millennial_dandy's reviews
339 reviews

<b>3.5 rounded up to 4</b>
With all the recent retellings of Greek mythological stories and Western fairy tails, I was happy to see a mythological/fairytale coming from a different perspective, in this case, one twining together Persian mythology and a few Germanic fairytales. 

Is Girl, Serpent, Thorn a departure from the traditional fairytale format in the sense that anything that happens in it will surprise you? No. This is not a novel trying to dazzle with plot twists meant to shock anyone but the protagonist. But that didn't make Soraya's story any less interesting or enjoyable. 

As someone who has heard of but never read the Persian work, <i>Shahnameh</i> from which 'Girl, Serpent, Thorn' takes much of its inspiration, I was really invested in the world-building, and in being introduced to mythological creatures inspired by a culture relatively unfamiliar to me. 

It's the kind of work that, because it has its roots (if you'll pardon the joke) in two folklore backgrounds, gives a reader a lot of places to go after finishing it. Being that I'm pretty well versed in stories like Sleeping Beauty and Rapunzel, my interest would be in picking up the <i>Shahnameh</i>. And helpfully, at least in this edition, author Melissa Bashardoust includes a list and breakdown of the pieces of Persian mythology she borrows from and how she changed them for her novel. 

As for the story itself, a tale of a cursed princess hidden away from her family until a series of events lead her to becoming the seeming undoing of the world as she knows it, isn't particularly new. However, I was happy that Bashardoust avoided the typical YA trap of making Soraya a Mary Sue character. At first, I'm not going to lie, I was afraid she would be more of a plot device than a real character, but she becomes more three-dimensional as the plot goes on so that by the end, she's actually been given the space for a satisfying character arc. 

And even though I wasn't exactly on the edge of my seat, wondering if she was really going to go over to the dark side, as it were, the moments where she is tempted by power or gives into an understandable thirst for vengeance show that there is a little something something bubbling under the surface of the narrative. And I'm always for a YA author who is willing to confront their characters with genuine temptations borne out of genuine character flaws. 

The villain is also very well conceived; a compelling blend of human monstrousness borne out of a believable tragic backstory, but who is never truly allowed to use events in his past for justification of the bloody path he chooses to go down as a result. 

Again, is any of this as tied up in knots and deeper questions of ethics or morality? No. But that isn't what this is for. This is a fairytale, and as such the lesson it has to teach is one that is simple in essence, but that could act as a seed in the mind of a reader willing to be receptive to what it has to say about strength, about revenge, about loyalty. 

Honestly, my biggest gripe with 'Girl, Serpent, Thorn' was the element that made it the pick for the queer book club I read it for. As much as I liked all of the characters individually, when Soraya 'falls in love' with her ultimate love interest, I did not care for them together, nor was it a particularly well-crafted romance. Enemies to friends, sure. But that's about all that was within the reasonable scope of this novel. But because the romance was the destination Bashardoust wanted those two characters to arrive at and the novel was only so long, we had to do a speed-run to get there. Like, sure, I'm glad they ultimately have each other and whatnot, but when they finally kiss, I didn't exactly squee and kick my feet in glee over the edge of the bed the way I think you're supposed to.

In contrast, the relationship between Soraya and the story's villain was given room to breathe and develop in a more believable way so that the mixed feelings she ultimately has about him for most of the climax makes sense, and even the uncertainty of his feelings for her felt layered. 

So, all in all, not an incredibly successful queer love story, but an enchanting and exciting and intriguing story that has inspired me to push the <i>Shahnameh</i> a little higher up my TBR. 

I would be incredibly curious to know what someone who grew up with some of the source material would make of this retelling, so I can certainly see why this makes a good book club read.

<b> 3.5 rounded up to 4</b>
<i>"I, detached as I am from them and from the whole world, what am I? This must now be the object of my inquiry."(p.27)</i>

What a funny little gem of a book. Considering how unapproachable philosophy can feel, particularly if it's coming from as far back as Rousseau's day in the mid to late 18th century, 'Reveries of the Solitary Walker' does a lot to pull the veil back on what can otherwise be very dense, esoteric ideas. 

'Reveries' isn't really a pure work of philosophy, but even as short drabbles resulting from thoughts an older Rousseau had while on his daily walks over a period of time, they offer some of the broad strokes of the bigger ideas he gets into in 'The Social Contract.' Moreover, it gets you inside the head of a real person rather than reducing a person's creative output to sterile words on a page. 

Rousseau of 'The Solitary Walker' era is miserable, lonely, paranoid, and tired. He constantly refers to himself as a good, moral person who, for no adequately explored reason, has been kicked around his entire adult life to the point where he's been forced to retreat into the wilderness to live out the rest of his life alone. Which he's quite happy about, thank you very much. 

Indeed, many individual quotes from his essays wouldn't have been out of place in an emo kid's diary circa 2008. The feelings of having been misunderstood, of being too sensitive for this cruel world certainly would have resonated with anyone using VampireFreaks.com back when it was a social networking site. IYKYK. 

But although some have decried 'Reveries' as the ramblings of a sad old man (which they are), there's something I found to be almost whimsical about them. Though I'm sure in person he was miserable to be around, in describing his isolation and how it allowed him to find joy in the natural world around him, sparking a late in life passion for herbology, describing in detail his expeditions to nearby meadows to identify the smallest plants growing there provided some very ahead of its time cottagecore sensibilities that the girlies would still enjoy now. 

He pushes back against the need to monetize your hobbies, pointing out that his interest in plants is in what they <i>are</i> not what they can produce. He goes a little off the rails with this on occasion, sliding into anti-intellectualism in places, but there is something that resonates about 'art for art's sake; in the capitalist hellscape in which we currently live. 

Each chapter reflects his 'reveries' from a different walk, and they really do run the gamut from his musings on what makes a lie and whether it's ever morally acceptable to do to angry tirades towards those he perceives to victimize him, to long, dreamy passages describing the wild countryside where he'd row out into the middle of the lake and let himself be dragged gently along by the current on balmy summer afternoons. 

It's readable, and there's probably something in it for everyone, just as there's probably something in it for anyone to dislike, but it certainly makes very human, and brings closer to the reader someone that otherwise gets relegated to the austere name on the spine of a lofty academic text. 

If anything would either prompt someone to attempt something like 'The Social Contract' or fling away the nearest copy of it, it's probably 'Reveries of the Solitary Walker.'

<i>"Why, you have shed blood," cried Dounia in despair. "Which flows and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind [...] I too wanted to do good to men..."</i> p.423 

In comparing 'Crime and Punishment' to Dostoevsky's body of work up until this point, it is easy to see why so many of those earlier works fell into obscurity while 'Crime and Punishment' remains a part of the public conscience even 160 years later. 

This novel feels like the culmination of a few other works in which he was still working out his exact moral compass and what message about it he wanted to impart. Specifically, 'Crime and Punishment' feels like the child of 'Poor Folk' and 'Notes from Underground.' We have the social consciousness of 'Poor Folk' in the plight of Sonia and her family (and even Raskolnikov and his family to an extent) with the theistic sensibilities he never quite spelled out (but indirectly implied) in 'Notes from Underground. 

That is to say, 'Crime and Punishment' seeks to capture the sort of hopelessness of poverty and the misery and depravity of atheism while outright ending on the note that only a belief in God (or, at least, a morality based around a belief in God) can bring about absolution. And, moreover, that an absence of God in a person's life, in a society, leads to nihilism, leads to ego, leads to violence and depravity because without God there can be no consensus on what constitutes morality. 

And I really think it's a shame that he lands so hard on this point (and, honestly, so suddenly) because much of the rest of the novel explores its themes, especially crime, in such a nuanced and interesting way. 

At several points in the novel, Raskolnikov engages with why it was he made the decision to commit murder, see-sawing back and forth between it being an act of philanthropy and an act of ego. However, in the end, he breaks down and in laying out a theory of 'ordinary' versus 'extraordinary' men, he reveals that no matter how he tries to dress up the murder as a sort of 'Robin Hood-esque' raging against the machine, it really was just ego all along. As he explains to Sonia: <blockquote> <i>I wanted to become a Napolean, that is why I killed her [...]I wanted to find out then and quickly whether I was a louse like everybody else, or a man.</i> p.337</blockquote> 
That's all well and good, and has certainly been done before, but the addition of exploring the social construct of crime, and the hypocrisy in how the same act of killing another person can be considered just or unjust depending on the person committing it is certainly worth exploring. Especially considering the regime Dostoevsky was living under. 

When directed by Sonia to give himself up to the police, Raskolnikov initially balks, pointing out that in sending criminals to Siberia, the regime "destroy[s] men by millions themselves and look on it as a virtue." (p.343) 

As an anti-punitive justice girlie myself, I wish the exploration of 'the crime of punishment' would have been done in a more secular way, because I personally find the conclusion of 'murder is wrong because God says it's wrong' incredibly boring. Especially given that, to my limited knowledge, God does not in fact say 'murder is wrong', but rather 'murder is wrong unless committed under a certain set of parameters as determined by me because unlike humans, I can correctly make that calculation.' 

How much more interesting it would have been to tackle this question through a more utilitarian lens. But, alas. This is Dostoevsky, so 'because God' was always going to be the answer. 

That all being said, 'Crime and Punishment' leaves the door wide open for discussion, for critique, and it leans into most of Dostoevsky's better writing sensibilities and away from some of his worse tendencies. 

His portrait of abject poverty and his critique of the class system of the day, specifically his critique of the linkage between virtue and class status, is still relevant today. The central question of 'what makes murder a crime' is compelling and (even if he didn't take it in this direction) makes for good fodder for a discussion of punitive vs. restorative justice, for a discussion of the interplay of crime and power (e.g. why <i>is</i> Raskolnikov viewed socially as a criminal while to many Napolean is a hero when both of them ostensibly killed people to make the world a better place?) 

The women of 'Crime and Punishment' are largely written sympathetically, though with his typical lack of depth so that Raskolnikov’s sister, Dounia, and the prostitute, Sonia, bleed into each other at points. But at least we didn't have to slog through another 'selfish wench leads on nice guy' sub-plot, so that's probably the best we could have hoped for. 

The descriptions of St. Petersburg through Dostoevsky's grey lens of depression are as evocative as ever, and though he is clearly taking 'Crime and Punishment' seriously, he never quite loses his dark yet campy sense of humor, which we can see in lines such as: <i> "I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went on gloomily, although it was the first time. "I may perhaps not see you again..."</i> (p.257) or <i>"Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district when he was depressed, that he might feel more so."</i> (p.129) 

All that said, who is 'Crime and Punishment' for? Certainly, it makes sense as either an introduction to Dostoevsky given the stew of his typical preoccupations, writing style, and architypes it represents, or as perhaps the only of his novels to be included in something like a high school curriculum. The plot is so over-the-top and the characters so heightened and its internal moral compass laid out so clearly that it presents a low barrier of entry as far as literary analysis is concerned. 

I don’t think it’s his best, but the sum of its parts does make sense of why it’s perhaps his most ubiquitous. 

Oh, and fans of 'Deathnote'. 'Crime and Punishment' would specifically appeal to them. 

Having chronologically read 13 of the works leading up to 'Crime and Punishment' I feel like I 'get it' contextually, and this brings me joy, and I enjoyed the ride while I was on it, but it's not my favorite of his, and I'm curious, moving forward with this chronological read-through if I'll be inclined to agree that his last major writing project, 'Brothers Karamazov' is in fact where he peaks rather than here.

'One Last Stop' is a fine book, perfectly suited to the reader who just wants to squee over a perfectly cute queer love story. 

That's it, that's all she wrote. 

Except... 

I haven't read Casey McQuiston's mega-hit 'Red, White, and Royal Blue', so I can't compare the two, but I will say that 'One Last Stop' falls into the neo-liberal trap in ways that lead me to think 'Red, White, and Royal Blue' probably isn't for me. 

'One Last Stop' tells the story of two young women who find each other and fall in love on the New York Subway in the late 20-teens and overcome the obstacle of love interest, Jane, having been trapped on the subway since some time in the 1970s as a sort of not-ghost. 

Honestly, I really liked this premise, especially as over the course of the narrative it's revealed just how deeply involved in the fight for queer rights Jane had been in the late 60s, early 70s -- a particularly important turning point for gay rights, Stonewall having occurred in 1969. She represents a time in recent queer history where activism was much less sanitized, much grittier and messier and necessarily more violent than what is considered 'acceptable' today. 

And I sincerely thought this aspect of Jane's personal history would be important, you know, considering what all was going on and continues to be going on in the late 20-teens... considering who was president in the 20-teens...something something #MeToo....the trans community being vilified on a national stage and relegated to a culture war issue that served as a flashpoint for open hostility towards queer people that don't conform to incredibly narrow parameters of what 'acceptable' queerness looks like (or whether it can be considered acceptable at all)... 

But no, no, 'One Last Stop' doesn't concern itself with any of this because it's just supposed to be a cute, time-travel love story. 

And honestly, I wouldn't even pick on it for side-stepping the reality of the time period McQuiston chose to set it in (that is to say, late 2019, early 2020) in service of a fluffy plot except that the <i>way</i> she chose to do it kind of pissed me off. It would have been one thing to simply present an alternate reality in which things are fine, actually (as many queer people genuinely felt) ... in 2010. 

But why, <i>why</i> go out of your way to present the queer experience in 2019 as a monolithically fluffy, happy party in which everyone is welcome and loved, in which the cast of almost unbelievably diverse characters all experience the world in exactly the same way, whether they be white, Black, Brown, trans, cis, skinny, fat, a drag queen or starving artist university student? Why do this, knowing, surely, that this is untrue, and then on top of it, have the audacity to have the present-day characters chastise Jane for pushing back on micro and macro aggressions she experiences and witnesses on the subway in 2019, and insist that 'it's not like that anymore. We can relax, we don't have to fight anymore. Everything's fine, actually.' 

In 2019 things were objectively <i>not</i> fine, actually, and I find it both baffling and irresponsible of this author to participate in revisionist history in this way. Especially when a better story was <i>right there. </i> How powerful would it have been to have two queer women, one from the 1970s and one from the 20-teens, meet only for Jane of 1974 to realize how very little progress has actually been made? How marginally all of the blood, sweat, and tears of her generation actually moved the dial.  Yes, that would have made for a much sadder story, but it also would have been more truthful. 

And, frankly, it also would have offered the opportunity to utilize Jane's more punk-rock approach to activism as a catalyst to shake the other characters out of their little rainbow neo-liberal bubble. 

<i>Ughhhhhhhhhh...</i>

Yes, this book made me angry, in case that wasn't clear. 

There's nothing wrong with wanting to tell a story of queer joy. To tell a story where struggle and hardship aren't the central themes. But truly, I can only implore authors who want to tell cute, unserious, fluffy queer love stories to do better than this.

<i>"The one who pours himself a cup of vengeance is likely to drink a bitter draught." 
        "Yes, if he is poor and clumsy; no, if he's a millionaire and adroit." </i> p.385

The Count of Monte Cristo is, despite its girth and size, an excellent gateway into the Classics. And this for a number of reasons: 

One, having been written serially, each chapter or at most, each couple of chapters, contains within a short story with a climax and cliffhanger that together serve an overarching plot. This means that the pacing clips along, so that before you know it, you're three hundred pages deep and still in the thick of things. 

Two, it's much more linguistically accessible than classics/literary fiction has a reputation to be. Not that the prose isn't lovely in places--it is-- but for the most part, the prose is there as a vehicle for an exciting story. For someone who isn't looking to or is just starting to get used to wading through dense, multi-line sentences, each with their own dense, philosophical musings, metaphors, and hidden meanings, Monte Cristo is perfect. Given that it was written in the mid 19th century, there are some stylistic quirks that are obviously different to how such a novel would be written today, but it's easy enough to get into the rhythm. 

Three, it is thematically pretty straightforward. This is principally a revenge fantasy plot wrapped around the question of whether or not revenge is a worthy cause to pursue. It explores how seeking revenge impacts the person seeking it as well as the fallout when it goes to plan. There's also a related question that Dumas raises about where, if anywhere, Providence ends and free-will begins. This may sound like a slightly more esoteric ponderance, but Dumas keeps it accessible by having the Count/Dantes call himself 'the Hand of God' about which he has several conversations with other principal characters. 

I was frankly pretty amazed by how little in a novel published in the mid 1840s aged poorly. There are a few things that on first blush may appear to be at odds with our 21st century sensibilities, but Dumas makes it clear contextually that he as the author isn't suggesting these things are good, but is in fact including them as proof of the Count/Dantes's corruption. At one point, the Count tells one of the 'good guys', Franz, about how he acquired one of his <s>slaves</s> servants: by waiting until after the man had had his tongue cut out to rescue him from execution because 'he'd always wanted a mute servant.' <i>"For a moment Franz said nothing, considering what he should think of the cruel good humour with which his host had told him this story."</i> (p.316) And then later, when the Count speaks of this slave, Ali, again to someone else: <i>"He receives no wages, he is not a servant, he is my slave, he is my dog. If he were to fail in his duty, I should not dismiss him. I should kill him." Baptistin's eyes bulged"</i> (p.528) 

Then, of course, there's the elephant in the room: the Count's slave girl/mistress, Haydee, who he buys when she's a child, raises as his daughter, and eventually ends up in a romantic relationship with (thanks, I hate it). Even though this is the area where Dumas treads the closest to...poor taste (?) to say the least, he still has enough context and negative reaction from other characters to this relationship that the narrative isn't celebrating it. Still, definitely gives one the ick. 

I rather think that the relative openness with which Dumas displays his tale's moral compass makes it a good starter for a reader just learning how to do literary analysis. What Dumas has to say about revenge can be easily extrapolated from the things his characters say and do in addition to the consequences and outcomes of those actions. 

And, frankly, it's just a very compelling story with a memorable protagonist, a very discussable plot, and with enough intrigue to flesh itself out. 

Sure, in a novel over 1000 pages, there are bound to be things that get overwritten, and a few too many side-plots, but it all comes back together in the end in a way that makes getting through those moments still feel worth it. 

Is it the greatest novel ever written? I wouldn't accuse it of that, but it's definitely clear to me why it's stood the test of time, and I wouldn't be surprised if we saw a Netflix mini-series in the nearish future now that BookTok's gotten a hold of this sprawling novel.

A thoroughly enjoyable little novel. 

Very much within the 'slice of life' category, 'Days at the Morisaki Bookshop' follows our protagonist as she navigates a nasty break-up, quits her job, and tries to piece herself back together while living above her uncle's titular bookshop. 

At least, that's where we start. 

Certainly, 'Days at' starts out this way, but the real meat of the story is what happens afterwards. It's about Takako using this experience (with a little prodding from her uncle) to develop a stronger sense of self and, of course, a love of books. 

Her transformation into a reader will be familiar to the target audience of this novel, but author Satoshi Yagisawa captures it so well: that feeling of euphoria when for the first time you read something that moves you. And then the follow-up realization that it's a high you can achieve over and over again (though, of course, not every novel is going to be a winner). 

It's also about how, despite reading itself being a solitary activity, the brotherhood of 'readers' gives one access to this entire network of people who feel the same way, even if they aren't interested in the same books as you. It's about how the books that move us can reflect something of ourselves at a certain moment in time. 

Takako’s relationship with her uncle develops so naturally, and he’s such a genuinely nice, if somewhat eccentric person without feeling too one-dimensional. Sometimes he makes questionable decisions, he can be a little bit of a push-over, but as we find out more about him, and he reveals why he was so keen to help out his estranged niece, it becomes difficult not to like him. 

Sometimes, I think authors are tempted to use some inciting incident as the only connection between two people without taking the time to build up their relationship beyond that, but Yagisawa really takes the time to let a realistic kinship develop between Takako and her uncle (and Takako and her love interest) before even telling us why he took her in in the first place, and that made the entire story feel more authentic and ultimately more worthwhile. In some ways, it’s not a bad guide for showing the reader how to really ‘see’ the people in their lives. 

It would be pretty easy for this type of book to fall into feel-good cliches, and there are moments where it is a little on-the-nose in terms of promoting 'being a reader', but these moments aren't too, too sugary sweet, and the main thrust of the novel is the plot rather than being 'pro book propaganda' (if there is such a thing). 

Takako's character arc is believable (if a little accelerated there at the end) and I like how much more likable she becomes as she pulls herself out of the depths of her post-break-up depression; there's a nice bit of sincerity in that. 

The secondary storyline about the relationship between Takako's uncle and his tempestuous wife is compelling; certainly, the aunt as a character is very intriguing. I'm not sure I loved how that storyline resolved since it tied up a little too neatly for my taste, but in a novel that's meant to be cozy and uplifting, it is what you'd expect. 

I suppose I'm just not a fan of happy endings, which says more about me than about this novel, so pay me no mind. 

I loved my time spent at the Morisaki Bookshop, and like one of the characters we meet, I am deeply jealous of Takako for getting to recharge her batteries there; what reader wouldn't love that? A little room above a used bookstore jam-packed with old books that you get to read at your leisure, help organize, and sell to local book enthusiasts? That's the dream, for sure. And Yagisawa captures it in the kind of dreamy prose that makes 'Days at the Morisaki Bookshop' the perfect summer read.

If you're 'looking for a man in finance, trust fund, 6'5'', blue eyes', then you've come to the right place, and by all accounts your man's name is Vincent. Certainly, our ‘everyman’ POV character, Sarah Hall, seemed to think he was her savior when he plucked her out of oblivion to work on his hot-shot Wall Street team. 

But working in finance is pretty brutal as it turns out (who'd have thunk?) and everyone is awful to each other, constantly trying to jostle for position on the top rung of the corporate ladder, stepping on whoever they have to in order to get there, be that a co-worker or some faceless blue-collar workers in a city they'll never visit that they've just forced to lose their jobs. 

'Escape Room' isn't some hidden masterpiece of literature, but for all that it's more Christopher Pike than it is Vladimir Nabokov, author Megan Goldin had a fun, compelling tale of revenge she wanted to tell, and it worked. 

For the most part, Goldin tries to ground 'Escape Room' in reality: the reality of working a brutal. pressure cooker job with punishing hours and uncaring higher-ups, the reality of being a woman trying to make it in a man's world, the reality of being groomed to be a cutesy little materialist within a hyper-capitalist system that you help uphold. These sections could sometimes be a little on-the-nose, but in the end it's not like Goldin is wrong about any of it, so she might be loud, but at least she's loud and right. And boy does she make you want to eat the rich by the time the whole thing is over. Or, at least, she makes sure you're not particularly sorry when a team-building exercise gone wrong (or is it?) leads four such deplorable people to be trapped together on an elevator over the weekend. 

The mystery at the heart of 'Escape Room' turns out to actually be pretty heavy and horrifying, but is, alas, also representative of something I have no doubt could happen at a company like the one she builds this one up to be: a playground for overgrown frat bros. 

That is to say: 'Escape Room' gets a big ole trigger warning for sexual assault in the workplace. 

After that, the novel evolves from a 'what is going on?' type of thriller to more of the 'I Spit on Your Grave', feminist revenge plot. 

Or is it? 

Does <i>anyone</i> come out of 'Escape Room' looking good? Or is the one pulling the strings ultimately just as selfish and horrible as the four people they lock on the elevator? You decide! 

Now listen: after staying pretty plausible for the first 2/3, for the climax Goldin just went 'fuck it' and let her imagination and love of heist movies run wild. And honestly, love that for her. Just know that after 'the big reveal' you're not supposed to go over anything else with a fine-tooth comb -- you'll only be stopping yourself from having fun if you do because none of it will stand up to scrutiny and that isn't really the point anyway. 

It was a fun read, and my favorite part is that the puppet-master character's end game and what actually happens on the elevator aren't completely in-synch and I loved imagining them finding out what actually happened after the end of the book. 

If you know, you know!

<b>this collection translated by: Jessie Coulson</b>
<i><b>The Gambler  --> 3.5/5</b></i>
<i>"I had a strange, mad idea that I should be certain to win at roulette here. Why I had this idea, I don't know, but I believed it. Who knows, perhaps I believed it because I had no choice -- there was nothing else left." </i> p.44

'The Gambler' occupies a strange place in the Dostoevsky line-up. It was written under financial duress in the same year he'd go on to publish 'Crime and Punishment' and in a lot of ways, the pushed-out nature of the novella is fairly obvious. 

Though the central exploration of gambling does remain the focus of the narrative, there are many, many times when (likely to push up the word count) Dostoevsky descends into xenophobic tirades about Germans, the English, but most often, the French. Much of this material would be familiar to anyone who has read 'Winter Notes on Summer Impressions,' a series of essays he wrote following an extended trip to Europe that seems to have really lit the flame of his mistrust of The West. Granted, there was real reason for some of his vitriol, but even punching up is often mean-spirited, and it gets a bit tiresome by the end of the story. 

Another bad habit he indulges in 'The Gambler' is his shallow writing of women, particularly young women. Nothing distinguishes this love interest from, say, the love interest in 'Uncle's Dream.' Polina is just another bitchy, self-serving woman who friend-zones the protagonist and is downright cruel to him, readily taking advantage of his love for her and in the end never reciprocating his feelings. He even manages to cross-list this limp characterization with his hatred of the French by having her fall in love with a ne'er do well French opportunist and scathingly adding at the end that Russian young ladies are particularly susceptible to the vapid charm of Frenchmen. 

<i>Yawn. </i>

That being said, easily the most interesting character is Grandmama, who represents the only type of woman Dostoevsky up until this point has ever been able to write successfully: old ladies with tornado personalities. These sections with Grandmama brought much needed life to an otherwise lackluster tale, and she provides some excellent comedic moments of brash commentary as her lack of inhibition and tidal-wave of chatter washes over everyone she comes in contact with: 

"You're very pretty. I should fall in love with you if I were a young man. Why don't you get married? However, it's time I went." ... "Are you ashamed of being with me, eh? Stay at home then; nobody's asked you to come." (p.80, 85)

Grandmama is the other character for whom gambling becomes a problem, and Dostoevsky does a great job pointing out that the addiction can sneak up on anyone, whether young or old, rich or poor, and regardless of whether or not a person knows better. However, he does make it clear that the consequences impact different people very differently. 

His commentary on the nature of gambling addiction, the logic by which gamblers justify returning to their game of chance of choice even after it has demonstrably ruined their lives is easily the most worthwhile aspect of the novella, and was likely drawing on his own struggles with gambling. Right near the end of the novella, when the protagonist has hit rock bottom, he admits that his desperation for money has now gotten mixed up with the thrill itself of the moments of possibility before he finds out whether he's won or lost: "When, on my way to the gaming room, I hear from two rooms away the chink of the coins pouring out of the scoops, I am thrown into a ferment [...] Yes, in such moments one forgets all one's previous failures. I had got this, you see, at the risk of more than life, I had dared to run the risk -- and now I was a man again!" (p.155) 

There's definitely something to be said of the several times he equates success or failure at the roulette table to either succeeding or failing as a man, and there's an implication that 'being a man' is the psychological driver that lead to the gambling; if he had more money, he'd be a real man. If he were a real man, he'd get the girl. But then, when he does have the money, the girl he attracts is a gold digger who, though she seemingly does really care about him, nevertheless robs him blind and ironically only comes to value him once she realizes he doesn't care about the money. 

So, he leaves men with a real catch-22: you're not a real man if you don't have money, and women won't want you unless you have it. But once you have money, the only women you can get just want the money. They're only interested in you as a person if you don't have money, but then they'll only view you as a friend. Or something like that. 

It's sad, really. And it again speaks to the type of male reader that reads stories like this and sees a reflection of their own bitterness that then leads them to either nihilistic inceldom or the 'red-pilled' manosphere, or both. 

And I feel for them, I do; under patriarchy, the pressure on men to secure financial success in order to be considered valuable is immense, and has existed at least since this was published in the 1860s. However, but, and also, that doesn't make it true. And I think a lot of straight men (and probably some queer men too) would be much happier if they realized how artificial that definition of successful manhood is. And it's certainly not the thing that is going to lead most men (certainly not most women) to mutually loving, equitable, happy relationships. 

Just saying.
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<i><b> A Nasty Story  --> 4.5/5</b></i> 
<i>"What is heroism? - this. Consider: given the present relations between all classes of society, for me, me, to go to the wedding festivities of my subordinate [...] is to cause confusion, turn all ideas topsy-turvy, create a chaos like the last days of Pompeii! Nobody will understand it. Stepan Nikiforovich will die without understanding it. It was he who said we shan't be able to stand it, you know. Yes, but that's you, old man, victim of paralysis and stagnation, but I-will-stand-it!"</i> p.196

This is basically just Dostoevsky having fun ragging on performative, self-centered Liberalism (derogatory), and as a Leftist I lived for it. 

The plot is incredibly simple but effective. Protagonist Ivan Ilych (not to be confused with the poor fellow in Tolstoy's novella) is hanging out with some of his older acquaintances of equal social standing, and he starts talking about how social change is good, actually, and they're being stuffy if they disagree. As he's taking his leave, he discovers that his coachman has gone off with the carriage and not returned back yet. Ivan Ilych gets super annoyed and decides to walk home even though he's a little bit tipsy. On the way, he comes upon the wedding party of one of his subordinates and decides to gate crash specifically so he can espouse his understanding of how people like them really are just the same as someone like himself, and to get them to praise him for being an ally of the people. 

He has a vivid fantasy of everyone at the wedding fawning over this bravery on his part, and for lowering himself to attend a lowly poor wedding and grace such poor folk as themselves with his presence when surely he could be off rubbing shoulders with his own kind. 

It does not, needless to say, turn out quite as he'd pictured. 

Not only is he very obviously an unwanted guest, the fact that propriety dictates the Groom and everyone else must nevertheless treat him with deference and respect makes everything even more awkward. To cover his embarrassment at having wildly misjudged how him showing up uninvited would go and that no one is interested in hearing his little speech (and indeed that the little speech was actually pretty stupid), Ivan Ilych gets progressively more drunk, and basically ruins this guy's wedding and inconveniences everyone in the household after he gets sick and passes out. 

Afterwards, he's so embarrassed about the whole thing that he decides his older friends were right and that as far as the classes are concerned, it's a ne'er the twain shall meet type situation. 

It's deeply funny, but should be avoided by anyone who suffers from second-hand embarrassment because boy let me tell you: there's a lot of it. 

Liberal-hating conservatives will enjoy this because the humor leans on the hypocrisy of elitist Liberals they love braying about. Leftists will also love this for that reason, but from the Left. If you know, you know. And if you don't know 'A Nasty Story' is an excellent gateway. 

Near pitch-perfect slice of life and lighthearted but pointed social commentary from my man, Fedya.

<i>"Are you saying doomsday is less than two months away?" "Yaeger nodded solemnly. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." </i> (p.276)

I'd never read Clive Cussler before, and just had a vague notion of him as 'one of those authors your dad picks up at the airport' types of writers. 

That was completely correct (*affectionate*). 'Atlantis Found' was a romp wherein Dirk Pitt ran around the globe being a badass, 'pew-pewing' with his neat little gun while a bunch of neo-Nazis 'pew-pewed' back with really big guns, and the whole thing culminates with him rescuing a team of 65 top American military servicemen from certain death at the hands of the would-be Fourth Reich. 

And also, the Nazis found Atlantis, something something they want to destroy the world to rebuild it in their own image because of this for...reasons? But who cares? We're just here to self-insert as Dirk Pitt while he runs amok as a good guy with a gun, beating back the ladies with a stick.

He's not some corporate stooge or a wimpy techie or a bougie elitist -- he's just a down to earth, no-nonsense <i>man</i> -- just like you. Probably. Maybe. You could be. Some of this 'I'm a simple man' schtick turned back around and was unintentionally very funny. Like, at one point he's out to dinner at a French restaurant with his senator girlfriend, and when the waiter comes over, this happens: "Pitt did not attempt to pronounce the menu courses in French. He held to straight English." (p.290) 

Another unintentionally funny thing was Cussler's writing of women in this novel. Specifically, the descriptions as various women are introduced. The introduction of 'Atlantis Found's' token girlie almost felt like satire: 

"Ambrose guessed her height at five feet eight inches, her weight at a solid 135 pounds. She was a pretty woman, not cute or strikingly beautiful, but he imagined she'd look very desirable when dressed in something more alluring than jeans and a mannish jacket." (p.39) 

Like, I'm sorry, but who describes someone like this? I feel like this is how you'd describe a horse or an alien. As I say: the objectification is so out there it turns back around and it's just funny. 

My favorite moment like this has to be later, though, when Dirk Pitt is investigating a U-boot that has just been sunk in Antarctica by the US military (don't worry about it) and he finds the body of a woman aboard this sunken vessel and describes her corpse this way: "What had once been a beautiful woman stared at him through wide, sightless, blue-gray eyes [...] She wore the standard Fourth Empire black jumpsuit, but its material was shredded, as though a giant cat had raked its claws across it [...] A finely contoured breast was exposed by the torn cloth." (p.219) 

Just...why? For whom is this in there? (I shudder to guess) 

Bizarre descriptions like these aside, the plot itself is pretty unhinged on its face in a way not unexpected for 'pew-pew' man-lit (to coin a phrase), but in some ways I feel like it wasn't unhinged enough. I got the sense that Cussler was restraining the plot somewhat by trying to ground it in reality. Like, buddy, your starting point is <i>Atlantis</i>; go nuts. But by trying to keep everything within the realm of possibility, he ended up making that entire segment of the plot pretty dull, which was a pity. 

The same could not be said for the Nazi plot, however. Unfettered imagination on that count. And everything about that was more enjoyable to read (in that dumb fun sort of way) as a result. Once we established that a saved vile of Hitler's sperm was involved in creating a race of super-Nazis I was in. Like: alright, let's go for a wild ride. 

Based on other reviews of this installment in the Dirk Pitt series, I get the impression that a lot of fans didn't really care for this one, but since I've nothing to compare it to, I can only say that it was...fine. Silly and absolutely not something that was aimed at me by any stretch of the imagination (I realized that for certain when he described this random grandmother-aged side-character as 'twenty pounds on the plump side'), but for what it was it was interesting in an ethnographic sort of way. 

And contrary to popular opinion, I thought it was adorable that Cussler self-inserted in the story and had the main characters call him 'dad'.

 I like the Gogol-esque absurdity of the satire in this one. Very on the nose, some might say, but still very funny. I read somewhere that this was a piece he hadn't polished fully before publication, and that definitely shows in the abruptness of the ending, but nevertheless it's a fun little entry from a great writer.

His xenophobia was definitely showing though, and I really wish he hadn't chosen to tie his anti-capitalist leanings to that because it wasn't necessary and feels lazy.

A much, much better satire of his was 'A Nasty Story', which I'd recommend far before I'd recommend this.

All in all, even if the central image of a man living inside a crocodile is memorable and, with a bit of a re-write, 'The Crocodile' could have been quite good, it's largely a big 'meh' from me.

I did chuckle once or twice, for what it's worth.