Both inviting and informative, like any proper bookshop should be! This popular history is very readable, being meticulous in its exploration without Both inviting and informative, like any proper bookshop should be! This popular history is very readable, being meticulous in its exploration without ever feeling bogged down by stats or timelines. I think the structure was really smart, sticking to a roughly chronological format while highlighting specific bookshops as exemplars of a particular historical trend or inflection point or key component of the identity of the American bookshop. Choosing to have little palate cleansers between chapters discussing other random bookshops and booksellers was also nice, it added a warmth and familiarity to the text that was welcome.
It feels pretty exhaustive, starting with Benjamin Franklin and ending with brave souls starting in a post-Amazon landscape, yet never exhausting. They are some areas that I would have actually enjoyed a little deeper dive into, especially as the final verdict seems to be that contemporary bookshops exist as social spaces as much if not more than as retail spaces, and that is a wildly interesting phenomenon. He does a good job of chronicling this, from a chapter on politically-aligned bookshops, one on queer activist bookshops, and one on Black activist bookshops, all set up for comparison to Barnes & Noble and its façade of community and comfort as well as to Amazon Books which lacks the pretense of being anything other than pure capitalism. Yet I left the book feeling more intrigued and interested than satisfied, in a way, because it seems like there are a half dozen books waiting to be written just on this very topic. I can’t hold that against this book, though. This is a broad history that does its job very well, condensing a long arc of American history into something that is fun and accessible, with research and writing that is competent and inviting. ...more
I was disappointed by this, if I am going to be honest. It is clear Kaplan has done the work and is a genuine afficionado, and that did elevate this. I was disappointed by this, if I am going to be honest. It is clear Kaplan has done the work and is a genuine afficionado, and that did elevate this. But it doesn’t really know what it wants to be and just felt like it rambled all over the place. There is already an exhaustive memoir of Miles Davis’s life, which Kaplan quotes heavily, and there is also a detailed book all about the actual creation and recording of the album Kind of Blue. So, Kaplan promises in his introduction that instead this is an exploration of not just Davis but also Coltrane and Evans, as the three musical geniuses who gave Kind of Blue its beating heart…. But it clearly isn’t that. It is 75% Davis and the other two are lost in the remaining 25%. That in and of itself isn’t bad, especially since as we follow Davis’s emergence on the scene we learn the trajectory of jazz in America from the ‘40s onward; we see how and where Miles was at all of these important moments, so he becomes a way into understanding the constant evolution of jazz. But the way it is put together, with a need to jump over to Coltrane and Evans now and again, sometimes going back and forth in chronology, just made everything feel like disorganized rambling and not the coherent story that is clearly there in all the words on the page. Basically, a solo that has gone on too long.
Kaplan pulled no punches about the devastating lifestyles that plagued many of the great jazz musicians, which I appreciated. He does seem almost sycophantic in his defense of albums that he holds as genius that weren’t seen as such when they were released, which is a fine opinion to have but it made it hard to distinguish between journalism and hagiography. Considering all that has already been written about Davis and this album, and what felt like meager attention given to Coltrane and Evans in this history, I would have really enjoyed going deeper into the idea of art itself as understood by these legends. To his credit Kaplan does broach this, especially notable when sharing a lengthy quote from Jon Batiste about how Miles had to push into a new style, discover all of its boundaries, and then move on, leaving it for others to explore, while Coltrane would move into something new, find its boundaries and then evolve those boundaries, and Evans focused on one conception that he just kept digging deeper and deeper into. I think a more intense exploration into that would have really made this something special, trying to discern how each artist’s understanding of art and their relationship to art worked together to create this particular album at this particular time and place in the history of jazz. The tempting promise for that exploration is here, but it never lives up to it.
The knowledge here is really wonderful. The sense of change and vitality that pervaded the jazz scene, only for it to so quickly come crashing down, is captured really well. Just the exploration and how swing and dance led into Bebop thanks largely to Dizzy Gillepsie and Charlie Parker, and how that led to hard bop, and then smooth jazz, then avantgarde, and so on, the way certain musical voices affected change in the entire scene and how that evolution directly contributed to this pivotal album, that is all interesting and I am glad I was able to learn about it with the enthusiasm Kaplan brings to the material. But my overall impression is that this history didn’t have a firm grasp on what it wanted to be or what story it wanted to tell, so it wandered around and tired me out by the end.
This is a thorough exploration of Pete Rose, building a much bigger, more complex picture of the man than any fan or critic might get just from news hThis is a thorough exploration of Pete Rose, building a much bigger, more complex picture of the man than any fan or critic might get just from news headlines. It is really well researched and well written, with compelling prose that moves forward crisply and is a joy to read. At times, for important moments, the text almost slows down and feels like a play-by-play commentary, giving vivid descriptions of not just games but individual plays. This is a really effective style; it makes the experience more immersive. Generally, though, the chapters are short enough to grab your attention but keep you moving, which is appreciated. The writing feels fair and honest, trying to offer an unbiased accounting of a man who famously dissimulates as part of his public life, and probably his private life, too. If anything, instead of a vendetta this really feels like an apologetic, and while it does nothing to hide Rose’s flaws it contextualizes them and him in such a way as to let the reader understand his humanity.
The middle section did stretch on a little more than it felt like was necessary, and while it was always pleasant to read it did feel like there could be some consolidation. Also, the subtitle is a little misleading, insofar it is hard to see what is being said about “the glory days of baseball,” and how/if Pete Rose’s admission had anything to do with them. It seems more that the steroid era of the 90s and Rose’s disgrace & dismissal were concurrent, and the subsequent decline in attention and popularity, all just happened to align. There is a lot to be said about the end of the glory days, but not much is really said about it here, except that Rose played and excelled at a time when US baseball was at its apex. So, the subtitle kind of wrote a check that the actual text didn’t really cash. But that doesn’t take away from how good this biography is. From the writing to the style to the empathy this is an engaging read and an important read for anyone interested in an incredibly important part of baseball’s modern history.
A moving memoir that manages a balanced introspective, philosophical tone without being saccharine or deflecting toward diatribe. I haven’t read RushdA moving memoir that manages a balanced introspective, philosophical tone without being saccharine or deflecting toward diatribe. I haven’t read Rushdie’s fiction, so I can’t speak to how his style here compares to his other prose, but the style works well for a memoir. It is very personal but also conversational, avuncular, almost. There is a little bit of self-indulgence in the writing, but Rushdie doesn’t pretend otherwise and it feels both warranted and fitting. Yet, what I most appreciated is even within that there is a clear humility, at least in terms of his relationship with art and his dedication to embracing love as a driving force in his life.
He explicitly discusses how the writing of this book, while not therapy, was therapeutic and part of his continued recovery, and in that regard, then, I am happy to accept this book is exactly as it needs to be. It isn’t a perfect read, for me, though. There is an entire chapter dedicated to a series of imagined interviews with his assailant, and this really didn’t work for me, on an emotional level (which is to say it distanced me from my experiences he was guiding me through in the other chapters). Anyone who holds what they believe to be a morally or philosophically superior position to someone else believes they understand the key logic, the one statement that will dismantle their opponent and let them see the truth of reality. Of course, it never works that way—regardless of the veracity or persuasion of the argument—because beliefs are deeply held, often against common sense, and so there is always a retort, as unsatisfying as that may be. This chapter just felt like a chance for someone to just vent all these seeming “logic bombs,” and the imagined responses were always silence or vitriol, just evidence of how intellectually and emotionally moribund the assailant’s argument was. It isn’t that I didn’t find agreement with Rushdie’s ideas, but the whole thing felt performative, like it wasn’t a genuine (imagined) conversation with his assailant but one with belief in general, one where he is the uncontested victor. I think the chapter would have been stronger if he explained how he had had these imaginary conversations again and again and then gave us his ultimate position or take-away from them, in the introspective style of the rest of the memoir. As it was it just felt supercilious, contrasting with the overall tone and reading experience.
Aside from that chapter, it does seem Rushdie can’t help little supercilious jabs of his own throughout the book. He makes a declaration of his belief that personal faith and religious practice are well and good if they stay personal but when religion becomes weaponized or explicitly utilized in the public sphere it is harmful. And yet, he insists on inserting throw-away lines about how religions are imaginary, and so on. Basically, lines that show a marked disrespect for individuals’ private practices of faith, assertions of a moral superiority as someone who exists as a moral agent without relying on imaginary and fantastical beliefs. It is perfectly fine for him to hold this position, but it contradicts with his insistence that he is respectful of private practices of faith. Small statements to this effect are littered throughout the memoir and they served as a reminder that, while Rushdie insists that the “pompous Rushdie” is an invention of the British media it is not an invention cut from whole cloth but rather one that he actively contributes to, even in this memoir as he decries it.
To be honest, those moments of contradiction did take away from my experience of this memoir. Not because he is not allowed to believe what he believes, but because there is a contradiction between his explanation of himself and what these statements say about his self-understanding. A memoir, especially this one, is a deeply personal and reflective act, and to see these contradictions, though small, lent an air of disingenuity that I had to actively keep at bay. That is a type of work I didn’t want to have to do, because save for those few passages here and there I felt this was deeply moving. Rushdie manages to find personal closure while still holding space for the open-endedness not just of this particular event but of life, in general. He portrays what feels like an honest experience through pain and confusion to one of acceptance and growth, refusing to let his spirit be dampened by others’ ignorance or hatred. This is quite moving, and doesn’t feel fabricated but instead earned, and valuable. I also appreciate that while he does share some important understanding about his life and his place in the world and what kind of personal space he intends or hopes to occupy moving forward, understandings that maybe were latent in his mind before this attack but which find new growth and life and import in its wake, he doesn’t portray this attack as some sort of revelatory moment. There seems a public need to insist on Post Traumatic Growth, and he doesn’t play into that. He acknowledges how the attack helped reorient some of his thoughts and priorities, and he celebrates the growth he has had since the attack, but he doesn’t glamorize the recovery as revelation. Instead, he tells a deeply human story, a personal exploration of meaning, both in the individual and the global or universal sense. With clear and compelling language, friendly and inviting prose, he is able to walk us through a horrific tragedy only to end up in a place that celebrates humanity, and humanity’s best attempts at understanding itself through acts of art and love. It feels like a meaningful journey to take, and I am appreciative Rushdie was willing to share it....more
I started this memoir really, really enjoying it. Cher is a remarkably interesting person, and she tells the story of her life in a very frank, honestI started this memoir really, really enjoying it. Cher is a remarkably interesting person, and she tells the story of her life in a very frank, honest way that is remarkably humble, unassuming, and refreshing. Learning about how remarkably traumatic her childhood was (and that of her mother, for that matter), just makes her shine even brighter. Seeing her grow up and thrust into adulthood at far too early of an age, only to see what she wants to grasp onto it, evokes a sympathy for a childhood she never had and an awe for what she has done.
I won’t lie, though. As the memoir goes on it rambles quite a bit, often about non sequiturs and small details that maybe add color to our understanding of Cher’s life the first time those kinds of details are shared, but not when they are shared again and again and again. The writing is incredibly informal and conversational. She sets this tone very early in the memoir and it works, it is both disarming and humanizing. And, more importantly, it feels genuine. But it is within this conversational, story-telling mode that her story sometimes gets lost in details that don’t feel like they contribute. This is even more noticeable in the final few chapters, which feel like a whirlwind, rushing through years of her life when previous chapters were meandering and doddering about.
I read this not as a fan, but as someone that is appreciative of her contemporary music (and personal) and vaguely aware of what her popularity and status once was. So maybe if you have had a decades’ long fascination with her then all of her tangential details will fill you with glee, let you feel like an insider to her life. The writing style and tone is intimate and is certainly inviting a type of camaraderie. But they were a bit too much for me, and by the halfway point it really felt like it started to drag. Obviously she is telling the story of her real life, and real lives aren’t plotted out as conveniently as a novel, but this memoir could have benefited from some streamlining and, for lack of a better description, better plotting.
Also, I would have liked a little more introspection. She is incredibly honest, and there are little snippets of introspection here and there. She doesn’t ever seem like she is hiding anything from the reader, especially when she makes big decisions (good or bad ones). But so much of her life is so wildly outside of the norm that there are moments when I really would have preferred her to dig into what she was feeling or thinking about some of the things she describes than giving specific lines of dialogue from her comedy routines and so on. So much of her life is already documented in the public eye that I was hoping for maybe a little more depth, where this seemed to be constantly floating on the surface and only occasionally dipping into anything deeper.
It is hard to recommend this to someone who isn’t already a fan, but if you are a fan you will likely enjoy this quite a bit. Even though I feel like it rambles and definitely needs some trimming, it is really readable, has a very friendly and conversational tone, is inviting, and, ultimately, has an optimistic and inspirational sense about it that is hard to deny....more
The language and sentimentality of this memoir was a pleasure to fall into, but the whole time I had to almost ask myself what the point was. Of coursThe language and sentimentality of this memoir was a pleasure to fall into, but the whole time I had to almost ask myself what the point was. Of course, maybe if you have read a lot of Aciman’s work then this will hold more meaning for you, but for me I struggled to see why he memorialized this transitional year in his life, and what he hoped to share about himself from this memoir. I think I will be hard-pressed to be much wowed by any teenager’s final year of high school, which is what his year in Rome amounted to, and while he did end with a chapter that really tried to dig out some meaning I wasn’t particularly moved.
The writing was ethereal in its style, and yet at the same time trying to appeal to the senses. He would contain entire conversations with multiple speakers in a single paragraph, compressing time and memory in ways that were effective in terms of bringing those places to life. But they were ultimately the experiences of a scared, intelligent, emotional, undecisive teenager. Once in a while Aciman would conclude a paragraph with some sort of pithy sentiment or lesson, but these often felt as airy and ethereal as the prose. It felt like he was including them because a memoir is supposed to have such things, but it took effort to pluck them through the dreamy veil of his experiences. This made the final chapter, which is all him as an adult trying to sort through his time in Rome, including returning to the street he lived on with his family in tow, feel less organic than the rest of his chapters. It felt like it had to do too much, too much meaning to make in such a short time, and yet I do suppose that was his experience, as well. So maybe it is fitting.
There are some beautiful insights in the final chapter, which certainly offer a peek into his relationship with literature and writing, which I found moving. “What my favorite authors were asking of me was that I read them intimately—not read my own pulse onto their work, but read their pulse as though it were my own, the height of arrogance. By trusting my deepest, most personal insights, I was in fact tapping into, or divining, an author’s vision.” I suppose that the hope is that the reader find their pulse throughout the memoir, their pulse in his evocative stories of familial unrest, of nervous, fumbling encounters, of the pleasure of bookstores, and so on. While I was impressed by the language and prose I felt there was always some distance that kept me from really feeling a full immersion, from finding him through finding myself in his anecdotes and memories.
So that is all to say, sentimental and skillful writing, which I cannot deny, but not writing that spoke to me. ...more
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