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This book is several things interleaved.

There's a love story with fairly traditional elements of circumstances coming between the lovers.

There's clearly some autobiography, from an author whose own life gives her plenty of material.

There's a lot of exploration of the dislocation of being an immigrant and the ways in which the assumed community of people from the same place easily falls flat. I identified strongly with a surprising amount of that, given that my circumstances are very different from the characters'.

There's a mourning for Nigeria. Just as with Teju Cole's writing, I see so much of my Turkey in the author's Nigeria.

There's an extended essay about race, racism, and especially how those play out in the USA. This is mostly done very well--if the protagonist's blog were real I'd be a subscriber--but towards the end of the US section it starts to feel like a lecture is intruding on the story.

There's an interesting format experiment in which Adichie basically implements Brecht's ideas about giving away the story before telling it so that suspense doesn't interfere with the other things you're supposed to feel. Only Adichie does this far more deftly than Brecht, so it never detracted from the enjoyment of the story.

It does a surprisingly good job of carrying all these elements, albeit at times feeling a little overloaded. I enjoyed reading it and felt at times like it was really hitting hard.

I picked this book up from a Little Free Library, based on a vague sense that Seth was a writer people said nice things about so I might want to read it. I flicked through and saw that it was all in verse and thought there was no way this could be good. Oh, how wrong I was.

The book tells a few small stories, of the relationships between yuppies in the Bay Area back when home computers were a novelty and the big business were tied to the defence industry. It tells these stories with astonishing beauty; enough that I cried at the end, over the fate of a character who 150 pages earlier I'd decided I disliked and was the author of most of his misfortunes. That's a strength of the book in general: every character is deeply flawed, but the book holds them all with enough compassion that I still cared what happened to them.

And yes, it's all in verse. Sonnets. Onegin stanzas- intricate rhyming scheme and all. 14 chapters of them, the titles of which themselves make the table of contents into a sonnet that summarises the story. While there are moments at which the brilliance of the craft distracts from the story, they are very few, and the form actually serves the book very well, driving it with a pace and lightness of touch that had me read the book in a week and want to start over again immediately.

This was a fun book. The premise really was just "How far can I run with a pun on changing airplanes vs astral planes?", but that served as a nice springboard for a series of vignettes of alternate worlds. Some were clearly commentary on this plane, others just seemed like an exploration of a little idea, and the whole book is breezily written - light reading that's worth taking time over.

I can't usually stomach books with no likable characters in them. I think it's a testament to Iris Murdoch's skill as a writer that this one kept reeling me in.

I'm not sure quite how to summarise a book like this. The plot is fairly simple--and could be covered by a book a tenth as long--but Murdoch uses it more to develop the protagonist's character and frame her own meditations about eternal subjects like aging, how men treat women, and privilege. In the hands of a lesser writer this would make for a clumsy and tedious book, but The Sea, The Sea is a wonderful, satisfying read.

It's a bit Iain Banks by the numbers, but it also has a lot of what made Banks such a great author in it: believably flawed characters, an adventure blown up a little past plausibility, loving descriptions of a place.

Hugely entertaining book, full of weirdness and references - not only the gods themselves but I could see enough subtle little literary allusions to realise there must be many more there. Also some that I suspect may just be looking too hard, but oh well - they didn't detract anything from the book....

I love the broad ambition of this story, the multiple levels it runs on, and the ease with which Gaiman can switch between those levels. It suffers a little from trying to pack too much in. By the end I was a bit tired of new characters being introduced without development, and wishing a few of the subplots had been explored better. It's both telling and a good move that when Gaiman wrote a ~sequel (Anansi Boys) he picked up one of the second-tier characters from American Gods, fleshed him out beautifully, and told a much more focussed story with him. Anansi Boys ends up being a stronger book as a result.

A few references I'm wondering about:

About halfway through part one, there seemed to be a subtle allusion to Eliot's Journey Of The Magi. I'm not sure if it's either intended or real, but read or listen to the poem: www.poetryarchive.org/poem/journey-magi - it seems to fit, eh?

One thing I was left not understanding at the end was why Wednesday needed Shadow. It seemed that he could have orchestrated the whole con at less risk without Shadow involved, which was the one thing I found unsatisfying about the otherwise very clever ending. I read somewhere that Monarch Of The Glen explains more about who Shadow is, so I'm looking forward to reading that.

The two-man con idea feels like a wonderfully biting allegory about US politics. If so, then Gaiman was pretty prescient - it's a thing that has become much more obvious since.

The two-man con and its motivations also feels like an allegory about the "Clash of Civilizations" nonsense that has potential to be so self-fulfilling. I'm pretty sure this on my mind because I happen to have read the book in a week when anti-Muslim attacks in the US are more prominent in the news than usual, but I wonder if it wasn't also an intended message, given that the book was first published in 2001. But then... that crap didn't get much airtime until 9/11, and this book must have mostly been written before that.

And finally, I really want to learn more about Sammy Black Crow. I was expecting her to be more significant in the end.

I really did take three years reading this - one short lecture at a time. I feel I have a somewhat better understanding of what Zen Buddhism is about, which is probably the most one can ask of a book about a tradition that isn't really mine.

One theme that really struck a chord is that there isn't a distinct compartment into which one puts "practice" or "spirituality", any more than there is for "morality" or even "breathing" - to take these things seriously to make them a ubiquitous part of life. I often need reminding of this.

The most interesting, mind-bending comic I've read. The basic conceit is that every image on every page is of the same spot, a room in the house the author grew up in, in New Jersey. The time frame shifts from before there was a recognisable earth (possibly before the history of the universe?) to some way into the future, and as the book goes on it jumps around more and overlays progressively more stories on top of each other. Some are told in a fairly linear way over a few pages, while others are dropped and picked up later, and others just left to be inferred.

I loved the sense of the hugeness of history and smallness of today that this book conveyed better than I've ever seen done with writing. And I loved the sections where different stories progressed at different speeds.

I read this in one evening, but I know I'll be back, probably jumping in and out in a less linear way. One thing to remind myself as much as anyone else: the book was published in December 2014, which is relevant because some of its storylines are in the recent past or near future.

Wow. For the first half of this book I thought it a bit artless and frustrating, but it turns into a very much cleverer and more subtle work than I had been expecting. Ultimately the book is utterly damning about colonialism without ever romanticising what came before it.

I feel weird tagging "spoilers" about a book the outlines of which are pretty well known, and the plot of which is basically described in the publisher blurb, but in spite of all that there were some surprises as I went, so here goes:

First of all, there is one thing that annoyed me intensely through the entire book: the complete lack of any development of female characters or voices. I can imagine a defence of that in terms of the book describing two intensely patriarchal cultures and their meeting, but I'm still digesting Achebe's critique of Conrad. One of his more on-point criticisms is that Conrad writes about colonialism in Africa without ever giving a single African character a real voice - it's fair, but then it rankles to see Achebe do exactly the same thing to women, especially in a book that's partly about brutal patriarchy.

The first part of the book, describing the traditional society that existed before colonisation, is an interesting mixture of pastoral and horrifying. It's not hard to see how people would value what they had, and find its disruption by outside forces intensely painful, but there's also plenty about it that is terrible. Not only the status of women (property whose only apparent chance at any agency at all is by cheating on the husband they didn't necessarily get to choose), but murder of twins, mutilation of sick childrens' corpses, and casting out of men who don't fit a very specific mould. At first I was frustrated by Achebe's stalwart refusal to allow a hint of judgement on any of this; by the end I saw it as a real strength of his writing.

Once things do start to fall apart, I came to appreciate that by keeping any editorialising out of the way, Achebe was able to let his characters and story say all that needed to be said about their own society. The real genius of the book is in its dissection of how weaknesses in the existing culture allowed missionaries to make inroads, how effectively the missionaries manipulated this (often without seeming to understand what they were doing), and yet how disastrous this all was for the people it happened to in spite of the completely unvarnished portrayal of what they had before.

After a year of false starts, I finally admitted I just couldn't get into this book. It's strange because I've loved a lot of Conrad's work, and I certainly see the same beauty of writing here, but this one just wasn't grabbing me. I don't know if it's the slower pace than most of his (but his other relatively long books also start slowly), that he was writing further outside his experience than usual, or that I've changed and some of the troubling things about Conrad now bother me more than they used to.

An odd, compelling read. On the face of it, this is the diary of someone who walks around New York a lot, has some moderately interesting friends and very small adventures, but is worth reading because he himself is interesting and erudite and loves making connections between things. In other words, it's a lot like reading Cole's nonfiction, and for a lot of the book I couldn't shake the feeling that the narrator was just the author's mouthpiece. Which is alright--after all it was Cole's nonfiction that got me interested in reading his novel in the first place--but if that were all there was to it I don't think it would have held my attention over 200 pages.

What made this book special for me was its distillation of a very particular feeling: that of having a lovely time going about my business, while always conscious of the horror of the world around me. I do see this in Cole's nonfiction, but there's something about letting it ebb and flow through a much longer, more rambling work than allows it get much more powerful, and in the last few chapters it becomes completely crushing.

Mostly excellent, but badly let down by a couple of weaknesses. I got the feeling that Rushkoff was starting to get tired of writing these, so in a couple of places he started to spell out the 'rules' a little too explicitly for my liking, as if he was grasping for a way to bring it to a close. And then the ending itself was horrible! I understand the desire to have modern humans overthrow the gods, but the way he did just didn't add up. If one of the major themes of the series is the constant danger of slavery to greed & materialism, that ending was a triumph of those things presented as a triumph of humans.