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The setup of this novel reminded me of Past Lives: the life of a married couple is disrupted by a visitor from one of the partners’ past.

From the start, I found the couple’s behaviour to be not entirely believable: why was one partner so secretive about her past, and why was her wife so jealous about it? I kept thinking that an honest, open conversation would have diffused all of the tension between them. But, through a somewhat repetitive and long-winded exploration of their thoughts and memories, I came to a reluctant understanding: this book is a portrait of a failing relationship.

I commend the novel for presenting a perspective that I don’t see often: that of a queer person living openly in a same-sex relationship, while at the same time staying closeted about her bisexuality.

However, there were enough flaws in the story that I can’t say I recommend it. In particular, there are a couple of “plot twists” near the end that seem to serve no purpose other than to underscore a point that was already clear, and then to punish the main character. There’s also an extended exposition about the plight of Ugandan Indians under Idi Amin, and how it compares with the Syrian refugee crisis. It’s a bit discomfiting to measure traumas against each other, and I wasn’t sure what the author was getting at.

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I picked up this book because I, like many others, feel like I need to reduce my phone usage. It’s a constant distraction and I hate it when I find myself scrolling through some feed, not looking for anything in particular.

Newport does a good job explicitly explaining what I implicitly knew was true: there’s value in solitude and letting your mind think without forcing it to process a constant input of information. The philosophy of digital minimalism aims to reclaim that value by being intentional about technology.

Unfortunately, the book falls short for me when it comes to how to actually achieve this outcome. In its introduction, it states that willpower and superficial lifehacks aren’t enough to break the grip that the attention economy has on us; but, the suggestions given in the book read exactly like superficial lifehacks based on willpower. His biggest idea is the digital declutter, which involves removing all optional technology for 30 days. But how do we do this, if not through willpower?

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I swear, whenever I read this series, I alternate between being thrilled and wanting to throw my copy against the wall. They are undoubtedly page-turners, but that may be a more back-handed compliment than it seems: I always want to find out what happens next, but often don’t care about what’s happening on the pages right in front of me.

This fourth entry has a compelling setup, wherein a settlement on a newly discovered planet comes into conflict with a scientific and mining expedition. As a reader, you root for a peaceful resolution, rather than one side winning over the other, but inevitably, there are aggressors that escalate the conflict. The dynamic reminds me of the brilliant Dawn of the Planet of the Apes.

However, there are some really ridiculous character developments, like the scientist who finds herself attracted to the hero Captain Holden, and becomes so mad with lust that she can no longer do science, but then when her scientist friend makes a move and they have sex, she immediately solves the big science problem and no longer cares one bit for Holden for the rest of the book.

When I finished, I seriously considered giving up on the series, but I read some positive reviews of the next one, which appears to break the mold. Time will tell if I come back to it.

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I read this on the recommendation of a friend. My wife and I asked about how they manage their personal finances, especially in the context of a couple. Not to get too much into my personal life, but money can sometimes be a minefield in our relationship, and we were looking for suggestions.

The first part of this book didn’t really click with me, because it’s about all the pitfalls that cause people to overspend: pressure from one’s social circle (“keeping up with the Joneses”), the distortions of social media, etc. Overspending is not really a problem for us, so I couldn’t relate.

But, I can say that once the book moved into practical advice on how to manage finances, I found a lot to like. Ultimately, it led me to a new perspective on budgeting. (In the book’s rhetoric, it recommends not budgeting, but really, it’s just budgeting in a different way.) To summarize:

The old way: we allocate a budget for expenses, and whatever’s left over is savings. The trouble is, sometimes expenses are unpredictable, so it feels like we’re taking away from our savings. Also, any sort of “fun” spending feels wrong because it’s also taking away from savings.

The new way: allocate a budget for predictable expenses and savings. Savings are further broken down, so that the intent is clear: e.g., is it for retirement, for an emergency repair, for an upcoming big purchase? Then, whatever’s left over can be spent without worry.

It’s a subtle shift in mindset, but one that I hope will take away some of the stress and anxiety around money. I can’t say if it works yet, but maybe I’ll check back in with another post after putting it into practice.

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This was a beautifully written memoir about the experiences of a Korean woman who was adopted by white parents, and her reconnecting with her birth family as an adult. When I say that, you might think that it leads to a tidy ending—now she’s got two families!—but of course, real life is more complicated than the clichés.

A memorable chapter early in the book involves a pair of Nicole’s acquaintances, who are considering adopting a child, asking her if she “minded” being adopted when she was a kid. It’s a question that assumes that the adoptee experience is monolithic, and that as long as Nicole was happy, they could be assured that their kid would be, too. The rest of the book deconstructs that idea, and shows us the messiness that lies behind everyone’s family story.

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As the title suggests, this book is an examination of a tragic character who’s only capable of relating to others by obeying them unquestioningly. She grew up in an oppressive family, and doesn’t seem to know how to exist as her own person.

The pastoral setting and reflective style reminded me of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. Like that book, it’s a challenging read; my experience of it could be described as spending long stretches not really understanding what was going on, but then being knocked over every few pages by a deeply profound sentence or passage. Unlike Dillard’s work, though, Bernstein has the benefit of fiction, so that she can introduce surreal and dark elements, like the image of the protagonist as a baby, taking care of her older siblings before she could even speak; or the Ari Aster-esque cult-like imagery in the finale.

All in all, a bizarre and melancholy read. You really pity the protagonist’s constant negative self-talk. I think there’s more to it than that, though; this book would reward a closer reading than I was able to give it.

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I can’t express much about my opinion without describing the overall structure of this book. This may be a spoiler for some, so proceed with caution.

Trust is divided into four parts:

1. A novel about a wealthy New York couple who made their fortune on stocks, and weathered the 1929 crash so well that it’s suspected that the man manipulated the markets.
2. A memoir written by the man on whom the novel in part one is based. He defends his wealth on the grounds that his personal gain benefits society as a whole. Growing the pie and all that.
3. Another memoir written by the ghostwriter of part two. Through her eyes, we see just how much part two was an exercise in self-aggrandizing myth-making.
4. The unearthed private diaries of the wealthy man’s wife, who was more involved in the business than she was given credit for.

My enjoyment of this book was driven mostly by the structure and the way each section reveals a new layer of truth. It does a less extreme version of what Cloud Atlas does.

But on the other hand, I didn’t really like the writing style. The first two parts are especially dry, observing the characters from a cold distance. And ultimately, the truths that the book reveal feel obvious. The wealthy can get away with anything, and women are neglected by history? Tell me something I don’t know.

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This is a short story collection centred around a single character. Therefore, I wouldn’t hesitate to accept this as a novel if it had been published as such.

Soma is a character who’s been scarred in many ways by the hardships in her life: an abusive and eventually absent mother, the loss of a close friend to suicide, a break-up with someone who seemed not to respect her Jewish heritage. I appreciated the layers of character detail in this book, like Soma’s proficiency at cooking. It’s a skill she’s proud of, but at the same time, it’s a constant reminder that she had to learn how to feed herself because her mother was gone, and she had to take on the responsibility at a younger age than the average person.

The centrepiece of the book for me is the story titled “Who You Start With Is Who You Finish With,” which threads together Soma’s life and her grandmother Charna’s youth in wartime. The grandmother suffered the horror of watching the Holocaust unfold over the Atlantic, as well as the pain of being shunned by the Jewish community for marrying outside of her religion. Her cultural identity was under attack in two ways, and so when we see Soma’s efforts to celebrate her grandmother with traditional prayer, it feels like a happy ending for Charna, in a way.

There are a couple of stories in the collection which are more experimental and surreal, almost like poetry. It’s not really my thing, but your mileage may vary.

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Humankind by Rutger Bregman is a book that attempts to overturn the prevailing view that people are inherently selfish and malevolent. From the oft-referenced stories of the Stanford Prison Experiment and Kitty Genovese, to the everyday news, we hear a lot about the sins of humankind. Bregman dismantles these stories, arguing that they only preserve existing power and economic structures. Instead, he aims to show that we’re motivated by kindness towards others.

The book is a breezy read, filled with snappy anecdotes and factoids. It worked on me: at the beginning, I read with skepticism, trying to poke holes in his arguments; but by the end, I found everything he was saying to be obvious. Run a school without classes and lesson plans, because the students will naturally find their own path to learning? Of course! Run a prison without cells, and where the guards play games and sing songs with the inmates? Sounds like a great idea!

It was as if the book had created a new intuition in me: take everything that is considered conventional in modern society, and do the opposite.

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In terms of subject matter, Milkman is like the song “Zombie” in book form. There are bombs and bombs and guns. But where the Cranberries’ song is filled with anger, Anna Burns uses a more delicate touch.

The unnamed protagonist is a young woman who is being pestered “the milkman,” who is romantically interested in her and also happens to be a member of a paramilitary organization. The stalking alone makes for anxious reading, but the real tragedy is that she has nobody to turn to. Because they live in basically a warzone, the entire community is in a constant state of mistrust and paranoia, and her personal struggles are only seen in the context of which side of the political conflict she may or may not be on.

Despite the dark story, the writing style is quirky and playful, in a way that reminds of a bit of George Saunders. There’s a lot of absurdist humour, like how the parents of the protaganist’s “maybe-boyfriend” have abandoned their family to become internationally famous ballroom dancers. I enjoyed this read, even if it does feel little bit repetitive and long-winded at times.

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