Out by Natsuo Kirino

Out.out

Out.

Out.

It’s what our protagonists — four women working the nightshift at a boxed lunch factory — seek most. Not an escape from the extraordinary circumstances they eventually find themselves in, but the merciless daily grind. No money. Dependent relatives. Depression. Shit jobs. An oppressive and sexist society that prescribes its worse roles for women.

So when one of the women strangles her abusive husband, the other three casually agree to help almost without thinking. It either takes them out of the funk they’re mired in or provides the means they desperately need to get out.

This book is rough. Desperation is its most common tenor, enhanced greatly by the sticky August air and the constant black-circled exhaustion of the late night factory shift. Few of the characters are particularly likeable and while the protagonists generally don’t “deserve” the things that happen to them, they certainly did their share in putting themselves in bad positions. Not that there was much choice. Sexual violence is an undercurrent running throughout. Nearly all the men have some kind of vice or perversion that stalks them almost like a demon, always seeking to wrest control.

While ostensibly a crime novel, horror is the genre that fits best. A creeping horror that turns descriptions of grocery store aisles into nightmares.

Pink slices of ham. Red shoulder of beef shot through with whitish sinews. Pale pink pork. Fine-grained ground beef, red, pink, and white. Dark red chicken gizzards outlined in yellowish fat.

The novel’s great weakness is that the ending is miserable nonsense. It is balanced on attaining some sort of empathy with an absolutely monstrous antagonist. You know when you see a villain proclaim to hero “You’re exactly like me/we’re the same/whatever”, and about 95% of the time this is completey ridiculous and they’re either nothing alike or they’re superficially similar but the villain has done dramatically worse things? Yeah, that. Except worse given the way the sexual violence and acceptance of it undermines much of the main text beforehand.

City of Bohane by Kevin Barry

cityofbohaneThe taint that emanates from the Bohane River seeps into the spirits of everyone in the city sprawled around it. Life is short & cheap, in the most Hobbesian sense. Filthy and crass. Children engage in their violent careers around the same age they do in A Clockwork Orange. Amidst the morass, aging gang-boss Logan Hartnett, the Longfella, fields challenges from all sides — vanquished foes resurfacing from twenty years past, disloyal lieutenants looking for a change of leadership, rival gangs getting uppity.

The plot is fun, but its centerpiece of “A patriarch wanes and a successor must arise” is not the sort full of twists, turns, and surprises. The characters aren’t flat or forgettable, but neither are they outstanding or memorable. It’s the style, the tone, the vernacular that shines. I can’t say this enough. Style, style, style. Even the flashy style of clothes the characters are wearing is a consistent aside in near every chapter.

Ol’ Boy wore:

High-top boots expensively clicker’d with gold taps, a pair of hip-hugging jodhpur-style pants in a faded mauve tone, an amount of gold chains, a heavy mink coat to keep out the worst of the hardwind’s assaults and a goatskin beanie hat set pavee-style at the crown of his head.

Truth of it — this was as suave an old dude as you’d come across in the whole of the Bohane creation.

“An amount of gold chains”. I love it.

But it left me in a weird spot. As I enjoyed this dazzling, clever language while it described the brooding, tactile city of Bohane, I found myself comparatively caring very little for the individual characters inhabiting it and the plots/wiles/etc they tangled each other in. When main characters started dropping, I was more like “Hm, OK, I see.” rather than expressing dismay, satisfaction, whatever.

Normally, this would be the sign of a bad or at least mediocre book, but City of Bohane is neither. It’s quite good. Just a bit empty.

The Utopia of Rules by David Graeber

utopia of rulesBureaucracy! You hate it! You love it! Quite possibly your workday is clenched between its squeaky-clean cogs.

Inflexible and stupid rules. Little else can make me as furious. Someone simply saying “but those are the rules!” regardless of how stupid they are is incomprehensible to me. Non-negotiability is madness. Especially when wielded by those with real power over me.

Graeber’s essays go beyond the mere stupidity of bureaucracy into deeper, sinister territory.

Here’s a cheat sheet:

  • Bureaucracy is tightly coupled with the threat of violence. The rules only truly work because if you don’t follow them, men in uniform, be they police or security guards or whatever, will throw you in a cage or charge you exorbitant fees.
  • Bureaucracy used to be more a government technique, but Graeber coined the term ‘total bureaucratization’ to encompass our modern era where government bureaucracy is inextricably linked with corporate bureaucracy. See banks throwing up their hands and saying there’s nothing we can do while pointing at inflexible regulations that they themselves encouraged. Or consider work within corporations themselves, which now includes all sorts of metrics and rubrics and paperwork to measure performance. 
  • Bureaucracy, at least the current American version, stunts technology. By forcefully pointing tech and science in directions of further bureaucratization / social control, it keeps it from inventing alternate technologies that change the world and possibly obsolete capitalism or bureaucracy itself. For instance, the ‘mechanized worker’ people of the early 19th century were sure would be invented never materialized.
  • Bureaucracy totally morphs the concept of value in baffling ways. Value becomes a ubiquitous concept to be arrived at, rather than the obvious result of labor. See:

The whole idea that one can make a strict division between means and ends, between facts and values, is a product of the bureaucratic mind-set, because bureaucracy is the first and only social institution that treats the means of doing things as entirely separate from what it is that’s being done

Worst of all, as a result of all these things (and more), modern Americans now think that the hard-line, impersonal rulecraft of bureaucracy is the only correct way civilization works. Yet for the vast majority of human history, it wasn’t required at all. Somehow people got by without being able to instantly call men in uniform to threaten (&inflict) violence in the name of Rules.

The City and The City by China Mieville

city and the cityMieville takes a stab and grab at both the detective mystery genre and the allegorical locale by creating the twin cities of Ul Qoma and Beszel, located somewhere in central or eastern Europe and sitting literally on top of each other but with more strict and terrifying border control than the US/Mexican border. The cities are crosshatched — a building might be half in Ul Qoma and half in Beszel and construction crews would have to work specifically on their side without acknowledging the other. Pedestrians are trained to ‘unsee’ the opposing city, motorists to casually drive around their counterparts while actively not noticing them.

Why all this? The most general, cosmic ‘why’ is never answered but the personal ‘why’ is that if you’re a citizen of one of these city-countries and break the rules, cross over to the other side, then you’re at the mercy of a shadowy organization known only as Breach. People who breach the invisible line are nabbed by Breach and don’t tend to be seen again.

A woman from Ul Qoma turns up dead in an alley in Beszel. And the Extreme Crime Squad is on the case.

Our first-person protagonist, Detective Tyador Borlu, is a pastiche of gruff cop stereotypes. His clinical, largely unemotional demeanor even while the truly baffling is occurring is an anchor or counter to the setting and maybe-magical murder that is afoot. The book has an odd flow as it’s intriguing while we’re introduced to the mechanics of The City and The City, though a bit dry. The middle bits start to drag a bit, but then halfway through, the action picks up and the tale accelerates, not stopping until the murder is solved, the killer unmasked, the supernatural mystery explained.

The premise is excellent and not enough can be said about it. Usually I scoff at setting or ‘systems’ within sci-fi/fantasy as the reason to read it, while pining for great prose or character work. The City and The City has serviceable prose and forgettable characters but the setting is seriously compelling and fun. Mieville gets you to believe, really earnestly accept, something completely ridiculous. I think we’re supposed to laugh at the political drama of the ultra-nationalists or punky, idealistic unificationists of each city, since the boundary between them is so absurd, but it doesn’t take much thought to apply the same analysis on real life versions of the same. The political allegory is present but never laid on thick, and Mieville leaves you to make your conclusions on how these nonsense cities are reflected in the real world.

The actual identity of the killer is disappointing by way of his totally weak and unbelievable motive, but that’s almost a staple of detective fiction itself. The journey, not the destination. That’s what’s important. And for this particular book, the city you’re presently in. Whichever it is.

Rise of the Tomb Raider

tombraider

So. Tomb Raider. Check out the baffling news that the Writer’s Guild Awards gave it an outstanding achievement in video game writing. Not only that, it beat out The Witcher!

Now I thoroughly enjoyed this game but narrative is nowhere near the reason why. Let’s recap the plot: Lara Croft, following the legacy of her father, stumbles across some clues that the secret to immortality is somehow hidden in a lost Byzantine city located in Siberia. Why is Lara seeking this? To, uh, better humanity or something. Naturally and predictably, like hundreds of action heroes before her, she comes to learn that maybe humans shouldn’t live forever. But, I’m getting ahead of myself here. Opposed to Lara is a group called ‘Trinity’, a bunch of militant malcontents who have been seeking this divine source for millennia. They’ve been foiled repeatedly by a prophet and his followers, the architects of the aforementioned hidden city. This is not the only similarity RotTR will have with Assassin’s Creed.

The story is fun like a Godzilla movie is fun. I don’t mean the early Godzilla movies that legitimately were trying to grapple with the unthinkable destruction of the atom bomb, but all the later ones that were primarily about a man in a dragon/t-rex suit kicking down buildings. Tomb Raider’s ultimate set piece is a three way fight between immortal Byzantine warriors, black ops soldiers, and a cadre of Russian elves with trebuchets in the middle of a city buried under a glacier.

Shit explodes. And you run and jump through it. Thrilling? Yes. Outstanding writing? No.

I’m trying to think of specific line-by-line examples and very little of it is memorable enough to stick. It’s just a lot of Lara urgently exclaiming she needs to do this or that right now now now. Or the villain delivering soliloquies of how he needs to find the divine source to ‘please God’, which is banal and creatively timid, because the the game doesn’t even try to engage with which God or where his conviction comes from. Lara’s character arc, the titular ‘Rise’, is delivered in terms of gameplay, not narrative. From shivering cold in the wilderness and killing enemies one at a time, to casually wiping out full-on military squads single-handedly, to becoming the predator, and finally ascending to goddess-hood and slinging blue flame like a wizard. This game has better writing than The Witcher?? 

The gameplay and especially atmosphere does not cohere to a believable plot either. Lara can swim under frozen icy water and hop out and shake the water out of her hair and she’s good to go. Despite taking place in Siberia, with supposedly multi-national villains, and including a group of natives who have been living in isolation in the wilderness for a thousand years, every single character speaks american english. Except for Lara, whose dialect is british.

Play this game for the gorgeous vistas, the tight gameplay, and the explosions. Not the outstanding writing.

A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing by Eimar McBride

A Girl IsRather than try and explain the style of this novel, let’s read an excerpt:

I do not want. I do not want to hear this. But suddenly it’s clawing all over me. Like flesh. Terror. Vast and alive. I think I know it. Something terrible is. The world’s about to. The world’s about to. Tip. No it isn’t. Ha. Don’t be silly. Stupid. Fine. Fine. Everything will be. Fine. Chew it lurks me. See and smell. In the corner of my eye. What. Something not so good.

And that’s one of the more comprehensible paragraphs. A staccato rush of the unnamed protagonist’s thoughts and experiences, trapped inside her head which is likewise trapped inside a cruel, cruel world.

Did I like it? Yes and no and. Yes. Sometimes, it’s too difficult to follow and too much is lost. Especially in the opening chapters where our half-formed girl is literally so, being a foetus in her mother’s womb while her older brother is operated on for a brain tumor. Elsewhere, it’s beautiful. It drives the prose into a breakneck pace even when not much is physically happening. When the protagonist’s mind is racing, the language itself delivers the same sense.

That’s the first most striking thing about the novel. The second is its uncompromisingly brutal and harrowing plot.

At first I thought this was going to be another iteration of the timeworn tale of stoic Irish working class misery. Overbearing catholic mother. Absent father. Financial issues. Social issues. Small town woes. But no, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Early in the novel, at age thirteen, the protagonist is raped by her uncle and the novel sidesteps into sexual abuse and its fallout. Make no mistake: this isn’t a side plot or a stepping stone or a little dash of thematic oomph, this is a book about relentless trauma and never once is there a bright side or an upside or a silver lining, but just a constant plunging fall, from chasm to cliff to chasm to cliff, cut and bloodied and tripping further and further while you wonder how it can even get any worse. But, of course, before the novel ends and it does get worse, by that point you already knew exactly how it would.

I desperately hoped it would be otherwise.

The Library at Mount Char by Scott Hawkins

library-mt-char-jacketThe Library at Mount Char is about a family of librarians. Sort of.

Sort of a family, because I guess that’s what you become when all your parents are simultaneously murdered and you’re adopted by a timeless demigod (not-so-fondly known as ‘Father’).

Sort of librarians because while they are caretakers of shelved books, they’re more like the X-men; The books serve as fonts for their themed superpowers. In other words: If you study something long enough, say medicine, you gain larger-than-life abilities, like healing any wound or bringing people back from the dead. The librarian in charge of the animal books can speak to and live like animals, learn all their rituals and hierarchies. The guy whose catalog is War has mastered every sort of weaponry, can read his enemies thoughts, and mows down armed soldiery faster than you manning a turret in the latest Call of Duty game.

Yes. This is an extremely, extraordinarily goofy book.

It is Carolyn, whose catalog is language (of which she can read or speak any variety, both modern and ancient, both human and animal, both worldly and out-of-space) that we follow through most of the novel. Now in their thirties, the librarians’ ‘Father’ is suddenly missing. It turns out that despite being a colossal hardass who more-or-less constantly tortured and abused his adoptive children, Father was the catalyst who kept all the entities who are even worse from descending on the earth, turning people into tentacle monsters and extinguishing all life on earth and whatnot. But Carolyn has a plan. The plot is the realization of that plan.

Did I mention this book was goofy? It embraces it. The God of War guy runs around in a blood-caked Tutu killing people en masse with a pyramid attached to a chain, gifting his victims’ heads to his girlfriend. I mean, like, total eradication of a police station. Intestines hanging from the ceiling, cops chopped in half, don’t slip on the blood! This is only the tip of the iceberg. The novel is consistently weird. I think it’s supposed to be dark and brutal too, which I guess it kinda is, but the ruminations on abuse are difficult to take seriously within the scope of tutu guy assaulting the White House. The violence falls somewhere between a Tarantino movie, a slasher flick, and a video game. Somewhere in me I have a thesis about how video game violence altered book and especially movie violence in the past decade. Another time.  

This book has some great ideas that only half-happen. They’re a tease. We have this intriguing set of superpowered librarians but we only get to know maybe 3-4 of them. There’s 12 total but not even all of them are named, which is baffling honestly. Likewise, partway through the novel when the world threatens to end and eldritch beasties are unleashed across it, I anticipated the second half of Cabin in the Woods but received barely a glimpse of the outside world. Instead: repeated conversations by the same two characters wandering the library. There’s a whole lot of talking and explaining in this book.

Fantasy/Sci-fi pet peeve: While it’s understandable when confronted with the fantastic and seemingly impossible that modern day humans react with disbelief, after a while, I think I’d get used to it and stop asking. This one guy, Steve, spends half the damn book going “Bluh? Carolyn, lions can’t talk!” “60,000 years old? People can’t live that long, Carolyn!” “Carolyn, despite seeing this before my very eyes, it’s impossible for this library to be bigger on the inside than the outside, surely it’s an underground bunker?”

I threatened to skim Steve. Anyway, despite problems like these, or the way the pacing unravels in the last third of the book or the fact that the final answer of “Why? Why does the library exist! Why did Father kidnap and train these people!” is a tired cliche, I sort of loved this book. It’s ridiculous but inventive and creative and fresh in a way I wasn’t expecting. I read it in a handful of sittings. I want fantasy to take me somewhere I haven’t been before, and The Library at Mount Char did just that.

The Best American Essays 2015, edited by Ariel Levy

bestamericanHere’s the reviews for:
2013
2014

Ariel Levy wrote the best essay of last year: Thanksgiving in Mongolia — wherein she delivered a premature birth in a Mongolian hotel room. So I was looking forward to what she’d come up with as the editor of the latest installation. Unfortunately her introductory essay is short and forgettable. The essay selection itself is pretty good though.

The essays in this collection skew heavily towards intense personal experience. There’s multiple entries about getting old or getting pregnant. Some of these are quite good, but as I mentioned in my review of 2013, sometimes I just want to hear a skilled writer go: “Hey I just found something cool / morally imperative, let me write about it!” There’s maybe only one or two in this collection like that, one of them being Malcolm Gladwell’s excellent essay on The Crooked Ladder: Why are the descendents of the Italian/Irish gangsters of the 1920s all upper class, entrenched Americans, but the families of the black gangsters of the 80s and 90s still mired in poverty?

Here’s my favorites:

Thing with Feathers That Perches in the Soul by Anthony Doerr: A romantic tale about the founding of Boise, Idaho of all things. A man finds a small house in Boise that he never noticed before despite driving by it every day. He tracks its history back to the marriage between two of the very first pioneers in Idaho, who had seven children living with them in their one-room cottage. What follows is a paean to humanity’s capacity to preserve and remember.

A Man and His Cat by Tim Kreider: The title says it all. Kreider details the longest relationship of his life — the companionship of a 19 year old cat. When humans find their intra-human social needs missing, they tend to lower the bar and accept other creatures in their stead. A comic but moving defense of the personhood of animals.

My Daughter and God by Justin Cronin: Cronin receives a call from his wife that she and their daughter had just been involved in a ‘fender bender’. He rapidly discovers that she is in shock and their accident was actually a catastrophic freeway spinout that obliterated their SUV but miraculously left both passengers unharmed. Cronin and wife then find God and organized religion and begin their search (in east Texas) for a church that isn’t horrendously, hatefully socially conservative. Meanwhile their daughter, a consummate atheist since she was in a stroller, feels betrayed and starts living in her closet. It’s the type of family drama that only shines in the hands of a skilled narrative writer, and Cronin is that.

There’s a few duds. I’m sure there’s one or two aging/life change pieces so repetitive I’ve already forgotten them. And there’s a couple on the nature of Time that did not work for me. A guy recovering from surgery convaleses in his study and watches his day — sunlight, meals, segments of time itself — elongate and disintegrate. I found it intolerably boring. There’s a later one by Rebecca Solnit that takes on a similar theme, using Buddhist arches in Japan instead. It’s prettier but still meh. “Time is not absolute” is not exactly groundbreaking here.

But, like I said, overall: Pretty good collection.

The Conversation (1974)

conversation

— discovered on netflix, this very 70’s Francis Ford Coppola film.

At its root is Harry Caul, a bugger, a ‘surveillance man’ freelancing his time and expertise selling tapped conversations to interested buyers, typically the US government. In our modern NSA-monitored culture, it seems a bit outmoded that the government would need any help from the common man, but anyway. The movie opens with an overlay of a couple wandering around Union Square (the film takes place in San Francisco, which looks mostly the same as now except 40 years newer). Harry has deployed some fancy-ass super mics to monitor the man and the woman’s conversation from several stories up. A cameraman peers outside a window, armed with a contraption that has no small resemblance to a gun — his first person perspective puts the couple in sniper sights and we’re meant to think they will be shot.

The point of this whole exercise? Like I said, sell the proceeding tapes + pictures to the client with the bills. But wait, it turns out that in Harry’s past, he a made similar sale that led to the twisted retaliatory murder of the people he mic’d up. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that this could happen once again, with these lovers right here in Union Square. But he’s just doing his job, right? Not his responsibility. He didn’t kill anybody.

OK, sounds like a pretty cut-and-dry moral responsibility tale. Culpability. Money. Greed/guilt. And is it? Well, sort of; it starts that way. It becomes something different by virtue of several qualities The Conversation possesses.

The movie is shot in cold, empty stretches. Muted colors, haunting orchestral music, open yet constraining spaces (Harry’s office is a cavernous warehouse that feels dim and prison-like). In other words: a visual snapshot of December in SF. Cold enough to cut to the bone, feel constantly damp and difficult to ever get warm. But it’s not like arctic NYC cold, right?

Alternatively the cold palette and atmosphere is mirror to the isolation of the film’s loner protagonist. Gene Hackman’s Harry, (who looks a lot like my grandfather and the more distance that passes between me and this movie, the more in my recollection Harry resembles Roger and not Gene) is the best damn surveillance man in the business, but incapable of opening up to other human beings or forming real attachments. He is single and middle aged, his relationships a shambles. His obsession is with his true love, his work, which he guards with a pouty childlike aggression.

And indeed his work — surveillance — is the weird hook of this film. Its peak moment occurs partway through at a ‘bugger convention’. 70’s bad haircuts clustered around the newest tech for people to spy on one another. Or to con people into believing they could spy on one another. Machinery buzzes and reels spin. It’s sinister. The film asks you to believe there’s gobs of people out there just totally entranced in the latest surveillance tech. And in each room, the most celebrated and well known bugger of them all: Harry Caul. Fans gush over him and competitors with inferiority complexes beg him to enter business with them. Harry builds his own tech, and disdains all on the floor at the show, which begs the question of why he’s there in the first place. Of course the answer is a few lines back in my most celebrated man sentence, something that Harry’s false modesty would never let him acknowledge.

The Conversation is a textbook example of why the notion that technology should not play a prominent role in film or novels, because it might date them, is so wrong. It doesn’t matter that the tech is dated — the constant shots of film reels while Harry floats through space examing his moral axis are eerie regardless of the fact we haven’t used cassette tapes in 25 years. They become ghostly and ethereal, artifacts out of time, not behind it. Moreover, the privacy concerns and wanton exploitation that lurk both below and above the movie’s surface are cogent and still relevant.

Lastly, but probably not most importantly, a twist at the end reveals Harry was totally wrong — the lovers were not truly in danger. Something entirely different was afoot. The film discards its original moral center and becomes the degeneration of an isolated loner. There’s horror movie beats, a toilet overflowing with blood; final shots nothing but a portrayal of over-observed paranoia as Harry literally rips up his apartment’s floorboards in search of a bug.

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen

ThecorrectionscvrThe great triumph of this novel: Franzen takes a family of reprehensible goons, who do little more than hurt each other or themselves or anyone who has the misfortune of being around them, and makes them both compelling and sort of sympathetic. Everyone is awkward. Everyone is lost. By the end, I wanted them all to succeed.

The Lamberts

Alfred and Enid, the progenitors of the Lambert clan, seem never to have had a happy marriage. Even its inception was dubious. Enid, your midwestern mom obsessed with maximizing status and minimizing shame, could have been satisfied if Alfred had acted differently, perhaps shown some actual physical love and affection or exploited the easily exploited stock market. But Alfred was never that person. A consummate workaholic, he spent the prime of his life working at a railroad, baffled by people who took unpaid coffee breaks, who used phrases like ‘take it easy’, who yearned for sexual intimacy. Now, in their elder years, Alfred has Parkinson’s disease and is largely unable to take care of himself. Enid is as miserable and nagging as ever, convinced Alfred needs merely to try and many of his physical woes will disappear.

Oldest son Gary, who is probably the biggest prick of the lot, ties his existence to being more successful than average people, especially average midwesterners. He fled to Philadelphia to work in finance and marry a pilates-bodied blonde woman and beget 3 children. Gary is a condescending tightwad. He has little-to-no relationship with his children. He’s clinically depressed and the only way his viewpoint even works is that he has such a heinous, manipulative wife that portions of Gary’s chapters actually turn my stomach and give me no choice but to side with him. He has the least satisfying character arc, and I’m not totally sure he adds that much to the novel.

Youngest daughter Denise, an ultra-perfectionist chef, will probably try and sleep with your husband, or your wife, while maintaining the fiction that if she does not make the first move, she is being totally honorable and not responsible for the fallout. Clearly the marriage egg timer was up and it was gonna happen anyway. She has an ironclad set of defenses that govern her relationships with family, generally involving not getting too close whilst desperately wanting to. Denise also has absolutely no idea what she really wants, which is the crux of her character arc. Honestly, this I-Don’t-Actually-Know-What-I-Want problem is characteristic of all the Lamberts but the rest of the family have some fictive ideal that they at least think they want.

The middle child Chip is obsessed with the corruption and moral vacuity of capitalism, while also being head-over-heels immersed in it (much of his plot involves money). He laments objectification of women in media, especially after his sister poses in a magazine to promote her restaurant, and then flips through a Victoria’s Secret magazine to get off. Hypocrisy defines him. And he knows it. After losing his job at a university for sleeping with a student and then failing to write a decent avant-garde screenplay, Chip finds himself amongst Lithuathian gangsters, writing internet copy for their e-scams. He kind of skews golden child a bit, having the happiest emotional arc in the book. His major philosophical conflicts feel like an author-insert of Franzen’s own internal turmoil.

The story lives in in the late 90s, a time of American excess that feels fantastical by today’s standards. Enid feels like everyone around her is getting rich and it’s her life’s great frustration that Alfred wasn’t up to the task of making them the same. Everyone is investing in something. Finance seminars on cruise boats.The goblet of public confidence is overflowing and splashing on the floor. While all of this is building up to the rdecline that begins around the time of The Corrections publication (2001), the tone/time feels alien to someone like myself who was too young to interpret business/finance as it was happening.

Franzen is a pretty slick writer. All of the Lamberts are realized splendidly and his clever metaphors only occasionally fall flat. The writing, tone, and pacing are consistent the whole way through and I found it the sort of book I could open on a holiday flight and read straight through. It’s funny, but not that funny. And it probably could have been cut like 30-50 pages. Like the family it encapsulates, it’s often awkward. I am glad I read it.