gaze beyond the media, to a broader concern for the future of our republic. In her essay The Trouble with Reality, she explores what she finds to be at the heart of this dysfunction, our inability to agree on a common reality, a common set of facts.

Our challenge begins, she observes, in that each of us experiences the world differently, while at the same time struggling to comprehend how others perceive it. She describes how we each build our personal model of the world out of a set of stereotypes – simplifications that allow us to quickly make sense of what we experience. The challenge arises in that 

Stereotypes, [journalist Walter] Lippman wrote, focus and feed on what is familiar and what is exotic, exaggerating each in the process: “The slightly familiar is seen as very familiar and the somewhat strange as sharply alien.” (9)

 Thus, even as we create stereotypes out of our individual experiences, these stereotypes go on to color our views of subsequent experiences, in turn reinforcing our existing stereotypes.

The trouble arises from the tendency of this process to spiral into a fixed state, a hardened view of the world which gradually closes our minds to any new information that contradicts what we already feel certain about. Gladstone captures what we need to strive for to overcome this ossification of our thinking in an observation, and recommendation, from neuroscientist David Eagleman, one that struck a deep chord with me:

[We should accept] the idea of limited knowledge, of unobtainable information, and of unimagined possibilities. Consider the criticisms of policy, the assertions of dogma, the declarations of fact that you hear every day – and just imagine if all of these could be infused with the proper intellectual humility that comes from appreciating the amount unseen. (17) 

Developing this ability to recognize, and accept, nuance in the face of complexity could allow us to avoid the violent divisiveness that seems to accompany discussions on most, if not all, issues these days. Nuance seems to gain little traction in the debates of our day, however; as I’ve written elsewhere in this blog: one of my favorite New York Times front page headlines is Lost in Abortion Noise – Nuance, since it seems a fitting, generic headline that could be used for any fill-in-the blank topic in these days of disagreements filled with strident over-simplification.

(A related theme lies at the heart of journalist Anne Applebaum’s book Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism (my review linked to at right), in which she references the quite disturbing claim of behavioral economist Karen Stenner, “that about a third of the population in any country has … an authoritarian predisposition … people who cannot tolerate complexity.” (16, Applebaum))

As one such example of a set of stereotypes forming a personal model of the world, Gladstone points to our understanding of how democracy works, and how Donald Trump has split the country in that sense. For half the country, she notes, Trump – whether or not he has formally broken the law – has “shattered their world view … our deep-rooted belief in the infallibility of our democracy,” (21) And it was not that this half of the country necessarily believed that the democratic system was perfect; many, she notes, “knew the system was rigged … [b]ut once the bad behavior was exposed, the guilty were supposed to pay the consequences, at least in the court of public opinion.” (41) That this has not been the case seems inconceivable for that half of the population. For the other half, however, who have largely felt that our rigged system has been rigged against them, it’s unimportant that there have been no consequences; they feel the system itself must be overthrown, at whatever cost.

As she wraps up her well-crafted and engaging essay, Gladstone provides little optimism for our future. She acknowledges and accepts the difficulty in asking each of us to recognize our own, and others, personal models of the world, as well as associated stereotypes, and to be open to working to alter them. “The price is very high [and] it’s rational to conclude it is not worth the considerable trouble and time required to venture forth, to protest, to doubt, to listen, to changer others, or to be changed.” (85) But, for those willing to push back, to attempt to reestablish a new reality in their minds, and so “to repair and improve the nation,” (83) she returns to the critical idea she opens with, the need to recognize that 

[while] our facts are incomplete, our truth limited … [we need to] venture out to take in a few new sights, a few new facts, to start to figure out what’s going on out there. (81)



Other notes and information:

Naomi Oreskes and Erik M. Conway, in their fascinating history
The Big Myth: How American Business Taught Us to Loathe Government and Love the Free Market
, provide a detailed examination of how groups interested in biasing our models of the world to further their own power and wealth go about doing so. (My review linked to at right.) Oreskes has also been interviewed by Gladstone for On the Media; their discussion has been aired a couple of times, including once here.

For a completely different exploration of reality, that of the mysteries of our natural world being explored by physicists, I highly recommend Carlo Rovelli’s Reality is Not What it Seems, and Adam Becker’s What is Real?. My reviews of them linked to at right.






Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Saturday, March 23, 2024

Book Review: "The Lost Cause" by Cory Doctorow

The Lost Cause (2023)
Cory Doctorow (1971)
358 pages

Significant technological advances have occurred over the last decade or so that support the shift to a cleaner, more sustainable future, in particular in terms of stemming the tide of greenhouse gas emissions. As just two examples: electric vehicle sales have increased faster than imagined even a few short years ago, and solar panel prices have dropped to the point that they have become a cheaper energy source than fossil fuels.

Shift one’s focus from the technical to the political, however, and the situation appears far bleaker, as the toxic present-day atmosphere in the US of rank partisanship and extreme polarization has led to the politicization of so many issues, including that of climate change. With even the reality of the threat of greenhouse gas emissions a point of contentious debate, progress on reducing them has become difficult to achieve.

In his novel The Lost Cause, Corey Doctorow foresees this impasse dragging on well into the 22nd century. He imagines increasing sea level rise, wildfires and droughts making portions of the US uninhabitable, even as die-hard deniers cling to their position, undermining attempts to address the problem and its impacts. Meanwhile, wealthy tech industrialists, with support from acolytes and fans, circumvent the government and impose solutions mostly beneficial to their own profits and lifestyle.

The story centers on high school senior Brooks Palazzo, who lives in Burbank, California with his grandfather, after the death of his parents some years earlier during a pandemic. About to graduate from high school, Brooks plans to work on a project south of Los Angeles, in a coastal town shifting its buildings higher up into the hills, in reaction to rising sea levels. With the passage of a Green New Deal bill a decade earlier, a broad set of policies now exist to address climate change impacts, and Brooks and his friends have become part of a larger movement that considers itself “the first generation not to fear the future.” Building on this new-found optimism, these young activists engage in a variety of concrete programs designed to create a better world.

Brooks finds his idealism undermined at home, however, as his grandfather hosts meetings of friends – “Magas” – who vehemently reject the dramatic changes being implemented and rail against the loss of what they consider their Burbank and their country. They view with disgust those who, like Brooks, want to transform the town into a more sustainable community, as well as a welcoming community for climate refugees from more profoundly affected parts of the US.

Tensions rise to a breaking point early in the story when a stream of climate refugees arrive, escaping “farms [that] had dried up and blown away after a solid decade of drought.” (61) While Brooks and many others in Burbank look for ways to welcome these internal immigrants, and find or build housing for them, the “Maga clubs” gear up to push the newcomers back out of town, by any means necessary. As threats of violence grow, Brooks must decide how far he is willing to go to fight for his ideals.

Doctorow leaves no doubt which side he’s on in the story, particularly through his representation of the Maga’s, whether individually or as a group, as rabid fanatics. At one point, for example, Brooks notes that 

The Maga Clubs were really feeling their oats. With [a Republican back] in the White House, they were convinced their long nightmare was ending and with it, the obligation to look after one another and acknowledge that the world is a shared space full of living, breathing humans who deserved the same happiness and comfort that you did. They just hated that idea. (62) 

On the other side, Doctorow represents Brooks and his friends as largely high-minded individuals who want only the best for the world.

One can broadly agree with Doctorow’s position as expressed through Brooks, and yet still feel that the novel rather cartoonishly oversimplifies the social and political dynamics at play. Aside from some politicians who struggle to hold onto their positions by attempting to placate both sides, everyone in the story falls on one stereotypically represented extreme of the conflict or the other – effectively, either a member of Greenpeace or of the Proud Boys.

Even Doctorow’s title makes evident his sympathies. In a story about climate change, one could imagine that the lost cause references a definitive failure to address it. It quickly becomes clear, however, that Doctorow has a different meaning in mind, apparently likening the Magas in his story to the history of groups promoting the lost cause of the confederacy.

As someone who laments with how unwelcome nuance has become in most any political, economic or cultural discussion these days, I struggled with the lack of it in Doctorow’s novel. That said, if one takes his starting point as the likely scenario – that little will be accomplished over the coming century to decisively address the issue of climate change and its impacts – perhaps the world will arrive at a point in which one must clearly choose one side or the other: either fight for solutions or continue to resist any change.

The extent to which he goes to make it easy for readers to distinguish good and evil in the story actually ends up giving it a bit of a confusing out-of-time feel. This confusion begins with the headlining comment on the inside front jacket cover, which states in large letters: “America, a generation from now,” and has a story summary ending with “they’re our grandfathers, our uncles, our neighbors.” It feels like the setting – if one thinks of a standard generation of 20 or 30 years – lies perhaps just a decade or two in our future. And the use of present-day terms like Green New Deal and Maga reinforce that impression.

As one proceeds into the story, however, the setting in time becomes unclear. The extent of the sea level rise, for example – submerging Miami and pushing coastal cities in California to rebuild farther inland – seems something unlikely to occur just a couple of decades from now, even in worst-case scenarios. In addition, Brooks recalls a Republican presidential candidate who “won in ’34,” (49) which, at least in the 21st century, is not a presidential election year.

It gradually becomes clear that the setting is not 2036, but 2136, and that the Maga people are not our grandfathers but our grandchildren, or even great grandchildren – the grandfathers of the new generation of climate activists in the early 22nd century. And, in that case, it becomes hard to believe that – however the next century plays out – anyone is still using the terms the Green New Deal or Maga. Just consider how dated slogans and most anything from the early 1900’s feel today.

And, although my sympathies lie with the novel’s protagonist, Brooks, he presents an odd combination – an 18- or 19-year-old who seems to contain both youthful idealism and yet an oddly mature adult engagement with his community. I kept waiting for his seemingly simplistic view of the world to catch up with him, for the other shoe to drop as reality becomes more complex than the good versus evil he imagines – but, it never did.

The themes of Doctorow’s novel bear a strong resemblance to those of Kim Stanley Robinson’s The Ministry for the Future (my review linked to at right).  Where, however, Robinson’s story spans the globe and presents a cacophony of activists of different stripes pursuing a sometimes conflicting cornucopia of potential solutions over the coming few decades to address climate change and its consequences, Doctorow stays tightly focused on Burbank, with only hints of events in the broader United States or internationally. Here again, the messy path forward Robinson lays out, with peoples globally repeatedly working at cross purposes and often having to be dragged along unwillingly, feels like a not unreasonable extrapolation of our present-day world. Doctorow’s story, on the other hand, makes it a little too clean: good guys versus bad guys, and the good guys just need to persist in banding together to overcome the reactionary primitives.

A bit of a litany of complaints here, I know. Especially given that I did enjoy the story, in particular the variety of technologies that Doctorow imagines being developed to quickly react when climate impacts inundate some part of the world and, as well, his vision of a profoundly engaged generation not taking ‘no’ for an answer in their fight against climate change. Sad to think that he might be right that another century will pass without significant action on that front, but, in the end, he does provide a hopeful view of what might – eventually – be possible.


Other notes and information:


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Wednesday, February 28, 2024

Book Review: "The Mysteries" by Bill Watterson and John Kascht

The Mysteries (2023)
Bill Watterson and John Kascht
72 pages

Scientists and science writers face a particular challenge when communicating to the public about the risks of environmental degradation and devastation: a reader’s everyday lived experience tends to unconsciously trump any data and descriptions of a problem. Global climate change, toxins in drinking water, a massive plastic garbage patch in the ocean – these and other such disasters seem distant and somehow inconsequential if they don’t affect our lives directly, aren’t impacting our immediate health or what we see outside our door from one day to the next.

Fiction, however, has the power to break through such failures of our imagination. By carrying us beyond our immediate experience and inducing a visceral reaction, a well-told story can make evident what even a well-explained set of data does not.

Bill Watterson – of Calvin and Hobbes fame – provides such an experience in his slender tale The Mysteries, created in collaboration with the artist John Kascht. Through a parable of human fear of the unknown within the natural world, the pair explore not only how such fearfulness can constrain our lives, but also the human drive to overcome it, to uncover and explain what we do not understand. And, crucially for our present-day world, they reflect on what happens when we do finally come to resolve such mysteries. Does humankind only properly respect that before which it trembles in ignorance?

The story has a poetic flow to it, with just a sentence or two per page. Each facing page contains an extraordinary illustration; and, while the words give sense to the accompanying illustrations, these exquisite images created by Watterson and Kascht generate the profound emotional power of the tale. They have an eerie quality – scenes that are at once familiar and yet alien, captivating yet frightening in their intensity.

Watterson and Kascht’s work in The Mysteries forces us to confront the separation from the natural world, whether through fearful ignorance or familiar contempt, that we have allowed to corrupt our world, and our lives.


Other notes and information:

A New York Times article here, provides fascinating background into what was apparently the fraught collaboration between Watterson and Kascht in developing the artwork.

For a brilliant prose reflection on the impact our separation from nature has on “our world, and our lives,” I strongly recommend Richard Powers’ The Overstory, my review linked to at right.


Have you read this book, others by this author, or even similar ones by other authors? I’d enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Other of my book reviews: FICTION Bookshelf and NON-FICTION Bookshelf

Wednesday, February 21, 2024

Book Review: "Twilight of Democracy" by Anne Applebaum

Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism (2020)
Anne Applebaum (1964)
206 pages

Given the right conditions, any society can turn against democracy. Indeed, if history is anything to go by, all of our societies eventually will. (14)

Such a statement would have seemed outlandish in the early 1990’s, with the West celebrating victory in the Cold War as an end of history moment, certain that liberal democracy had demonstrated itself to be the final word in civilization’s political, economic, and social evolution. Since the mid-to-late 2000’s, however, those earlier, halcyon days have given way to first concern, and then despair, as increasing polarization and partisanship have fractured public discourse and come to weaken support for democratic principles. In this environment, extreme political movements on both the right and left have exhibited strong tendencies toward autocratic rule, even in many long-established Western democracies.

While much has been written and said about these growing challenges, the focus of such arguments has generally been at a societal level. By contrast, in Twilight of Democracy, journalist and historian Anne Applebaum takes a more personal, intimate approach; through the political schisms she has experienced with several of her friends and colleagues over the past two decades, she captures the essence of what has happened these last years, revealing what her subtitle refers to as The Lure of Authoritarianism.

She opens by describing a party that she and her husband gave on New Years Eve at the turn of the millennium, at their home in Poland. As an American journalist having worked in various capitals in Europe, and with her husband a member of the Polish government, the wide variety of local and international friends and acquaintances who attended included journalists, diplomats, and others in the cultural elite. Politically, Applebaum writes,

you could have lumped the majority of us, roughly, in the general category of what Poles call the right – the conservatives, the anti-Communists. But at that moment of history, you might also have called most of us liberals. Free-market liberals, classical liberals … [who] did believe in democracy, in the rule of law, in checks and balances. (2)

In the years following that party, however, Applebaum found that a not insignificant number of these friends shifted to the extreme political right. More fundamentally, she observes, they abandoned classical, liberal democratic values, and began aligning themselves with organizations and political parties that emphasize loyalty to party ideology over meritocratic and democratic principles. In her book, she explores the political evolution of these former friends as a basis for describing what she finds to be a broader shift toward authoritarianism in the West.

Though she mentions at the outset that she “will not offer either a grand theory or a universal solution,” (14) she does reference the work of a behavioral economist, Karen Stenner, who she cites as claiming 

that about a third of the population in any country has … an authoritarian predisposition … that favors homogeneity and order [as opposed to] its opposite, a “libertarian” predisposition, one that favors diversity and difference. (16) 

For Stenner, the issue is not a political one of left versus right, but rather that “authoritarianism appeals, simply, to people who cannot tolerate complexity.” (16) This framing, of intolerance to complexity, struck a deep chord with me: as readers of other of my reviews may have discovered, one of my favorite New York Times front page headlines is Lost in Abortion Noise – Nuance, since it seems a fitting, generic headline that could be used for any fill-in-the blank topic in these days of disagreements filled with strident over-simplification.

Applebaum argues, however, that the mere presence of a nuance-averse portion of the population –those with an authoritarian predisposition – does not on its own make autocracy inevitable. To animate this group, a dictator requires the support of those “who can use sophisticated legal language, people who can argue that breaking the constitution or twisting the law is the right thing to do … [that is] members of the intellectual and educated elite.” These “fallen intellectuals,” as she refers to them, will willingly “launch a war on the rest of the intellectual and educated elite, even if that includes their university classmates, their colleagues, and their friends,” to support and curry favor with an autocratic leader. (17-18)

To understand the motivations of this group, she tells the stories of several of her own former classmates, colleagues, and friends who had attended her New Years Eve party in 1999, and with whom she has since become politically estranged. She finds them to have felt marginalized in one way or another in the existing liberal democratic regimes in their countries; and so, seeking the influence they felt was their due, they have aligned themselves with populist, authoritarian political parties and leaders, and often thereby earning the positions of power they craved.

Having made a convincing case for the rise of these “fallen intellectuals,” Applebaum turns to the question of how a sizeable segment of the population has come to align with them. Here, she seems to offer a mixed message, before settling on a particular answer.

Initially, she makes an argument based on economic realities, noting that

democracy and free markets can produce unsatisfying outcomes, especially when badly regulated, or when nobody trusts the regulators, or when people are entering the contest from very different starting points. The losers of these competitions were always, sooner or later, going to challenge the value of competition itself. (59) 

Later, however, she backtracks a bit, arguing that: 

“The economy” or “inequality” does not explain why, at that exact moment [in 2015-2018], everybody got very angry. … This is not to say that immigration and economic pain are irrelevant to the current crisis: clearly they are genuine sources of anger, distress, discomfort, and division. But as a complete explanation for political change – as an explanation for the emergence of whole new classes of political actors – they are insufficient. (108-9)

Instead of anger with the economy, she finds the decisive factor to lie in the segment of the population with the authoritarian predisposition described by Stenner. The fallen intellectuals, in their work, target those intolerant of complexity, knowing that “the noise of argument, the constant hum of disagreement … can irritate people who prefer to live in a society tied together by a single narrative.” (109) Using newly available information tools, they 

invent memes, create videos, conjure up slogans designed to appeal precisely to the fear and anger caused by this massive international wave of cacophony. [They] can even start the cacophony and create the chaos … knowing full well that some people will be frightened by it. (118) 

Through such methods, these intellectuals “persuade a chunk of voters to vote for someone who promises a new and more orderly order.” (116)

Applebaum also notes that the foundational conditions for such populist anger form a latent part of the present-day world:
When people have rejected aristocracy, no longer believe that leadership is inherited at birth, no longer assume that the ruling class is endorsed by God, the argument about who gets to rule – who is the elite – is never over. (158-9)
The essayist Pankaj Mishra makes just such a claim the central theme of his book Age of Anger. (My review linked to at right.)  Mishra argues that coming out of the Enlightenment people embraced the idea of liberty and equality for all, with the unanticipated consequence that

power lacking theological foundations or transcendent authority, and conceived as power over other competing individuals, [is] inherently unstable … [and] condemned the rich and poor alike to a constant state of [resentment] and anxiety. (327, Mishra) 

Thus, he observes, civilization finds itself enveloped in an anger whose level may wax and wane, but that never completely disappears.

Applebaum’s view of the shift to autocracy as largely driven from the top down has instructive similarities, but also important differences, with the arguments of economist Martin Wolf, in The Crisis of Democratic Capitalism. (My review linked to at right)  Wolf identifies similar current challenges to Western democracies, but points to a somewhat different, if not wholly unrelated, culprit. Describing democracy and capitalism as “complimentary opposites,” and “always fragile,” he argues that if independence between them is not maintained, “the delicate balance between politics and market can be destroyed,” which can bring down the entire project of democratic capitalism.

For Wolf, the current crisis has originated as a result of those with economic power using their wealth to acquire political power, and so pervert the system to their benefit. This has led to a rise in frustration and anger, as significant numbers of people decide that the system is rigged against them, and that they are “losing control over their livelihoods, status, and even country.” (85, Wolf) The consequence, he argues, is a disillusionment with democracy that leads people to embrace an authoritarian leader who promises them the return of what they have lost. Thus, Wolf gets to the same result as Applebaum – authoritarianism – but by a different path.

And yet, perhaps the deeper answer is that both forces are present, and self-reinforcing. Wolf’s wealthy business owners co-opt the political system, thereby creating increasing inequality, which leaves people frustrated and angry, and looking for ways to fight back. Applebaum’s fallen intellectuals enflame this disillusioned public through conspiracy theory, hyperbolic exaggerations, and outright lies, in order to empower a populist dictator who they hope will give them the positions of power they feel they deserve. And, not surprisingly, business owners generously fund the efforts of such autocrat-supporting intellectuals, in a symbiotic relationship that each hopes will benefit their own interests.

In Twilight of Democracy, Anne Applebaum argues that embittered members of the intellectual elite have pursued positions of power by exploiting those who find the siren call of authoritarianism seductive when faced with the challenging and often raucous debates present in democracies. She makes a convincing – and bracing – case for the danger these fallen intellectuals pose, by leveraging personal stories of friends and colleagues who have come to take up the work of supporting autocratic elements and regimes in Western democracies. Her palpable disquiet at how these former friends have abandoned liberal democratic values to aggressively support demagogues and authoritarians makes evident her view of the depth of the danger it poses.

Of course, as history has made eminently clear, demagogues can be difficult to control, and can turn to wield their power against even supporters – when one destroys the system, it becomes notoriously difficult to control the end point. In that sense, given the dark and disturbing portrait Applebaum paints of both our present and our immediate future, one can hardly help but latch on tightly to the thin sliver of hope she offers late in her essay:

No political victory is even permanent, no definition of “the nation” is guaranteed to last, and no elite of any kind, whether so-called “populist” or so-called “liberal” or so-called “aristocratic,” rules forever. The history of ancient Egypt looks, from a great distance in time, like a monotonous story of interchangeable pharaohs. But on closer examination, it includes periods of cultural lightness and eras of despotic gloom. Our history will someday look that way too. (186)


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