I would never have read this book had not a German version been sitting on a shelf of free books at my language academy. Though above my reading levelI would never have read this book had not a German version been sitting on a shelf of free books at my language academy. Though above my reading level, I was able to make my way through the book without much difficulty, just because I already know the basic story of McCartney’s life so well. That being said, it feels somewhat dishonest to write a review, since there was a great deal I certainly didn’t understand.
My only comment on the book’s contents, then, is that I found it surprisingly critical of its subject. I got the feeling that Benson was dismissive of most of McCartney’s post-Beatles work and found him, in many respects, simply unlikable—vain, empty-headed, and overly controlling. To be fair, I can understand why a biographer would get frustrated with McCartney, since by the time he turned 30 he had reached the high point of his career, and it is frustrating to watch somebody appear to squander their talent.
In any case, considering that the book was published over 30 years ago, and that McCartney is still kicking, I’d think there must be considerably better biographies on the market by now. Still, it made for excellent German practice....more
I bought this book over a decade ago—perhaps even when I was still in college—when I was looking for ways that my anthropology degree could be appliedI bought this book over a decade ago—perhaps even when I was still in college—when I was looking for ways that my anthropology degree could be applied in different fields. Neither particularly long nor difficult to read, there is no good reason that I left the book to sit in a corner for so long.
Plotkin is an ethnobotanist who has dedicated himself to preserving the indigenous knowledge of medicinal plants before they are lost. This book is a record of his journey to gain the trust of chiefs, shamans, and medicine men in different ethnic groups, and the various misadventures he suffered along the way. For a plant guy, Plotkin is a surprisingly strong writer, and the book is in general quite engaging. I particularly appreciated his situating his own voyages within the context of earlier Amazonian explorers and anthropologists. It is not so often that a scientist has such a feeling for history or the written word.
I think that any Westerner who chooses to work with indigenous peoples puts themselves in a delicate situation. The power dynamic is just so skewed that it is very easy to misstep. Given this, I thought that Plotkin’s treatment of his informants was respectful almost to a fault. He is clearly fascinated by traditional knowledge and medical practices, and studies it with almost reverential awe. And while I sometimes found his horror of all things Western a bit exaggerated, it is no doubt true that the destruction of so many cultures and languages constitutes a major (and ongoing) human tragedy.
Given that this book was published over 30 years ago, I would be curious to learn if any of the plants Plotkin collected actually resulted in new medicines. I do have to admit, a bit shamefacedly, that his descriptions of traditional medicine did not inspire much confidence in me. In one section, for example, the shamans of two tribes described how they used particular plants. In each case, they gave widely different uses for the plant in question—such as for tooth ailments or liver disease—which would seem to indicate that at least one of them was wrong. But I should also add that I am generally skeptical of herbal remedies.
Even so, I recognize that the destruction of so many lifeways and so many species of plants and animals is a monumental loss. It is good that there are those like Plotkin trying to stem the tide....more
When I finish a doorstopper like this—a book of enormous scope and ambition, a genuine tour de force—I usually feel that I should reflect this weightiWhen I finish a doorstopper like this—a book of enormous scope and ambition, a genuine tour de force—I usually feel that I should reflect this weightiness in my review. After all, I spent months on this thing, bringing it up in conversation after conversation, enjoying the feeling of gradual enlightenment as I made my way from the beginning to the end. And yet, I think Caro has made his point so well, so clearly, and so forcefully that there is very little left to be said on this subject.
Apart from Lyndon Johnson, this book must be one of the best books written about the United States Senate. Indeed, one gets a sense that this was precisely Robert Caro’s goal, since he begins with a kind of book within a book, going through the entire history of the institution. In this respect, Master of the Senate can be rather depressing, since the Senate has always been, if not quite a broken, a malfunctioning body. This is largely the fault of the founders, who had the high-minded idea of creating a legislative house composed of older, wiser statesmen who could modify the rash impulses of the electorate. Instead, they created an anti-democratic institution, unresponsive to the will of the people, and historically on the side of the already rich and powerful.
The book’s central theme explores a disturbing irony: it took a bastard of historical proportions to get this legislative body to become, however briefly and modestly, a force for good. For eighty years since Reconstruction, idealistic politicians had tried to get Civil Rights legislation passed through the Senate, and they had all failed. Pure hearts, noble ideals, and moving eloquence had not made a dent in the Senate’s ability to block the legislation. But Lyndon Johnson, who loved power above all, whose personal ambition outweighed every other goal, who stole his election to the Senate, who abused his inferiors, flattered his superiors, and manipulated his equals, who was even cruel to his loving and loyal wife—this man, whom Caro had spent two volumes portraying in the least flattering possible light, had what it took to get a Civil Rights bill through the Senate.
This book thus has a dispiriting message. Put bluntly: maybe we need these Type-A assholes after all. And Johnson is perhaps the perfect representation of this cultural stereotype, all the way down to his heart attack. If you had asked me before starting on this series about this sort of person—selfish, restless, ambitious, domineering—I would have said they all ought to be sent to therapy, for their and our mutual benefit. Indeed, I occasionally fantasized about what would happen if a relatively normal person (me, for example) became president—what would happen if our government were composed of ordinary folks rather than the most power-hungry or ideological among us. The utter foolishness of this thought is demonstrated by this book. If I were suddenly appointed, say, Senate Majority Leader, I would accomplish precisely nothing. I’m not enough of a bastard.
A very clever friend of mine put a question to me some months ago, which at the time I couldn’t answer: Why would a Texas Democrat push so hard for civil rights, when it inevitably meant losing the support of southern whites? This book goes a considerable way in making sense of Johnson’s decision. There were many factors, but the most important in 1957 was that Johnson needed to drop the stigma of being a southern racist if he was ever to have a chance at the presidency—and the presidency was always his ultimate goal. However, this does not explain why Johnson, once president, would continue the fight. The truth seems to be that, when his overwhelming urge for power was satisfied, and other qualities of his personality were allowed to come to the fore, he did genuinely care about helping the disadvantaged. If only every type-A were like that....more
Robert Caro sets his own standard for political biographies, and if this volume was at all lacking for me it was only in comparison to the masterful fRobert Caro sets his own standard for political biographies, and if this volume was at all lacking for me it was only in comparison to the masterful first volume in this series. But even this is not exactly a fair comparison, as The Path to Power covered Johnson’s formative years—delving into his family history, his marriage, his schooling, his environment, his first working experience, and finally his rise to the House of Representatives. Its scope, in other words, is quite broad.
Means of Ascent is a very different book, covering only seven years (1941-48). It is significantly shorter (though still hefty enough), and most of these pages are dedicated to Johnson’s 1948 Senate race. This corresponds to what Winston Churchill called his “wilderness years,” in which Johnson was directionless and cut off from the main arteries of power. He spent some of this time in a non-combat role in the military (and spent the rest of his life shamelessly exaggerating his minimal exploits), some of this time using his connections to get rich through a radio station—and finally got back onto the path to power by stealing a Senate election.
As Caro says repeatedly, Johnson is a complex personality with a strange admixture of the despicable and the admirable—and this book contains precious little of the latter. As a result, whereas in the first volume one could sometimes feel sympathetic for the young man from Texas, here he is little more than a power-grasping villain. Caro himself obviously came to feel disgusted with Johnson’s personality, and his feelings seep through in his descriptions of Johnson’s ample transgressions: his blatant mistreatment—indeed, verbal abuse—of anyone he considers inferior (including receptionists, waiters, his own staff, and his poor wife), his absolute amorality regarding even basic ideals (such as democracy itself), and his willingness to stop at nothing to obtain power.
Caro contrasts Johnson’s personality with that of his opponent in the 1948 Senate election, Coke Stevenson—a man Caro portrays as honest and honorable. And here the esteemed biographer got into a little bit of trouble. While Stevenson may indeed have been upstanding in the sense that he was true to his word, did not bow to lobbyists, did not attack political opponents, and did not seek political office in order to satisfy a lust for power—while all this may have been true, Stevenson was also certainly a reactionary and a racist.
These rather unflattering qualities are given only a passing mention in the book, which may leave the reader with a skewed impression of Stevenson. Caro was roundly criticized for this, and in an article in the New York Times, published in 1991, he responded some of these criticisms. Yet his defense—that the subject of race played little role in the election—while valid as far as historical explanation goes, still does not quite excuse the glowing portrait he painted. Upon finishing the book, it is difficult to resist the impression that Caro himself came to admire Stevenson.
Even so, as abhorrent as I find Stevenson’s views to be, I would still prefer such a man to the Johnson of 1948, who seems to have had no political philosophy, no political aspirations beyond his desire to control people, and—worst of all—no respect for the institution of democracy. Throughout all of the legal battles and maneuvers which allowed him to keep his stolen election victory, Johnson never once betrayed the slightest hint that he might have had misgivings about upending the will of the people. Indeed, as Caro makes clear, he seems to have been proud of it, virtually boasting of the “victory” in later years.
Now, at this point I will do something very brave—or cowardly, perhaps—and venture a slight criticism of Caro. After so many pages, his writing style is beginning to ware on me. This is because, I think, his primary rhetorical technique is that of superlatives. What I mean is that, for Caro, everything is as extreme as possible. Johnson is not just a sleazy politician, but unprecedentedly amoral; Stevenson is not just a popular governor, but a Texan hero; and so on, and so on. Caro relentlessly emphasizes how extreme every event and experience was—so much so that, by the end, you are begging for something totally ordinary and unremarkable to happen (and no, not superlatively ordinary).
That said, the book is eminently readable and highly enjoyable. Here Caro creates such a memorable portrait of an amoral, power-crazed politician that, had this book been written by anyone else, it would by itself be considered an enduring classic of American political writing. It is only when compared to his other books that this one may seem somewhat light....more
Last winter, I went to the Film Forum in Manhattan with some friends to see the new documentary about Robert Caro and his famous editor, Robert GottliLast winter, I went to the Film Forum in Manhattan with some friends to see the new documentary about Robert Caro and his famous editor, Robert Gottlieb. It was a wonderful experience on many levels. The documentary was fascinating and inspiring—the story of two people who, in quite different ways, have lived fully dedicated to literature—and it was the perfect place to see it, in the heart of Caro’s and Gottlieb’s city, surrounded by other New Yorkers.
Gottlieb comes across as a lovable and brilliant person (he has, sadly, since passed away at the age of 92), but Caro comes across as something superhuman, an embodied intellectual force. The name of the documentary, Turn Every Page, aptly summarizes what makes Caro so special: the meticulous, obsessive, even demented attention to detail—the determination to get to the heart of every aspect of every story, to never be satisfied with half-truths or empty explanations. And then, once he has gathered together his facts, this relentless attention is focused on the writing. For Caro is not satisfied with merely presenting us with his (always impressive) research. He is determined—again, maniacally so—to make us understand on a deep emotional level what each of these facts mean.
All of these qualities are fully on display in this, the first book of Caro’s monumental biography of the 36th president of the United States. As a political biography—a record of the accumulation and use of power—the book is peerless. Caro traces how Johnson, by sheer force of his personality, went from a rural boy with little education and less money to a member of Congress in just a few years. His chapters on Johnson’s elections alone—his campaign strategies, his fundraising, his advertising—are a goldmine for any political historian, and eye-opening for even the most cynical of readers.
Yet everybody knows that Caro is a master of political biography. What surprised me most was how brilliant this book was in other respects. His descriptions of the Texas Hill Country, for example—its climate, its soil, its weather—often rise to such a level of poetry that I was reminded of John Steinbeck. And his chapter on life in the Hill Country before electrification—the difficulty of even simple chores like washing and ironing—is so empathetic that it brings this experience to life as powerfully as even the most gifted novelist could manage.
Aside from this wonderful scene-setting, and aside from the incisive history, this book is of course the study of a personality. And it is a peculiar one. Indeed, underneath all of the historical detail, I think there is a very basic moral conundrum at the heart of this book. It is, in short, that Johnson is successful and effective—indeed, often a force for good—while being personally unlikeable and morally vacuous.
Caro goes to great lengths to illustrate the uglier sides of Johnson’s character. His urge for power is so great that it trumps every other consideration in his life: love, loyalty, ideals, friendship, ethics. When he is stealing elections, betraying friends and allies, and cheating on his wife, not once does he give evidence that he even possesses a conscience. And yet, in his quest for power, he educates children, helps the unemployed find jobs, secures money for veterans, and electrifies his district, among much else.
This paradox is illustrated in Johnson’s treatment of his secretaries. While he worked as a congressional assistant, Johnson went to great lengths to help the constituents of his district—far more than any ordinary assistant could or would. But this unusual effectiveness was achieved by working his own secretaries to such a degree that they could not have any life outside of work, and one had a nervous breakdown and fell into alcoholism. This is a consistent pattern: the specific people close to Johnson are used as tools for his own advancement, while the abstract people out in the world benefit from his obsessive work ethic.
To put the matter another way, Johnson seems to violate every ethical precept I know regarding the treatment of others, and lives in total contradiction of every piece of advice I know regarding wise and good living. Johnson comes across as a miserable person destined to share his misery with the world. But it becomes clear that Johnson’s personality type is perfectly suited for politics, and he achieves almost instant success when he enters that field. Indeed, one gets the impression that everyone else in Washington D.C. is just a toned-down version of Johnson—equally as power-hungry, but not as effective.
Somehow, we seem to have a system designed to elevate people whom most of us would find repulsive. Maybe this is inevitable, as the people who most desire power are the ones most likely to get hold of it. Perhaps the best thing to do, then, is to hope that the institutions are set up in such a way that, as in the case of Johnson, these driven individuals end up having beneficent effect on society. And yet, this does seem like an awfully risky strategy.
In any case, as I hope you can see, this is a superlative book, excellent on many levels. It is, in fact, among the select class of books that can forever change your outlook....more
This book is a successful failure. Adharanand Finn set out to find the “secret” of the Kenyan’s running prowess by living and training in Iten—the runThis book is a successful failure. Adharanand Finn set out to find the “secret” of the Kenyan’s running prowess by living and training in Iten—the running capital of the country—for several months. What he finds is that there is no secret, just a multitude of factors that come together which make Kenyans into great runners (more later). As most of these factors aren’t easily replicable by aspiring non-Kenyan runners, the book is not useful as a running guide. That is the failure part. The success is that it manages to be an inspiring and enjoyable read, anyway.
As for those aforementioned factors, there are many. One, many Kenyan children—particularly those living in the countryside—run to school, back and forth, often twice a day. And they tend to do this running barefoot, which according to Finn improves running form. That is a lot of training. Another major factor is that, for many, running is the only viable path out of poverty. Thus, athletic talent is not siphoned off into other sports or diverted into other careers; every bit is tapped for running. Indeed, all over the country there are running camps where potential champions can live. There, they do nothing but run, sleep, and eat. Finn also thinks the high calorie, low fat, low protein diet is a major factor (probably a controversial claim). And of course there is the oft-mentioned altitude. Iten, for example, is 2400 meters (about 8000 feet) above sea level. (Training at high-altitude is supposed to make the body more cardiovascularly efficient.)
As you can see, unless you grew up and live in Kenya (or a similar place), this is not exactly useful. Nevertheless, Finn did improve during his time in Iten, mostly the old-fashioned way—running, running, running. (He also ate a lot of ugali, the carb-rich staple of the region.) Certainly, the constant presence of elite runners helped. Every other person in Iten, it seems, is a star runner. Finn could sleepwalk into a running group, and coaches fell from the sky. It is a rather peculiar kind of paradise. But the book is more of a memoir than a manual. Finn’s writing is strong and he effectively transports you into the experience of being a comparatively average runner in a strange land, training with the best of the best.
As a final note, I wanted to dwell on how very contradictory so much running advice is. The sportswriter Matt Fitzgerald, for example, emphasizes that good running form cannot be taught, and that every body naturally develops its own efficient stride. Yet Finn is convinced that running barefoot markedly improves form and efficiency. Further, Fitzgerald advocates mostly long, slow runs, whereas Finn basically ran as long and as fast as he could during every training. This inconsistency is true in my own experience in running, too. I recently signed up (heaven help me) to do a full marathon. One seasoned runner told me to focus on short, fast intervals; another told me I had to focus on building up mileage. Perhaps there is not any one ideal approach. In any case, wish me luck. I’ll need it....more
I perhaps came to this book from an odd direction. I wasn’t a fan of Patti Smith’s music, poetry, or art, and I honestly had not even heard of Robert I perhaps came to this book from an odd direction. I wasn’t a fan of Patti Smith’s music, poetry, or art, and I honestly had not even heard of Robert Mapplethorpe beforehand, much less seen any of his photographs. Instead, I picked up this book because I have been reading about New York musicians, and Patti Smith certainly fit that description. It is a great testament to her writing, then, that I found this memoir entirely compelling. On its own terms, simply as a story, this is a beautiful book.
Though Smith does narrate her own artistic journey—from drawing, to poetry, to music, and eventually to fame—the main focus of the memoir is her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe. They begin as lovers, though it is an awkward fit for many reasons (Mapplethorpe’s sexuality among them). Yet the basis of their relationship is never sexual, but artistic. The two of them are born artists—people who know that they want to create, even if they don’t know what, or how, or why. Mutual admiration, coupled with deep affection, are what tie them together as they develop their artistic voices and scrape by on odd jobs.
The artistic Bildungsroman is, of course, a classic story, told and retold ad infinitum. Likewise for the coming-of-age in NYC story. What makes Patti Smith’s version great is her writing. Unlike Bob Dylan’s memoir, which is about as guarded as the genre can be, this book is intimate, personal, and loving. She loves the people, the places, the memories, and takes care to do justice to each one. And she is expert at conjuring up images of the past that take you back in time—details of clothing or decoration, descriptions of knickknacks and dirty apartments. No part of the book overstays its welcome, and it is written with perfect ease. By now, I can say that I am a Patti Smith fan....more
After living overseas for so long, I sometimes feel homesick for my native land. Not just family and friends, you understand, but for the land itself—After living overseas for so long, I sometimes feel homesick for my native land. Not just family and friends, you understand, but for the land itself—or, rather, how I imagine it to be. For despite having seen nearly every corner of Spain, I am still remarkably ignorant of the United States, having travelled to just a handful of states. When this mood strikes, I find myself watching long YouTube videos about visits to National Parks, or about driving down iconic American highways, or even about eating regional specialties.
It was this same impulse that led me to pick up Blue Highways, a book included in every list of great American travelogues. I can certainly see why the book became a classic. Heat-Moon is a thoughtful, evocative writer who has a great story to tell. Indeed, his is one of the oldest stories there is: the story of a tortured wanderer searching for answers. After losing both his job and his marriage, Heat-Moon sold everything he could and decided to drive his van across the United States on local highways (marked blue in his atlas), in the vague hope that this would help him get out of his rut. And it certainly did, since he went from working odd jobs to being a celebrated author.
Different travel writers have different strengths. Heat-Moon’s account is notable above all for the many characters he meets. Virtually everywhere he goes, he gets into a revealing conversation with a memorable local resident. Indeed, I have to admit that I found myself rather skeptical by the end of the book. Either Heat-Moon can pry people open like oysters, or I seriously lack social skills, or people have just changed a lot since his 1978 journey—or, perhaps, some mix of these factors—but the sorts of confessional, deep conversations he relates are totally outside of my experience. It is possible that there are rare individuals capable of touching a deep vein in people, but I couldn’t help suspecting that many of these encounters were embellished.
Even so, I do think that Blue Highways compares favorably with, say, Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley, as it is a much deeper book. Heat-Moon manages to accomplish the highest goal of all travel writing: to venture into a physical place and psychological depth at one and the same time. While it is hardly a complete portrait of the United States as a whole (he entirely avoids interstates and big cities), it is a nostalgic meditation on the sort of small-town life which has already started to disappear....more
Across the northern border of Maine, up in the woods of New Brunswick, my family has owned a group of log cabins for four generations now. They are onAcross the northern border of Maine, up in the woods of New Brunswick, my family has owned a group of log cabins for four generations now. They are on a peninsula on a glacial lake, named Skiff, which until recently had only been accessible by boat. On this year’s trip to the camp, we visited old family friends who live on one of the 27 islands scattered throughout the lake—descendants of the British loyalists who fled the US after the Revolutionary War. One of their illustrious ancestors personally knew the author of this book: Tappan Adney.
Adney was another New Yorker who spent a good deal of time in the woods of New Brunswick. A polymath of sorts, he was an able draughtsman, writer, and photographer, who mostly made his money contributing to magazines. He led a colorful life. On an assignment from Harper’s, he nearly died while traveling to Yukon to document the Klondike Gold Rush. But his most lasting accomplishment may have been his study of the Maliseet technique for building birch-bark canoes. The Maliseet are the indigenous peoples of the area, whose numbers and culture have been sadly diminished through European colonization. Ironically, perhaps, Adney’s writings on the techniques of canoe building saved the knowledge from oblivion.
This book (and its companion volume) are a window into Adney’s first experiences in the northern woods. While not exactly a journal (he would write down complete recollections rather than individual daily entries), it sheds light both on the young Adney and turn-of-the-century New Brunswick. His main base camp was the town of Woodstock, on the Saint John (or, in Maliseet, Wolastoq) River, and his main occupation was hunting. Certainly no prize-hunter, he was primarily motivated to learn about the local wildlife and to figure out how to survive in the woods. He had a special affinity for birds, and one can see his growing interest in the Maliseet people—their language and culture. Curiously, for a man famous for his eccentricities (as an old man he would talk to birds and squirrels), he comes across here as rather down to earth.
If you are not especially interested in Adney or the New Brunswick woods, then I doubt you will get much out of this journal. Most of it is fairly repetitive— tracking caribou, calling for moose, camping, canoeing—though a few exciting episodes liven these pages. For my part, I found it fascinating to compare Adney’s experience with my own. Much of the wildlife that Adney describes is still present, though probably a good deal reduced in numbers. The old-growth forest of the 1890s, however, is entirely gone, replaced by a kind of monotonous, shrubby woodland. (Adney himself himself participated in some logging, but almost immediately cut his own foot with the ax.) Only a great deal of time can heal that wound.
I am left with the impression of a brilliant, talented man, in many respects ahead of his time, who never sought fame or fortune and who achieved neither. One can certainly do worse.
(As a side note, I am curious about Adney’s first name: Tappan. It attracts my attention because it is used in several street names in my town, as well as in the name of the nearby Tappan Zee Bridge. Apparently, it comes from a local group of Lenape people, the Tappan. It also seems to be a surname of Dutch or German origin... In any case, I have never seen it used as a first name except in Adney’s case.)...more
Stories of survival fascinate me. Part of it is a kind of morbid curiosity as to how much punishment and deprivation the human frame can take. Part ofStories of survival fascinate me. Part of it is a kind of morbid curiosity as to how much punishment and deprivation the human frame can take. Part of it is the sheer drama of a life and death struggle, in which normally petty details (whether you have this tool or that, for example) become the difference between life and death. And a part of it is the hope that such stories will help to put my own problems into perspective. This last part has, so far, failed to materialize. Though my problems are embarrassingly easy compared to those faced by a man lost at sea, I am still quite capable of suffering panic attacks as I contemplate their solutions.
I may be unimproved, but at least I enjoyed an exciting read. Steven Callahan’s story is intrinsically gripping and well-told. We are fortunate that, of all the people who could have been stranded at sea, somebody with a literary bent suffered this fate. For one, he took careful notes during his ordeal, which helps to fill the narrative with fascinating detail. And Callahan does not only narrate his doings; he attempts to capture how his psychological state shifted as the time wore on, and what lessons he drew from the experience. The final effect is a wonderfully immersive book, which evokes both the physical experiences of living in an inflatable dingy (salt sores, hunger, thirst, atrophying muscles, cold and heat) and the mental and emotional tolls that such suffering produces.
Callahan was reasonably well-prepared for this nightmare. He had ample experience at sea, and managed to escape his boat (likely sunk after collision with a whale) with vital gear. Even so, surviving required him to be resourceful and resolute in the extreme. He had to repair broken equipment, patch up his boat, learn to fish and collect rainwater, and simply carry on in the face of one hardship after another. Most people—myself included—would have been toast. Many people—maybe myself included—would have just given up. If anything, then, this book is a testament to the will to survive—the willingness to push on, despite every obstacle. I really do wish that I could internalize such determination, that I could face my own trifling difficulties as Callahan faced down the open ocean. I will have to settle for a book review, I suppose.
As a final thought, it is interesting to compare Callahan’s experience with that of the sailors of the whaleship Essex, recounted in Nathaniel Philbrick’s excellent book, In the Heart of the Sea. Callahan, like several other survivors of sea disasters, was able to survive by fishing and, in the last part of his ordeal, by gathering rainwater. The sailors of the Essex, however, did not even attempt to fish, and in one boat they had to resort to cannibalism. Come to think of it, the sailors aboard Magellan’s ships had to rely on their store of putrid water and rancid bread as they crossed the Pacific, and many died of scurvy. José Salvador Alvarenga, meanwhile, was able to survive more than a year at sea without suffering from scurvy by consuming sea birds and turtles—which contain vitamin C. Were sailors in the past ignorant of how to gather food from the sea, or is Callahan’s strategy impractical for a larger group of people? I am sure there is somebody out there who could answer this question. ...more
I picked up this book to motivate myself for the 2020 Madrid Half-Marathon that I suddenly realized it upon me. This is the race that I was supposed tI picked up this book to motivate myself for the 2020 Madrid Half-Marathon that I suddenly realized it upon me. This is the race that I was supposed to run in March 2020, and then in September 2020, and then in March 2021. Now it is set for September 26, and it looks like it will actually happen. I suppose things must be getting better.
Unfortunately, the story that Matt Fitzgerald is here to tell is much less inspiring than I hoped for. While endlessly referring himself as an “average joe” and a slowpoke, he soon reveals that he has run over 40 marathons, all of them in under 3 hours. He is, in other words, incredibly fit and, compared to me, very fast. This book is thus the story of someone who is already quite good trying to get a bit better.
He does this by training with a team of professional runners in Flagstaff, Arizona, at high altitude, with elite coaching, psychological support, and high-quality physical therapy. His goal is to run a personal best at age 45, which means beating his record set years ago by his younger self. Fitzgerald structures the book as a countdown to the Chicago Marathon, where he will put his training to the test.
There are many angles a writer could have taken in this situation. Fitzgerald could, for example, have focused on the training regimens, describing what he did, what was special about it, and what the reader could take away from these strategies. Or he could have focused on his team mates, trying to get at the root of their mentality, what makes them compete so ruthlessly. And, to be fair, there is some of this.
But most of the book is focused on Matt Fitzgerald. We hear about his personal life, his restaurant choices, his casual chit-chat, his interior struggles, his day-to-day activities. Indeed, the book often reads quite like a diary. This would not be a problem if I was a big Matt Fitzgerald fan; but I am not (sorry). It turns out that the story of how one good runner—through the generous help of many experts—becomes even better is not as uplifting as he seems to think it is. For those of us unable to devote the time and money (not to mention lacking the connections) to undergo such an experience, there does not seem to be much of a takeaway except “follow your dreams” or some equivalent cliché.
Well, motivated or not, in a little over a week I will be dragging my hulking frame over the finish line. And isn’t the story of somebody who is not at all good at something, but does it anyway, more inspiring than a book like this? I’m just asking where my book deal is....more
One of my favorite documentaries is a fairly obscure PBS production—shown to me in a university anthropology class—called In the Footsteps of Marco PoOne of my favorite documentaries is a fairly obscure PBS production—shown to me in a university anthropology class—called In the Footsteps of Marco Polo. (It is available online.) Though released in 2008, the documentary is composed of footage collected on a 1993 journey from Venice to China, undertaken by two men from Brooklyn. They did not have any official backing or sponsorship, and sometimes did not even have the correct visas. Nevertheless, they made it. And the exotic peoples and extreme experiences they encountered filled me—and still fill me—with a longing for the faraway.
For this reason, Marco Polo’s account of his journey has long been on my list. However, knowing that it is inelegantly written and, on top of that, full of tall tales, hearsay, or simple invention, I wanted to read another book as a guide first. Laurence Bergreen’s book serves that task admirably. He quotes liberally from Polo’s account, while also giving the reader needed historic context (as well as fact-checking some of Polo’s more ludicrous claims). But the result is not at all deflating. Indeed, Polo emerges as an even more fascinating and impressive historical figure than I had suspected, whose story is rich in both adventure and insight. For this reason, I can heartily recommend this book to anyone hoping for a readable (if a little long) account of one of history’s great travelers....more
I don’t know whether I could write a decent book now. That is the greatest fear of all. I’m working at it but I can’t tell. Something is poisoned i
I don’t know whether I could write a decent book now. That is the greatest fear of all. I’m working at it but I can’t tell. Something is poisoned in me.
This journal is not at all what I expected. I assumed it would be deep ruminations about the state of the country during the Dust Bowl, or sketches of how the plot ought to develop, or notes on aesthetics or literary ambitions. It is none of those things. Rather, this journal was where Steinbeck would unload his negative thoughts onto a page before moving on to the real work of writing. It served as a kind of palette cleanser, so that the baggage of his life would not weigh his fiction down.
As such, it is somewhat repetitive, and remarkably negative. The entries alternate between short notes about Steinbeck’s daily life—so-and-so came to visit, the neighbors have music on too loud, the wife is going to the dentist, etc.—and worries about his own inadequacy, of which there are many. I have to admit that I found it refreshing to see that great authors can be burdened with the same self-doubt and fatalism that afflicts so many of us. Indeed, perhaps the most extraordinary thing about this diary is its ordinariness.
Nevertheless, by the end of this diary, I was deeply impressed by Steinbeck—not due to his eloquence or brilliance (neither of which are on full display here), but because of his work ethic. He chained himself to his desk and pushed through all the dark clouds in his brain, and finally managed to produce an American classic in less than half a year’s work. Amazingly, he seems to have had virtually the whole book in his head from the beginning; he is never at a loss for how to proceed. Even more incredible, he seems to have written The Grapes of Wrath in one go, with little revision.
So Steinbeck had a powerful work ethic, yes. But very few authors in history could have written such a large book so well and so quickly. It is a terrific feat. And yet the poor man was hard on himself: “It’s just a run-of-the-mill book. And the awful thing is that it is absolutely the best I can do.” If even John Steinbeck, at the height of his creative powers, had imposter syndrome, what hope is there for the rest of us?...more
Martin Luther King, Jr. has made the improbable journey from periphery to national hero, embraced (at least verbally) by everyone from the left to theMartin Luther King, Jr. has made the improbable journey from periphery to national hero, embraced (at least verbally) by everyone from the left to the right. As a result, it has become difficult to understand King as he was: a radical and controversial figure. This transformation has required some omissions. While King is widely celebrated for his civil rights activism, his criticisms of economic inequality have attracted far less attention. In school it was not mentioned that King delivered his iconic speech at a protest that was for jobs as well as freedom.
Ironically, however, as the introduction by Clayborne Carson makes clear, King partially helped to create this more “acceptable” image of himself. For one, he is careful to distance himself from communism in this book. In the fascinating chapter on his intellectual development, King also takes care to emphasize his roots in Western philosophy, discussing Nietsche and Hegel, while downplaying the black tradition of activism that inspired him. In telling the story of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, King even avoids any mention of the organizer Bayard Rustin, who was deemed too controversial for his homosexuality. (Rustin agreed to this omission.)
This book, then, should be seen as a work of advocacy as much as a straightforward narration of the Montgomery Bus Boycott. At the time of the Red Scare and of trenchant homophobia, King presents a slightly “sanitized” version of himself and his milieu, in order to further the cause of civil rights. One also suspects that King presents an overly rosy picture of the boycott’s success, as in reality the Supreme Court victory took years to translate into real integration. In short, this book is meant to inspire action.
This is not to say that the book is inaccurate. King still presents us with the essentials: a dramatic narrative of the bus boycott, as well as his own philosophy of nonviolence. Considering both the importance of the man and the event, this book is a rewarding read. It is especially valuable because it takes us into the hardships and the danger faced by the protesters.
King (or at least the sanitized version) is sometimes held up as an example of an “acceptable” protester by those hoping to discredit current-day movements, as if King had always been considered a hero. But as this book makes clear, in his own day King was anything but a hero to the white community. The boycott was designed to be disruptive, and it was. The protesters faced inconvenience, harassment, arrest, death threats, and real violence. King often—and eerily—contemplates the possibility of his own murder. Genuine protest, in other words, is never “acceptable.” As King repeatedly makes clear, non-violence is a philosophy of radical change, not of polite respectability....more
Barack Obama rose to national prominence after giving the speech of his life at the 2004 Democratic Convention. I remember it. I was 13 at the time, oBarack Obama rose to national prominence after giving the speech of his life at the 2004 Democratic Convention. I remember it. I was 13 at the time, on a camping trip in Cape Cod, listening to the speech in a tent on a battery-powered radio. Though I was as ignorant as it is possible for a human to be, I was completely electrified by this unknown, strangely-named man. “That should be the guy running for president!” I said, my hair standing on end. Four years later, I watched Obama’s inauguration in my high school auditorium, cheering along with the rest of the students, and felt that same exhilaration.
I am telling you this because I want to explain where I am coming from. Obama was the politician who introduced me to politics, so I cannot help but feel a special affection for him. You can even say that Obama was foundational to my political sensibilities, as he was president during my most sensitive years. This makes it difficult for me to view him ‘objectively.’
In this book Obama displays that quality which, despite him having almost nothing in common with me, made it so easy for me to identify with him during his presidency: his bookishness. He is clearly a man delighted by the written word. And Obama is able to hold his own as a writer. While I do think his prose is, at times, marred by his having read too many speeches—his sentences crowded with wholesome lists of good old fashioned American folks, like soccer moms, firefighters, and little-league coaches—the writing is consistently vivid and engaging, pivoting from narrative to analysis to characterization quite effortlessly. If Obama is guilty of one cardinal literary sin, it is verbosity. This book—700 pages, and only the first of two volumes—could have used a bit of chopping.
Obama is notorious for his caution, his conservative temperament, his insistence on seeing issues from as many perspectives as possible. But what struck me most of all in this book was his confidence. Aiming to justify himself to posterity, I suppose, Obama spends the bulk of this book explaining why he made the right decision in this or that situation. Indeed, Obama attributes even his few admitted missteps to noble intentions gone awry.
As Obama goes through the first term of his presidency, explaining how he tackled the financial crisis, healthcare, global warming, or the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the central tension of his presidency becomes apparent: the conflict between idealism and realism. Obama the speaker is, as I said, electrifying—soaring to rhetorical heights equaled by very few politicians. And yet Obama the president does not soar, but plods his way forward, examining the earth for any pitfalls five steps in advance. Indeed, I think Obama’s philosophy of governance could by fairly described as technocratic, preoccupied with effectiveness rather than liberty or justice.
This, I would say, is the central flaw in Obama’s governing philosophy. Obama ran for office with a simple message: the promise that we Americans could put aside party loyalty and work together towards a common goal. But this both underestimates and overestimates the forces that pull us into competing factions. In other words, this is both naïve and slightly cynical. Naïve, by failing to understand that politics is about power, and that there was more power to be gained through division than unity. But cynical, by considering our differing political ideologies to be superficial and ultimately unimportant.
Obama seemed to believe that the goals were obvious—that we all basically agreed on the sort of country we wanted to live in—and that the only thing needed was somebody competent enough to actually get the job done. Admittedly, this is quite a compelling idea, even an inspiring one in its way; and Obama is a very convincing proponent. But the limits of this thinking are on display all throughout this book. Obama is constantly making pre-emptive concessions to the Republicans, thinking that a market-friendly healthcare plan, or a strong commitment to killing terrorists, or a more modest stimulus bill will win them over, or at least mute their dissent. The consequence is that, in his policy—such as the deportations or the drone strikes (hardly mentioned here)—he is sometimes unfaithful to the principles he so eloquently expounds at the podium.
I am being somewhat critical of Obama, which is difficult for me. He was subjected so much silly and unfair criticism during his presidency that it can feel mean to add to this chorus of contumely. And I do not wish to take away from his very real accomplishments. Compared to either the administrations that came before or after his, Obama’s presidency was an oasis of calm, sensible governance. Though the fundamental change promised by his campaign failed to materialize, by any conventional standard Obama’s policies were successful—helping to heal the economy, expand healthcare, and slowly disentangle us from foreign wars.
It is also difficult to criticize Obama because it is clear that so much opposition to him was fueled by racial resentment. Obama was continuously subjected to a double-standard, constrained in the things he could do or say. No story better illustrates this than the Henry Louis Gates arrest controversy. After Obama rightly called the decision to arrest a black Harvard professor on his own property ‘stupid,’ the political backlash was so fierce that he had to recant and subject himself to an insipid ‘beer summit.’ And, of course, the moronic birther controversy speaks for itself. In short, it is difficult to imagine the opposition to Obama’s policies being so fierce and so persistent had he been a white man.
I listened to a part of this book on January 6th, the day of the Capitol Riot. After watching the events unfold on the television all day, I decided I could not take anymore, and went out for a walk. As I strolled along the Hudson River, I played this audiobook, listening to Obama narrate his presidential campaign. The contrast between that time and this was astonishing. I could not help but feel nostalgia for those days of relative innocence, when Obama’s “You’re likable enough, Hillary” qualified as a scandal. But I also could not help wondering to what extent, if any, Obama was responsible for what was becoming of my country. If he had embraced bolder initiatives, rather than striving to be as respectable as possible, could he have staved off this backlash of white rage? It is impossible to say, I suppose.
In the end, if I came away somewhat disappointed from this book, it is only because the Obama I found did not measure up to the messianic figure I embraced as an adolescent. But that is an unfair standard. Judged as a mere mortal, Obama is as about as impressive as any person can be—a man of prodigious talents and keen intelligence, whose presidency provided a relief from the onslaught of Republican incompetence. For that we can say, thanks, Obama....more
In this History I have held firmly to it that the truth should be reached in every matter, and that every act should be recorded precisely as it oc
In this History I have held firmly to it that the truth should be reached in every matter, and that every act should be recorded precisely as it occurred.
I do not think I ever would have read this book, had it not been gifted to me last Christmas. It is quite a beautiful volume—hefty but compact, the pages thin but not fragile, the font and layout quite attractive—and yet, I still felt daunted by the prospect of reading an autobiography from a time and place that I knew so little about. It was a kind of miniature adventure.
By any standard, the Baburnama is an extraordinary book. The memoirs of Babur, founder of the mighty Mughal Empire, the book covers his life (with notable lacunae) from his early years to a short time before his death. It was written in Chaghatai, an extinct Turkic language that was Babur’s mother tongue. This edition, by the way, was translated by Annette Beveridge, who was something of an extraordinary figure herself, having completed this translation at her English home for linguistic amusement. It was no easy task, as the mountains of footnotes—almost all comments on a particular Chaghatai word or phrase—attest.
Babur’s life was nothing if not eventful. The story begins in Central Asia where, at the tender age of 11, Babur first becomes a ruler. From this moment he is thrown into the thick of politics and war, conquering and losing territories, fleeing for his life, gathering forces again, and repeating the process. Eventually his changing fortunes force him southward, to India (or Hindustan, as he calls it), where he conquers vast territories in a series of massive battles, thus setting the groundwork for the Mughal Empire that would dominate for centuries to come.
And yet this thumbnail sketch does not really capture the experience of reading this book. For one, it reads a lot more like a diary than a polished autobiography, full of short entries of quite quotidian details. One senses that Babur wrote this either for himself or for a small circle, as he does not take many pains to explain who people are. In any case, there must be well over 200 individuals mentioned in this book, which can make for a pretty frustrating reading experience—especially when you are also unfamiliar with the geography of the region. (I do wish Beveridge’s footnotes added historical context rather than expanding upon linguistic puzzles.)
In most professional reviews I have read of this book, the writer dwells upon Babur’s virtues. There is, indeed, much to admire in the man. His prose is plain and unadorned, cutting straight to the point with no unnecessary flourish. Even more important, Babur is frank to quite a surprising extent. He admits, for example, that his first feelings of love were for a boy (even if he did not go after men, women did not seem to excite him all that much). He can be disarmingly sensitive; at one point he cries after a melon reminds him of his lost homeland. And he is consistently honest and fair-minded, neither magnifying his victories nor minimizing his defeats.
Babur also boasts many intellectual virtues. He was quite cultured and literate. This book is scattered with poems, many his own. Clearly, he cared deeply for the written word; near the end, he even takes the time to chastise his adult son for sending him a badly-written letter. And in the section on the flora and fauna of Hindustan, Babur reveals a penetrating eye for nature. He divines, for example, that the closest living relative of the rhinoceros is the horse—a brilliant deduction, considering how superficially different the two animals appear. He consistently dwells on his love for beautiful natural spots and well-made gardens.
So much can be said for Babur. But not enough is said—either in those reviews, or the introduction to this edition—of the river of violence that courses through these pages. True, Babur does not dwell on this violence; he usually mentions it as a passing detail to a more interesting story. But it is never far off, and I always found it disturbing. Babur speaks quite casually about executing prisoners and, indeed, putting whole cities to the sword. Probably I should not be shocked by this. After all, Babur was one of history’s great conquerors; and it is obvious from his own narrative that he lived his entire life under threat of violence.
Even so, I could not bring myself to admire the amateur naturalist knowing that he had, some time before, been strolling through the streets of a conquered city, stepping over the bodies of hundreds of massacred civilians. And I think that this considerably diminished my enjoyment of the book, as I found it far more difficult to savor the quieter, more human moments of the text. This, along with the preponderance of names and the diary-like brevity, made the book a bit of a slog at times. However, if you have any historical interest at all in this time or place, then the Baburnama is obligatory. It is full of so much valuable detail that a historian could easily spend a decade on this book alone, parsing out all of the references, piecing together the wider story. And even if you are a complete amateur, like myself, this book is still quite an educational experience....more
I think I enjoyed this book more than its slim contents really justify. This is due to a confluence of interests: Murakami is a marathon-running novelI think I enjoyed this book more than its slim contents really justify. This is due to a confluence of interests: Murakami is a marathon-running novelist, and I, too, am a writer (amateur) and runner (very amateur). So a lot of the pleasure of this book was aspirational life-envy. Waking up, working on a piece of fiction, and then heading out for a long run in some scenic spot—this sounds like a perfect day to me.
The book is a kind of meditation on the act of running and what it means to Murakami and his work as a novelist. I cannot say that any of it is especially profound; but if you write or run it will likely be compelling. Not that Murakami has any special knowledge about training methods or the history of running or anything along those lines. Rather, his reflections are purely introspective. Why does he run? What role does running play in his life? How has his attitude towards running changed as he got older?
This was my first Murakami book, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed his writing style. He comes across as humble, private, and introverted, but full of a determination to live life on his own terms—which is by far his most attractive quality. In fact, as I listened to this audiobook on my own runs, I found Murakami’s quiet determination so inspiring that I ran faster and farther than I have in quite a while. Now, that’s a quality book....more
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