I don’t read very many books. When I do, I read them like I eat: terribly slowly. Just as I like to give tasty morsels an extra chew, I like to read and re-read eloquent sentences, elegant metaphors and witty punchlines.
Then I usually forget about them. (A short memory and nearsightedness, as it pertains to both my eyesight and life goals, have gotten me through life so far.) But I thoroughly enjoyed some of what I read this year, so perhaps writing about these books will help me remember.
Mind you: these are reflections, not reviews, so take them with a grain of salt. And if you don’t understand them, don’t try too hard. I have found that the things that stand out to me most about a book are not the things that writers and reviewers, professors and school teachers, or colleagues and classmates talk or write about. As their red pens and rolled eyes have often indicated over the years, I sometimes miss the big picture. Oh well.
Here goes, in chronological order.
Educated
by Tara Westover
Every educated person I know who also reads regularly raved about this book, which usually incites the contrarian misanthrope in me. (I mean, can something really be good if everyone likes it?) But I made an exception for this one and I’m glad I did.
This was the first book I read this year, so the details of my reactions are a bit fuzzy. I remember cheering on Tara’s do-it-yourself, “do whatever it takes to get the hell outta rural Idaho” journey. I recall there’s some education in there, but it’s mostly her sheer will, curiosity and resolve. (There are no shortage of positive reviews. Vogue called it “propulsive,” which I didn’t know could be used to describe a book.)
Having grown up in California and often taken diversity for granted, I’m fascinated by stories of people in America who grew up in places, families and households that feel completely foreign to me. Or if I dare say, even exotic. Isn’t that the point of reading — to try to see the world from another’s shoes?
Factfulness
by Anna Rosling Rönnlund, Hans Rosling, and Ola Rosling
This book was on Bill Gates’ 2018 reading list. But it came recommended by my former colleague Shu, who is one of the smartest and most thoughtful people that I’ve had the fortune to work with. A computer scientist by trade, he even co-translated the book in Japanese, which I found in a bookstore in Hong Kong.
The main premise is that, contrary to what the media (social or otherwise), “Black Mirror,” or your friends and family suggest, the world, on the whole, is improving on many fronts when it comes to access to healthcare, wealth, education and water. Climate change is an exception.
Chock-full of graphs and charts, the book at times reads more like a lecture presentation. At least it is mostly coherent. While I don’t appreciate the authors’ occasional digs at journalists for scaremongering the public, the books does challenge me to think differently, as my natural tendency is to think that things are a lot worse than they actually are.
Scar Tissue
by Anthony Kiedis
Oh dear. Where do I start? The is the autobiography of Red Hot Chili Peppers frontman Anthony Kiedis, and it begins with him getting an intravenous injection…of ozone. (Does that contribute to ozone depletion in our atmosphere?!) That’s apparently part of his therapy these days, after decades of injecting himself with other substances. And yes, the book is as ridiculous as that cover image. I’d like to think that his publishers asked their lawyers to check on the statute of limitations for some of the shit he claims he did.
I would describe myself as a lukewarm fan of RHCP prior reading this book. Now a slightly warmer fan, I do appreciate how batshit crazy this whole band was, and how fortunate they are that not more people died. About a fifth of this book is about Kiedis going on weeks-long drug binges in shady motels and under freeway overpasses. In between, he writes about his state of mind and the life circumstances that inspired his songs. If you’ve never read the lyrics to “Under the Bridge,” do it. The rest is about him being an asshole and sometimes regretting it.
RHCP’s bassist, Flea, recently published his own memoir about his life prior to joining the band. I’ll probably read that next year, if only to see whether it’s more unbelievable than this one.
Bad Blood
by John Carreyrou
Never have I ever read 300-plus pages so fast. And as I said, I don’t read very fast.
That’s due to great writing and editing, and to the fact that everything about Theranos was such an egomaniacal, sanity-defying fraud enabled by white privilege, one which suckered a lot of old rich white people who I don’t feel sorry for. (Another reason Joe Biden shouldn’t be running?) This book is much more Silicon Valley than the HBO series by the same name, which is child’s play compared to this.
Little Fires Everywhere
by Celeste Ng
This one goes from zero to 60 real quick, in terms of its rapid descent into a series of betrayal, backstabbing and subterfuge in Shaker Heights, an affluent Ohio suburb. I have never been there (only to nearby Cleveland) but I imagine that if this story were true, it would be the most exciting thing to have ever happened there.
There’s a bit of teenage angst and anarchy, rebellion and racism — all pitting neighbors against neighbors, daughters against mothers. Sometimes, privileged people who live otherwise comfortable lives get bored and stick their noses into other people’s shit, and it delights me when they reap the shitshow that they they sow.
If you don’t like stuck-up affluent people who sneer at change and different people, you may like this book. Some people want to watch the world burn. Others are simply content to see snobby suburbia up in flames.
A Dream About Lightning Bugs
by Ben Folds
Variations of this refrain repeats throughout musician Ben Folds’ autobiography: “What’s good for the music isn’t so good for the life.” That helps explains why he’s a four-time divorcee. (I think after three, you’re the common denominator.)
This is a candid admission of how one’s artistic obsession, and an uncompromising creative pursuit, can render someone incapable of attending to basic life duties and personal responsibilities. I can relate, although I have accomplished nothing near what Ben Folds has. One time, while I was in the middle of writing an article, when my mind was in that autozone where I was oblivious to anything and everything else, I microwaved leftover pizza with the foil wrapping still on and started a small fire. I’m still married, for now.
I listened to a lot of Ben Folds throughout high school and college. I still do. The people he sings about are what I imagine other American lives are like. This book offers glimpses into where those people come from.
Wishful Drinking
by Carrie Fisher
I can’t say I remember the point of this book, other than it reads like Carrie Fisher and her editors were all drunk. (Hmm, maybe that is the point.) But there are the occasional witty aphorisms that drunks do stumble upon every now and then:
“Happy is one of the many things I’m likely to be over the course of a day and certainly over the course of a lifetime. But I think if you have the expectation that you’re going to be happy throughout your life — more to the point, if you have a need to be comfortable all the time — well, among other things, you have the makings of a classic drug addict or alcoholic.”
Well, shit.
And:
Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.
Other than the occasional sage advice, this book is mostly a collection of weird episodes in her life, like the time a dead guy ended up in her bed. Or the time George Lucas tried explaining why women don’t wear bras in space. Delusional, yes? RIP, Carrie.
Quarterback
by John Feinstein
As a child, I often asked my mom for money to buy sports cards. Then I would spend an inordinate amount of time memorizing stats while I was sitting in the car or on the can.
I like to watch football so I thought I would like this book. Nope.
If you care to know what Ryan Fitzpatrick scored on the Wonderlic test, or how fast Alex Smith ran the 40-yard dash at the combine, or Kurt Cousins’ quarterback rating against … whatever, this one’s for you. This book’s not very well written so I skimmed the second half. Look, if I’m going to wade through this many numbers, give me the sports cards.
The author also goes into excruciating drive-by-drive game details, about the secondary coverage, the hot reads and audibles … oh for fuck’s sake, you’re better off watching the game replays on NFL Network.
Do Not Say We Have Nothing
Unintentionally, this was the third book I read about musicians. But it took me so long to finish that I accrued library fines.
That’s because this is the heaviest and saddest book on the list, set in historical periods that I once studied, and which my parents used to tell me horror stories about.
This is historical fiction that follows three generations of a family of musicians, composers and dreamers as they try to survive the endless calamities in post-World War II China, all the way through to the Cultural Revolution and Tiananmen Square demonstrations. These were decades where people were forced to renounce and crush not only one’s own hopes, talents and abilities, but also friends and families. Even those who survived could not live with themselves, torn by conscience and the struggle to reconcile one’s personal life with the Party line. Lives completely wasted.
All the meanwhile, classical music rings across throughout the tragedies. There are the arias of Bach, Debussy, Prokofiev and Shostakovich, so entwined within the souls of the protagonists that no denunciation or self-destruction of instruments, compositions, musical possessions and passions can fully snuff out.
Toward the end of the book, I was reminded of an elderly lady who was quoted in a story I read this summer about the Hong Kong protest: “What do I know about politics? But politics comes to you.”
