2023 #33: Braiding Sweet Grass (Kimmerer)

 

Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Robin Wall Kimmerer, in her own voice on the audiobook, brings forth the lessons of sweetgrass and so much more, with compassion, erudition, and occasionally a tone that manages to embrace both anger and sadness. The main theme of the book advocates for regenerative reciprocity, a concept embodied by much of the natural world and echoed in the practices of many Indigenous peoples. Rather than Hardin's "Tragedy of the Commons", Kimmerer envisions an "Economy of the Commons", wherein "resources fundamental to our well-being...are commonly held rather than commodified." She balances her narrative in order to keep the vision in arms reach, or at least parts of it that we might endeavor to create.

A botanist and enrolled member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, Kimmerer braids together the teachings of plants and those of her ancestors to create a work that is reminiscent of the "poetic sensibility" of Loren Eiseley, and gives rise to the increasingly popular work of people like Peter Wohlleben. The book is packed with information about indigenous culture and plant life, in equal measure, and the main criticism I have is that it could use a stronger editorial hand in places. There are moments when a metaphor starts to wear a bit thin, losing a bit of its "oomph" through constant repetition. However, these moments (which seem to increase toward the end of the book) are minor inconveniences in the face of what Kimmerer accomplishes.

Take language, for example. Kimmerer boldly weaves in linguistics to support her main contentions. Indigenous language offers concepts that bring us nearer to a true understanding of the natural world versus science, which she calls "a language of distance" (mind you, one in which she is fluent and leverages in powerful ways). In the chapter "Learning the Grammar of Animacy" she writes of the Potawotami language (an Anishinaabe dialect), wherein a noun such as "bay" (wiikegama)-- a body of water in English--is actually a verb--more "to be a bay"-- because it is living, part of the natural world. This respect for and lack of objectification of natural elements is a key point of contention between colonialist thought and indigenous thought, and as Kimmerer shows, really creates tremendous knots in our ability to co-exist peacefully with our natural world.

'To be a bay' holds the wonder than for this moment, the living water has decided to shelter itself between these shores, conversing with cedar roots and a flock of baby mergansers. Because it could do otherwise--become a stream or an ocean or a waterfall--and there are verbs for that too.

She talks about the relationship between reciprocity and restoration and this idea that reciprocity is the real requirement for sustainability of our restorative efforts. It isn't the land that is damaged, she says, but the relationship we have to it. I think that is largely true, but it is a sound byte that doesn't get as thoroughly interrogated as it might.

Whether it is her own struggles with clearing pond scum so that her daughters might swim, embracing the multitudes contained in a strawberry, or illuminating the ecological ramifications of strategic and not-strategic harvesting, Kimmerer's book (first published in 2013) provides a path forward that may not save us at this juncture, but would undoubtedly make us better citizens of the planet.



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2023 #32: How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures (Imbler)

 

How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures by Sabrina Imbler
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a remarkable book that manages to combine "memoir with marine biology" as the podcast Science Friday put it (which was the impetus for me to put the book on my reading list). What keeps it from a full five stars for me is the whiplash between the two, but I'll address that in a bit.

The words after the colon in the title are important here: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures. Imbler is a very gifted writer who sets upon the task of creating substantial and meaningful metaphor through ten creatures: the goldfish, the octopus, the sturgeon, the sperm whale, the yeti crab, the sand striker, the butterflyfish, the salp, the cuttlefish, and the immortal jellyfish. Imbler hones in on the characteristics and circumstances of each of these creatures and connects to those as a queer and mixed-race person. Ira Flatow's interview didn't quite prepare me for the level of intimacy that Imbler brings to this book, but I am better for it. The metaphors are not forced, but seem to blossom forth: "They are one of the best-studied jellyfish in the world, and yet no one noticed the moon jelly's power of regeneration until someone gave it time and trust that it might grow into itself." Often, it is the passages focused on the sea creatures where Imbler offers their most potent observations. There are passages that brought me to tears: "But life always finds a place to begin anew, and communities in need will always find one another and invent new ways to glitter, together, in the dark"--some of them hopeful, some of them recognizing the darkness in the depths of identity.

And this is very much a book about identity and taxonomy--biological and social. There are moments where just as you are caught up in either the science or the memoir, however, the prose switches abruptly. This seems like a stylistic choice on Imbler's part, but it didn't work for me, as I felt yanked out of things just as I was connecting to the intimacy of their narratives. I worry that the title and marketing (the Science Friday interview downplays the memoir side) might mean potential readers may miss out if deep sea creatures aren't a ready-made point of interest. Imbler's personal experiences no doubt mirror that of many queer youths, swimming in the murky waters of identity. I hope they know this book is for them, because Imbler's words reach up from the bottom like a kelp forest toward the light, and everyone is better for it. Perhaps if we could all embrace a little bit more of ourselves in the creatures we know and don't yet know, existence might be a bit less fraught.

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2023 #31 The Haunted Abbot (Sister Fidelma #12) - Tremayne

 

The Haunted Abbot by Peter Tremayne
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

For anyone not reading the series in order, there is a mild spoiler below.



Fildelma, now Eadulf's ben cahrrthach, accompanies him to his Saxon homelands to Aldred's Abbey, where Eadulf has received an urgent summons from his old friend Brother Botulf. While warned that the abbey is home to great evil, they journey through perilous weather to arrive at the abbey only to find Botfulf dead and the abbot in charge to be a tyrannical misogynist.

The first half might be more aptly called a "Brother Eadulf" mystery than a Sister Fildema mystery, and some may find that more pleasing than others. Sadly, given than readers have waited eleven prior installments for Fidelma and Eadulf to be more than companions, this book does little to develop their relationship (one might argue until the very last sentence of the book). In what is probably the most chaste representation of a couple I've ever encountered, the final page seems almost to say: "I'll get to them in the next installment, promise!". I guess I will find out.

There's a supernatural tinge here, which of course faithful Fidelma readers will know always holds some other explanation. The characterization is a bit more complex across the board than in some of the other books. Allies can't be trusted, there are several folks who aren't quite antagonists, but neither are they allies, and as always there are mistaken identities. Aldhere, an outlaw, has a rich backstory that provides him with a certain depth and nuance of character. Women get very little airtime (partially due to the setting of Abbot Cild's vehemently male-only abbey), save for a peasant girl named Lioba, the Abbot's wife (in memoriam), and Bertha, the "woman" of Aldhere.

What is most refreshing in this particular book is that we get more sense of Anglo-Saxon history in the Heptarchy: the kingdom of Mercia, vs. East Anglia, etc. Much is made of the different systems of justice, not just between Christian and pagan, but more specifically between that of Eireann and Saxon. As I cannot speak to authority on either culture, I will simply say that there is a clear implication as to which is more enlightened (which will not come as a surprise).

The story benefits from a few different locations--the abbey, outside the abbey, and the farmhouse of 'Mad' Mul. There are some labyrinthine passages--both actual and metaphorical--that help keep the narrative alive. The arrival of Sigeric, high steward to Ealdwulf, King of East Anglia, provides a bit of a jumpstart just as things start to lag a bit, as does a murder just before the end of the book.

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2023 #30 Recursion (Crouch)

 

Recursion by Blake Crouch
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Memory. Dreams. Reality. All are questioned in Recursion. If you had the opportunity to unmake a reality by entering a memory, would you?

As with Crouch's other books in the genre (Dark Matter, Upgrade), Recursion tests the limits of science and imagination as measured against our understanding of reality (and for some of us, science itself). In the background is always the suggestion of a truth--perhaps metaphorical--that drives our decisions as humans.

One might see this as a love story, as the focus is on two characters: Barry and Helena, and this becomes increasingly the case as the book progresses. There's a bit of a Twilight Zone phenomenon here, and fans of time loops will enjoy (note: the "time loop" here is more complex than your average, run-of-the-mill time loop, which saves the narrative). Even with the inventiveness in the narrative, the "recursion" aspect did start to wear thin, but there was no question of finishing the book. Readers who need/enjoy everything wrapped up in a bow at the end may be disappointed, but to answer all the questions would have undermined the major premise of the book.

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2023 #29: Our Lady of Darkness (Sister Fidelma #10) - Tremayne

 

Our Lady Of Darkness by Peter Tremayne
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

cw: sexual assault

Tremayne seems to have hit his stride with this tenth installment of the Sister Fidelma series. Brother Eadulf faces the noose for a crime he did not commit and Sister Fidelma must race against the clock to prove his innocence. The red herrings are plentiful here, some more obvious than others. As with Valley of the Shadow, if memory serves, evil is spread far and wide, not just focused on one person. There are helpers, of course, along the way, but sometimes they are a bit too implausible, such as the Apollo-like entrance of the Cashel guards near the end. Where these book still falter for me is the ever-present "court" scene being the centerpiece and method for Fidelma's revelations. I get that she's a dalaigh, but in this particular instance it was particularly frustrating because she does an "almost" reveal in a different location (with an audience far more interesting than the typical peanut gallery), but then no...we have the formal (and formulaic) grandstanding that appears in every novel. I'm just waiting for something more interesting to happen, but I think I will be disappointed.
Outside the Fidelma-a-la-Perry Mason aspect, however, this is probably the strongest book of the first ten in the series. I will say that more recent audiences should be aware that sexual assault plays a very big role in this book, so consider that a content warning.

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2023 #28: The Red Garden (Hoffman)

 

The Red Garden by Alice Hoffman
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Red Garden reads like a collection of interconnected short stories that weave together a generational tapestry of the Brady, Partridge, Starr, and Mott families in the small town of Blackwell, Massachusetts in the Berkshires. Each chapter is a treasure, and subtly communicates concepts of generational trauma, generational legacy, and something altogether a bit magical. The scenery isn't just a backdrop but an essential role in this drama, which is peppered with moments of light-heartedness. Hoffman is telling a tale of lives and while the stories of each person are interesting enough, it is the artful way in which she reaches the thread back to an earlier story and loops it in that made this book compelling. There are elements of magical realism: bonds with bears, a garden that turns all plants red, transformations, and ghosts, but it never distracts from the core humanity of the stories. On the contrary, these elements help illuminate the potential magic in our imaginations and maybe even our lives.

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2023 #27: The Xibalba Murders (Hamilton) - Lara McClintoch #1

 

The Xibalba Murders by Lyn Hamilton
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was a great read and Hamilton did amazing work in integrating the archeological/Mayan aspects. I learned a lot, but without the sometimes agonizing attempts to educate the reader through pages of explanatory dialogue that plagues historical fiction. Lara McClintoch is a great character--both relatable in her life challenges (divorce, losing her business, etc) but also a bit of an armchair superhero sleuth, who isn't afraid to put her neck on the line in search of writing rabbits (read the book and that makes sense). Most of the story takes place in Mérida, Mexico, and Hamilton really makes the city come alive. Each chapter is named for a day of the Mayan calendar, but it isn't frivolous--McClintoch knows her stuff (and so does Hamilton). Portents and symbology abound, as do some good old-fashioned murders. While I am no expert in Mayan culture, I did fact check some of what Hamilton offered and it seems legit.
The author died of cancer in 2009, but she managed 11 in the series, and I can't wait to read them.

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2023 #26 Scorched Grace (Douaihy) - Sister Holiday #1

 

Scorched Grace by Margot Douaihy
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If nun mysteries are a sub-genre, then queer-ex-punkrocker-nun mysteries must be a sub-subgenre. And we are better for it. Margot Douaihy's Sister Holiday is as engaging a sleuth as you will ever meet--she has a dark past like Luther (the cop, not the monk-turned-Protestant icon), the chutzpah of Vera, and some certain original je ne sais quoi that made this a very enjoyable read.

Douaihy, who has published several collections of poetry, has jumped into the genre with welcome audacity. Set in New Orleans, at a Catholic school run by a small cadre of Sisters of the Sublime Blood, the book is brimming with humidity, sweat, music, smoke, and all the distinctive sounds and smells of New Orleans. The characters are bold, although there were times I felt Sister Honor and Rosemary Flynn were overwritten. Most intriguing is Detective Riveaux who tangos with Sister Holiday as equal parts protagonist and antagonist, depending on the context. Douaihy's gift of language sets this apart from a lot of offerings in the genre, and sometimes descriptive language pours forth like an exploding geyser when you least expect it. But it makes for amazing multi-sensory grit.

She slowly reveals just enough of Sister Holiday's secrets to make us want the next installment. Where the rhythm became a bit too rushed is at the end. When we finally learn who has set the fires and committed the murders there's too much that doesn't get explained. I could offer more nuance in that critique, but I'd have to post spoilers and I'd rather not.

This is a fresh and unique heroine--extremely flawed, but heroic all the same. I hope we get a series because there's a lot to unpack in this character, and Douaihy writes a great mystery.

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