peteg's blog - noise - books

Kindle. Mishra's first novel in twenty years! — and in many ways coextensive with The Romantics of 1999 and his explication of Buddhism of 2004.

Notionally Mishra uses the divergent paths of three low-born blokes who make it into the Indian Institute of Technology Delhi to explore the horrors of the New India and the changing fashions among high end cosmopolitan dynasties, some of whom share his literary aspirations. Much of it looks like hard work for risible returns.

The prose is mostly OK, leaving aside an excess of adjectives that often tip reasonable descriptions into overly-precise incorrectness. And a heavy, deadening referentialism. And the short-order repetition. And the hefty foreshadowing, the selective drip of information. The ambient context is assumed known: temporal anchors are mostly provided by real-world political events.

The main flaw is weak characterisation. The three undergo a shock-and-awe initiation at IIT. Dalit Virendra Das (the lonely computer science major to the two mechanical engineers) remains shallowly drawn as a generic, cultureless, deracinated Wall St billionaire. Aseem Thakur is marginally more real as an editor of a literary journal of some kind. He's a fan of V.S. Naipaul and an all-in predatory, hedonistic individualist who somehow still feels a duty to improve the country. The author/narrator Arun Dwivedi (with the highest entry rank of the three) retreats to literary translation in the Himalayas after not making it in the Delhi social scene. In shades of David Williamson the latter two are more influenced by an encounter with a literature professor than anything in their degree programs. Indeed Mishra completely avoids engaging with the content of the exact sciences in any form; technology is reduced to brands, finance to insider trading. (If he'd done his research he'd know that everything is securities fraud.)

But all this is just a precursor to a painfully adolescent romance between late-40s pseudo-Brahmin Arun and mid-30s dream girl, Muslim/scion/social media star-not-influencer Alia Omar who has sown her wild oats and is now in need of a serious man. The death of his mother is messier but as conveniently timed as Charlotte Haze's in Nabokov's Lolita. The male insecurities that (inevitably) bring things unstuck put me in mind of Julian Barnes's Before She Met Me. Arun's retreat to a remote Tibetan-Buddhist monastery in the Himalayas was a severe and under-explained overreaction, though I guess his usual stupefacient, fiction, was shown to be ineffective during their London bout.

Mishra wants to examine the beast as a perennial outsider, in contrast to Mohsin Hamid's How to get filthy rich in rising Asia (2013) where the inside view was shown to be more powerful. The ascetic Buddhism portrayed here is not critiqued. The Tibetan situation is sketched but not engaged with. There's nothing in the way of resolution. I wish he'd either stick to his essays and social diagnostics or move past autofiction.

Bharat Tandon. Jonathan Dee hides behind some hefty extracts. Abhrajyoti Chakraborty: "new India, old ideas" — damn straight and ouch-y. At some point the fake is itself the substance. The anxiety of the narrator may be that of an author anxious to be understood. Goodreads: reviews are generally positive, the ratings entirely dire. (krn gives it a good hard working over.) A general flaw of the commentary is that these three blokes are not mates so much as frenemies.

Kindle. I thought El Akkad's last novel What Strange Paradise (2021) was a solid improvement on his first and was hoping for another delta. This is instead a memoir of El Akkad's (remote but nonetheless) heartrending experience of the (ongoing, perpetual) conflict in Gaza, salted with the odd life event. The title is bang on and a sentiment for all times. Unfortunately many of the ensuing, similarly syntactically-tortured sentences with convoluted tenses are not as sound. It struck me that once again he was a couple of steps behind Mohsin Hamid (Exit West, The Last White Man, talks at Georgetown University in April 2024).

I struggled with El Akkad's motivations. Why does he doomscroll the horrors of this conflict? Why did he become a U.S. citizen? He shows no awareness that all of what is troubling him troubled others not so long ago — the iconic photography of the Việt Nam war (presently being relitigated), the drive to bear witness, liberal hypocrisy. The age of anger may've started with the economically disenfranchised but is now thoroughly democratised.

In brief, it struck me that El Akkad had no awareness of Asia. His hopelessness, expressed in sentiments not too distant from George W. Bush's with-us-or-against-us, yields a just-walk-away nihilism that precludes consideration of alternatives — live-and-let-live! — which just might lead to paths out of this mess. If he truly felt that, why write this book? Yes, the abiding humanistic optimism that another generation could always be squeezed in before things went completely tits up has unravelled, but give us an argument for why you still had your child. I wanted to know why he remains in the U.S.A.; Hamid made for unruly Pakistan a while back.

Someone with more awareness of Asia may've made common cause with the concept of tang ping. Another more analytically-minded or less despairing may have dug into the will to ignorance and America's sense of its own morality. Still another would mourn for lessons unlearned and (self-reflectingly) the role of the press in the unwinding ("is it still possible to enlarge cognitive capacity within the dwindling kingdom of Western journalism?"). It felt like reading computer science literature, a blinkered, write-only medium that fills me with dismay.

Fintan O'Toole at the New York Times mostly refers back to El Akkad's American War (2017). A "polemoir, a fusion of polemic and memoir." — please no. Goodreads dug it with spades.

Kindle. A pointer from Kate back in 2016 or so.

We're in Southern California, a suburb of Los Angeles, with a bloke with a reconstructed face. Using an iterative deepening strategy and interspersed with excess discursion he tells us how it came to be destroyed, what he used to do for fun (read Conan stories) and what he does now (tell a choose your own adventure story to subscribers via snail mail). He spends a lot of time ruminating on school and his failed transition to post-school life. The author mostly steers clear of gross outs.

Well what can I say, I hate the use of brand names, especially when used to enumerate the pharmacopeia. The first-person narrator made it abundantly clear that there's no point to his stories, that he never went anywhere and isn't about to start now. Somehow it reminded me of Catcher in the Rye and David Ireland's The Chantic Bird — just maybe someone got something out of it? The review of game-adjacent fantasy/scifi trash culture was better done by Michael Clune and Jarett Kobek. And of course, for 1990s slacker/futureless/developmentally-stalled culture one can't go much past Douglas Coupland (Generation X, Microserfs).

Goodreads. Ethan Gilsdorf summarised it at the New York Times. "Accident" is thrown around a lot but everything sounded intentional to me.

Kindle. Koch's breakthrough novel and easily the best I've read by him so far. Famously made into a movie by Peter Weir that I saw about 15 years ago.

As with Highways to a War (1995), Koch expects his readers to be far more familiar with history and culture than is reasonable. This gambit somewhat works by highlighting the memory hole that Australia-Indonesian relations regularly falls into but frustratingly flattens the players and stakes to a colourful backdrop for a pedestrian romance between an Anglo-Australian journalist and an English secretary at the British Embassy. (Once again she's the only available European woman in the whole town.) The elegiac tone emphasises a fondness for the Indonesia of the day that the events do not, but actually it's a fondness just for the comfortable parts of Java and the hills south of it. (Lombok has too much unpleasant poverty.) Some ethnicities are sketched; the Chinese are mercantilist. Islam is mentioned but nothing is made of it. (Booze is omnipresent for instance, and there are no muezzins.) Koch takes it as obvious that they would oppose the communist PKI which left me wondering who'd support the PKI. Bali, Borneo, Papua and Timor (etc.) do not feature. Something's brewing in Việt Nam but that need not concern us here.

The action starts media res. The Indonesian revolution (the expulsion of the Dutch colonialists) is going sour due to increasing poverty, inappropriate spending and a distancing from Western aid. The men of the international press, generally lacking language and culture skills, wait for the big one (presumably the fall of Sukarno) in the Wayang Bar in the Hotel Indonesia. New Chum Hamilton has been sent by the ABS (ABC) to cover the instabilities. We quickly meet Koch's most interesting character, cinematographer Billy Kwan, a dwarf with a Chinese father and Australian mother who has big plans for Hamilton. He symbolises much, not the least humanism and utopianism, and moves mysteriously through Jakarta and the plot. Against him Hamilton and squeeze Jill are woefully bland and underdrawn and it's all downhill from there.

The structure is the same as Highways to a War (1995) but far better executed. There's a masterful and somewhat jarring movement between the first and third person omniscient narration as well as some complex tenses that are very satisfying. Nevertheless it always felt like the more fascinating things lay just beyond Koch's frame.

The heavy emphasis on motif and metaphor is wearing after a while. Again we get the "doubled" concept (c.f. The Doubleman (1985)) but more literally; apparently mirroring Hindu myth, Kwan is the dwarf variant of Hamilton's giant. There's the Left and Right of the Wayang, along Western political lines, but what does that mean to the locals? And for all we learn here the Konfrontasi may've been between man and woman, East and West or some struggle within Jakarta. Hamilton's loss of an eye at the end, a halving or echo of Odin, suggests he has gained something of value (wisdom, love) but we're left guessing at its content and sceptical of its worth. I guess Koch was railing against charismatic dictators who lose sight of the starving masses, and perhaps revolutions in general.

Goodreads: some truly brutal reviews. The threads of intrigue throughout are all so heavily foreshadowed you're always asking when and never what-if. There's a fair bit of unresolved ambiguity about who is screwing who and why. Esoteric. Essentialist. Again it seems probable that a decent history would be superior to these fictional accounts.

Kindle. The first of Koch's Miles Franklin winners and the second for me to read. The followup to his breakthrough The Year of Living Dangerously (1978).

A fair bit of this is autofiction, going by his Wikipedia bio, and perhaps a (further) revision of his debut The Boys in the Island (1958, revised in 1974). We start in 1940s schoolboy Tasmania with narrator, polio-affected Richard Miller, slogging it up the hill to the Catholic school in Hobart run by the (brutal) Christian Brothers. Soon enough he encounters a lusty married woman from Sydney, and then a pair of local musos and their mysterious teacher Clive Broderick. All proceed to the mainland in pursuit of predestined destinies. Melbourne is a barely-there way station. Sydney amounts to no more than its cliches; Kings Cross an eternal seedy Bohemia sliding into the abyss, though the affordable rents in subdivided Elizabeth Bay mansions caught my attention. The CBD itself went unnoticed as the skyscrapers closed in.

Miller's role is to get the band coverage on the ABS, where he has smoothly risen to his station in life. (I take that to mean the Australian Broadcasting Service; it's unclear why Koch doesn't just call it the ABC.) The girl next door turns out to be an Estonian beauty who happens to sing and is in desperate need of a husband. What do you know, the band badly needs a female vocalist. Similarly Mrs Lusty has a step-son who handily slots in as the drummer. There's a sense that TV is rapidly eclipsing radio plays for prestige and status. Alongside excess foreshadowing, shallow characterisations that fall away (Ms Estonia, Miller's mother) and some very convenient disappearances, this is to say that the plot mostly just moves the pieces into place.

The music these guys play is folk, as a deviation from the dominant rock music of the day. They're not allergic to electric instruments and they bring the folkies with them, unlike Bob Dylan. Pentangle is a named source but not Roy Harper. (The mandatory Have a Cigar scene occurs in North Sydney.) Much is made of their virtuosity. There's a certain wry nostalgia about the gigs but I'm not sure it is intended as a requiem for the Sydney music scene. The locale and mourning of the state of art and humanity reminded me a little of Patrick White's The Vivisector.

Despite the words spilt on all these other things, the main concern of the novel is occult Faery lore, which struck me as weird beyond all imagining. The years go by in sevens. The women are witchy and idealised. Nobody ever really grows up. There is some blurring of dreams with reality but it feels forced; Koch should probably have adopted magic realism wholesale. Also this mythology is old-world Celtic; what's it doing in Tasmania? And Christianity comes in for a flogging.

I did not understand the "doubled" concept; I think he really meant something more like duality or symmetry or mirrored or dialectics or parallels or something. An example of Koch's underbaking is his twee observation that "opposites did attract, but only when commonality was hidden underneath" — can two things be genuine opposites if they share much salient commonality? At other times he seems to be grasping for some kind of essentialism: stifled, frustrated Mrs Lusty as she is against the essence of (fertile) Irish woman, the prototype/stereotype versus the actual. Whatever it was, Koch lent into it heavily. My obtusity sucked all meaning from the ending.

Tasmania might yet host the last sighting of a literary male. Some themes overlap Dennis Glover's flight of fancy (those glorious 1940s). Richard Flanagan had a lot more to say about Tasmanian Aborigines and exotic Europeans (Slovenians). And of course Robbie Arnott is all-in on the magic.

I wonder if anyone reads Koch any more.

Goodreads. Veronica Sen at the time for The Canberra Times: Koch's characters are always searching for otherness. Perhaps "divided souls" are doubled. Is Koch's text itself a cut-price revelation? Perhaps I did not recognise the stakes.

Gordon is an eminent myrmecologist at Stanford. This book is the first in the Santa Fe Institute's Primers in Complex Systems series, and as such I was expecting more than just the usual pop-sci compilation of (fascinating) ant tales of the kind that, for instance, Hölldobler and Wilson and Moffett have recounted over the years. There are no photos, just some figures taken from research papers. There is no mathematical modelling. Genetics receives minor (but interesting) coverage.

The main focus of the book is the concept of an "interaction network" — roughly a model (familiar from social networks) of how ants communicate with each other and how that feeds into behaviour. Some experiments are described and proposed, chiefly constrained by an unwillingness to destroy ant nests. (One reason amongst many is that Gordon aimed to study colonies over decades.) The encounter rate is key! Some observations seem to miss the obvious. For example, we're told that if the rate at which first-mover patroller red harvester ants Pogonomyrmex barbatus return to the nest falls below some threshold then the foragers for the colony are inhibited from departing, but not what happens if the patrollers return more quickly. (One can imagine the latter is irrelevant, ignored or signals an avoidable catastrophe like a flood or predator.) Unlike honeybee researchers, Gordon does not appear to have a non-invasive way of determining how much food is stored in the nest, leaving me wondering how the colony's hunger is signalled and what effect that had on forager behaviour; again one could imagine sufficient hunger leads to a majority of ants foraging whatever the success of that foraging.

Most interesting to me was her refutation of W. D. Hamilton's explanation for why it is genetically beneficial for workers to raise sisters rather than their own progeny (in Chapter 6, section Evolution of Colony Organization). It's straightforward: queens typically mate with multiple males, and this means that sister-workers may share less than 50% of their genetics on average (rather than the 75% suggested by haplodiploidy with a singular father). This point is so obvious that I feel it must've occurred to Hamilton.

Despite the promise of networks we're only told about pairwise interactions between ants performing particular tasks. Much is made of their limited attention span — about ten seconds — which I guess precludes much path dependency (etc) unless they too have some kind of fast and slow neurology or individuals have mechanisms for taking notes. There is a division of labour but the division is not static (i.e., not determined solely by caste). No connection is drawn to how cells in a multicellular organism specialise despite an early claim that this study and that are related. Another round of editing would've helped: often the explanation for a technical term or concern occurs well after its first use or is repeated in short order. Gordon seemed overly responsive to pop cultural representations of ants.

Generously summarised at length by Leon Vlieger. Data availability is the limiting factor. Hamilton is further demolished by Seirian Sumner in Endless Forms: The Secret World of Wasps (2022). Goodreads.

Kindle. Heavily-marketed historical fiction, apparently expanding on a brief account by Plutarch of how the defeated Athenians survived a bit longer in the quarries of Syracuse, Sicily by reciting Euripides. The first-person narrator speaks in a contemporary Irish argot, laced with much profanity, often overcooked. (Some words and phrasing recur too often, as in Preston's The Borrowed Hills, which is how people speak but does not make for great prose.) The story itself is structured like an ancient Greek tragedy, focussing on an epic bromance. Along the way we get summaries of Euripides's Medea and The Trojan Women; this book is far more modest than All Our Tragic. There's often a whiff of The Remains of the Day, clarified at the end, though the narrator's reliability is never in question. The final movement is hurried while some earlier parts are torporific.

Less successful are the romance subplot involving an erudite slave girl and the mechanism by which two penniless unemployed potters can afford to stage their production. The narrator himself is a pile of cliches and rarely surprises. I think Lennon missed a trick by not inventing or completing a missing Euripidean play, perhaps about future history. That move worked well for Álvaro Enrigue but he could deploy psychedelics and not just oceans of wine.

Fintan O'Toole reviewed it in one of his better essays for the New York Review of Books. Annalisa Quinn for the New York Times: "affectionate and fun, but bloodless." AK Blakemore: Lennon could've done better than this. Goodreads dug it.

Kindle. Prompted by Dwight Garner's review of the latter. Short shorts. Some fun, some twee. Very few memorable. I didn't have enough of a sense of Azrael to develop one from the last book; it's more about the increasing irrelevance of the Devil in any case. There's some God in the first, mostly imagined as if he incarnated as an American man. That doesn't take much imagining.

Justin Taylor on the first. Goodreads (first, second) didn't get that much into either.

Kindle. Prompted by Dennis Lehane's salesmanship in the New York Times. Less "a heartbreaker" than a defanged transplant of some aspects of Trainspotting to Mayo County in the west of Ireland. Much of the text gets lost in character studies and while it floats along in the mode of fun there's not much humour in it. (Much like Preston's The Borrowed Hills (2024) one of the central characters is a powerful but inert man.) I guess the schtick is to pick at the underbelly of outwardly wholesome country towns (here Ballina) but Barrett lacks the commitment of people like Irvine Welsh and David Lynch (Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks) to go all the way or at least somewhere new or interesting. Everything suggests that you head for the exits.

Goodreads: the Booker long-listing oversold it.

Kindle. Peasant/tenant sheep farming in the fells of Cumbria, better known as the Lake District. It starts circa 2001 during the foot-and-mouth outbreak that lead to huge animal culls and ends in the present day. Nearby village Bewrith in the Curdale Valley does not exist, but why not? Other mentioned locations like Kendal and Carlisle, the geographical limits of Cumberland Wrestling, do.

The sheep massacre leads to a depeopling and the hardy folk who remain are in need of new flocks. Our narrator abandons a promising career of lorry driving and abides on his frenemy-neighbour's property after being drafted into the slaughter when the paid help flees. They go a-rustling somewhere a bit south, liberating a large mob of purebreds from a tourist farm. The successive heists are wanton and the story degenerates into relations amongst violent men; we're shown that our boy is educated and isn't a victim but has never been one to make things happen. There's a bit of wish fulfilment in the form of a girl from school, now married to the neighbour but so obviously better than all that. The breaking point, when it comes, is both expected and completely arbitrary.

I enjoyed the writing, leaving aside an excess of 'owt' and 'nowt'. It reminded me a bit of Tim Winton: forceful and direct, capturing the place, people and patois, the occasional excess of metaphor and motif. It made me realise that Winton's done littoral zones, the outback and cities but not farming. Initially I thought I might be in for something as crystalline as Atticus Lish's first but things fall away with the seasons. Preston's handling of his characters is as brutal as anything Irvine Welsh has done. Leaving that aside there are parallels with Greenvoe: a similar sense of isolation, a place lost in and out of time, tourism a future that's killed the old human geography. I'm guessing the descriptions of animal treatment turn a lot of people off.

Colin Barrett for the New York Times. Christopher de Bellaigue: rewilding, cottages now holiday rental properties with all the modcons. A farmer not taking a government handout is unrealistic. Ah yes, there's a drove, just like there has to be. Goodreads seems to be warming to it. Clare Clark dug it for the Guardian.

Kindle. Translated by Natasha Wimmer. An imagining of the day Hernán Cortés encountered Moctezuma II. The characters serve mostly to explore the Aztec capital Tenochtitlan and the culture clash between the imperials/conquerors. Most of the book is setup, explaining how we got here and to an extent the prevailing politics. Most of the plot development occurs in the final pages where a drug reveals how (future) history actually went. It was hard to parse what impact Cortés's account of Christianity had on Moctezuma or its import to this story. Psychedelics feature prominently. There are two princesses who lack volition and much characterisation beyond their regality.

I enjoyed it on its own terms; more familiarity with the actual history may've yielded a richer experience but probably also an oversensitivity to Enrigue's infidelities and confabulations. It sort-of lays the groundwork for Francis Spufford's alt-history Cahokia Jazz (with some points of similarly like the emperor-of-the-sun and mayor-of-the-moon for instance). The horses here stand in for the variant strain of smallpox there.

Dwight Garner: quotidian. Quite. Anthony Cummins. Adam Mars-Jones summarises at vast length. (I don't think ant colonies are hierarchical.) Goodreads did not exactly love it.

Kindle. Pre-ordered for 12.99 AUD from Amazon way back in October. I see they've jacked the price to 16.99 AUD for the stragglers. I felt I owed Morton a read after One Hundred Years of Dirt and for avoiding his week-to-week coverage of this epic fiasco which I didn't have the stomach for; I still don't but Morton commands respect for busting his guts. I read elsewhere that the actual report is about 1k pages, barely twice the length of this book. I wonder how many people will actually read either.

There's a lot going on and it's difficult to summarise in a way that incorporates all the smelly bits, so instead of digging where angels have already trod I'll just focus on what I wanted from this text. Most egregiously absent is an easy-to-follow timeline of who knew what when (as Morton understood it) and an org chart, or at least a commitment to attach a position to every name. An evaluation of the plausibility of all dollar figures would've helped immensely. There's not enough (could never be enough) of what Morton does best: capsule bios of humans as humans, of how the public servants fitted with their positions in the machinery of government, the lives of the individuals who had debts raised and the leaf-node Centrelink operatives like Colleen Taylor. I wanted things situated in the greater context of an increasingly robotised-without-the-robots society. ("Robo" connotes the lack of human discretion and not the means of implementation, but note that scalability was a core requisite; this commodified debt scheme was inconceivable in the 1980s and even into the 1990s.)

I think I could reasonably ask that of Morton. Other things require a broader view and another book. Just how big a deal was robodebt within the Department of Human Services while it was chugging along on the sly? Why did people just let it go? (I suspect that the essence of some middle management positions, like the one occupied by "didn't even try" Serena Wilson, is to smooth things between the political and the operational; what else did she smooth?) What does accountability look like in the Australian Public Service? Has anyone, you know, ever been held accountable for anything?

Having dispensed with the human element I can focus on what I'm really interested in: the systemic issues. The manoeuvring recounted by Morton suggests these tactics have worked in the past; perhaps some enterprising journalist can dig into reports ordered by the APS but not delivered for instance. I see it as inevitable that people will not write things down given the risks of a litigious society: witness the entire purpose of using Snapchat in finance. It also helps to mitigate the risk of data theft, and is a common strategy for gaining competitive advantage over workplace frenemies, especially when knowledge (domain specific, useless outside the organisation) is all the power available. I think Morton is being too naive here by chaffing against something so thoroughly incentive compatible. Perhaps he didn't spend much time in the office when he was with The Australian and yet he shows awareness of this issue by recounting some advice he got from a mentor (a senior reporter) about saying little to his editors until an article was ready to go.

He's also asking too much of the great unwashed masses of bureaucrats. I doubt many chose to work at the DHS (leaving Centrelink aside) except for careerist reasons and I expect it would take many a blind eye to survive long enough to progress. This also means that few remained there long enough to get a sense of how things really work, with those who experienced moral repugnance likely to have bombed out or moved on ASAP. People have mortgages, fearfully large mortgages, and we all know what a great motivator that is. Institutional knowledge was therefore unlikely to thrive.

Returning to the book: it seems amazingly, improbably fortunate that some aspect of the scheme proved to be illegal. The mind boggles at how it may have gone otherwise. The included responses boil down to: don't blame me, I would have stopped it if I'd known it was illegal. Long live the great Australian incuriosity! Along related lines, I had to wonder why the Victorian coroner enquiring into a robdebt-related suicide did not simply request the entirety of his data from Centrelink. I guess one of the key features of robodebt was the enforced amnesia: throughout this book I kept thinking that if I was to receive a notification of such a debt then I would assume with high confidence that it was based on all the data I had ever provided to Centrelink. Anything else simply does not make sense. Similarly the fact that debts were raised but nobody got any moneys owing to them puts the lie to it being about the integrity of the system. What a farce.

Perhaps perversely I came away with some sympathy for John Howard's sack-them-all policy towards Commonwealth mandarins in 1996. Back when I read Quarterly Essays I only considered the subject matter experts in the public service (people like Glyn Fiveash in this instance) and not the crazy politicking that occurs at the top end. But without a culture of documentation this leads only to amnesia and more politicking and here we are.

Overall the book sits uncomfortably between journalism and a permanent record: a premature second cut at history? The ebook needed another round of proofing and editing to eradicate a few too many typos and inscrutable locutions. It is occasionally discursive and overly repetitive; at some points there is an almost fog-of-war muddying of the waters, a looseness of language that obscures meaning. Separating this from my usual serious fare is the lack of citations and references for further pursuit.

Morton is now digging into the reshaping of NDIS. I hope he left enough gas in the tank for that one. There is also the enduring scandal of the NACC that requires his continuing attention. Eventually he'll learn that good work is it's own punishment but hopefully not before time.

Widely reviewed in the local press. Goodreads has some less polished and therefore probably more valuable opinions.

Kindle. I was hoping to get some understanding of Penrose's big ideas but the vast bulk of this biography is about his personal life. It is annoyingly repetitive at all scales. I found it hard to track where we were in time; often a few decades slid past, content-free apart from a change of wife/muse. Apparently Penrose slid into crankdom from the late 1980s. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 2020 "for the discovery that black hole formation is a robust prediction of the general theory of relativity". This work was done by 1964.

Barss was obviously the wrong person for this job as he has very little grip on most of the concepts he throws around. This is disappointing as there are a few that he provides very helpful intuition for, and there is a vast literature of engagement with Penrose's ideas from all angles. (See, for instance, John McCarthy on The Emperor's New Mind.) I was bewildered by why anyone who grasps Gödel's theorem would think that it implies machines are incapable of human-level insight and reasoning; as Alan Turing observed in 1950 we are so obviously inconsistent and so often unwilling to extend the benefits of inconsistency to machines. McCarthy also argues for non-monotonicity. This book is no help on those or any other front. I expected more imagery in a biography of a geometer.

The overly brief coverage of Penrose tiles is poor for something published this recently. Barss overstates their merits:

Two simple shapes cracked and divided the infinite plane, exploding ever outwards in unending variety. No tile set could approach their extraordinary, unexpected simplicity.

How could any science journalist/writer be oblivious to the hat and the sceptre of 2023?

Prompted by Jennifer Szalai's review in the New York Times. Their book reviews have been more miss than hit for so long now. She made it seem that there is a lot more science in it than there is. Goodreads is divided into those looking for the ideas and those who like pop psychoanalytic takes on geniuses. Peter Woit: exploitative of an elderly man with failing eyesight. Just read the Wikipedia page on Penrose.

Kindle. Prompted by David Trotter's review in the London Review of Books. Indeed the review is superior to the book. I've already exhausted its movie suggestions; Bitter Victory was a bust and Black Hawk Down left little impression. Thomson expresses much childish glee in pointing to obscure things like Masaki Kobayashi's The Human Condition but he's very late to that and all other parties. I could reasonably have have expected more of him as he ably juiced Spektor's book at the same venue.

What is this? The label on the tin suggests we're going to be told about the mutualism of the various war machines and cinema. That might involve recruiting flicks (The Last Detail), spycraft and exoticism in occupied cities (Zwartboek yes, Lust, Caution no), exploring command-and-control (Dr. Strangelove, Failsafe, Wargames, Sneakers), intelligence (The Imitation Game), colonial activities (The Man Who Would Be King, Three Kings), revolutionaries (Doctor Zhivago no, The Leopard no, Reds yes, Che no, Braveheart yes), post war (Le Samouraï yes?!?, On the Beach no) and relitigating past battles (The Deer Hunter, Rambo), the militarisation of police (Sicario) or even satire (Team America, Army of Darkness, Mars Attacks!). None of these topics gets much if any attention. Some indispensable films (Das Boot, Downfall) — some of which refute the canard that only the winners make (most of the) movies of the conflict! — go entirely unmentioned. (Note to future authors: that proposition is impossible to endorse when your book has an entire chapter titled 'Nam.) How about docos like Hearts and Minds? Ah yes, "proper credit" should accrue to those.

Thomson makes it abundantly clear that he's into war movies for graphic battle scenes and considers this a moral defect in himself and all of us. Perhaps he should watch more scifi (Star Trek, Star Wars, Starship Troopers, Edge of Tomorrow, Ender's Game) with its often bloodless, victimless violence. Aliens is all he's got as Thomson is of the old school that considers scifi a lesser genre.

This means we get lengthy explorations of Saving Private Ryan, Fury and Mel Gibson with a fixation on the World Wars and (of course) Việt Nam. Thomson's Eurocentrism (and often parochial Englishness) blinkers the coverage and his repetitive hand wringing sours the deal when he could be digging into the military-cinema complex and analysing how the concerns of this genre have shifted over the period. There are too many dodgy assertions. I did not notice much discussion of the motivations, causes and objectives of war.

For all that I heartily agree with him (Chapter 30, 'Nam) that someone should make a movie based on David Marr's 1945, about the OSS, Hồ Chí Minh and everything else. It would have it all. I wonder why it hasn't happened.

Goodreads was generally unimpressed and picked it to death.

Kindle. Tim Winton's latest. He seems to be slowing down; it's been six years since The Shepherd's Hut.

Winton takes on all the themes of the moment. Apparently the only genre sufficiently capacious is scifi. I felt I'd read or seen every ingredient before but not in this particular mix, making me wonder if this was what John Birmingham has been doing since He Died with a Felafel in His Hand. I was concerned that the fixation on externalities would come at the cost of Winton's deft handling of relationships, character and dialogue; I was less bothered about the plot as I can't remember him ever being great at it.

We're taken immediately to a familiar Mad Max post-apocalyptic setting, lightly exoticised with salt pans and littoral zones. Our first person narrator, a man with no name, starts in the present time but the bulk is recounted in overly detailed flashback to a mostly passive interlocutor/incarcerator, just like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. This structure has little impact on the tale beyond enabling ample foreshadowing.

In this world the people survive by homesteading and barter (money is implicitly absent) while the billionaires (who implicitly did not succeed in relocating to Mars) and Exxon-related parties hole up in remote, underdeveloped luxe fortresses. There's no zany or delicious ethical exploration ala Ned Beauman (here the Hermit Kingdom appears to be, well, the Hermit Kingdom) — just straight out rage and revenge against the dynastic wealth that caused the underspecified apocalypse. Everyone everywhere always wants to kill their bin Laden at any cost. I didn't understand what difference this could ever make and it didn't strike me as particularly Christian or in dialogue with a sins-of-the-father doctrine. Elements of Dune I guess.

The vector for this rectification is a covert society (the Service) that rapidly trains SAS-like operators. There's a a cell structure that is underexplored and I got wondering how these organisations correct themselves, especially in a world without mechanisms for broadcasting ideology and propaganda. How do they know they're killing the right people? Why is killing with gas (a contravention of an early Geneva protocol) so much less contentious than fire? Why is there no artillery or bombing? Whatever happened to drones and AUKUS? The Service provides material favours in return for service, and while his mother knows better than to ask the provenance of the providence, we're left to wonder if this is so very different to the dynastic patronage networks they’re removing or merely displacing. (For all we know the Service could be how the Musk clan takes out the Tillerson clan in a world bereft of Wintermute.) These rugged Australian revolutionaries (or reactionaries?) are a dead serious version of McGahan's "Oz Underground" mob of misfits.

Against John Brunner, infotech as we know it is broadly inaccessible and not directly responsible for the immiseration; it looks instead that we were done in by old-school rapacious fossil fuel capitalists. I guess that's one way to solve the mobile phone plot problem while allowing the persistence of night vision goggles and solar power. Very late in the day we get a glimpse of some "sims" which are pretty much those of Bladerunner; the (cinematographic) gas platforms on fire off the west coast of Australia (approximately Exmouth) are also appropriated.

Winton seems to have a shallow faith in artificially-intelligent robots being morally superior to men which perhaps reflects his shaky grasp (or wise avoidance?) of technology and innate optimism. He should have considered what happens when a sim needs parts and there's a shortage though. At all times he keeps the view small and tight, that of a person carried along by history who cannot learn from it no matter how much they see. We also get a woman who departs (shades of The Riders, shades of Dirt Music) and absent children. (I didn't understand why the narrator went looking for his wife, given she fled him under her own volition.)

There's the odd arresting sentence ("the dead stand on us too"), a bit of homage ("It went the way of every cataclysm. Slowly. Imperceptibly. Then all of a sudden.") and some overdressed cliche (“perform a role until you inhabit it naturally” is just fake-it-till-you-make-it) in the punchy prose. The vocabulary is overdone as it's a random jumble and not the specialised argot of a vocation (consider roofing or how farmers talk). For instance, Winton's tic of calling a sky "nacreous" only has a sniff of a chance of making sense if his narrator was a pearl diver rather than a plainsman. Overall the writing aims for Hemingway: long on the assertion, a bit short on the thought. I would have preferred less outrage and more conceptual outrageousness. He should've consulted with fellow Westralian Greg Egan.

Widely anticipated and reviewed in the Australian press. James Ley at the Smage. Overly familiar to long-time Winton readers. I haven't read Cormac McCarthy's The Road and the movie left no impression. Scheherazade. Cli-fi! — like McGahan's The Rich Man's House. He doesn't clock that the collectivism here is seriously flawed. "Staunch", 500 times. He avoids appraisal. Goodreads. The ending just happens. Most MSM reviews read like their livelihoods depend on saying positive things; Winton, at least, paid attention to UniKitty.

Kindle. I got suckered by a skim read of Adam Sternbergh's indulgent review at the New York Times. Ascribing the infirmity of the age to "the postindustrial air we breathe" on the first page helped me commit. Soon enough the funny bits fell away and the author showed he had no idea what to do with his genetically-determined plot. Baxter tried to make it topical by referring to technology he clearly has no experience or knowledge of, and retreated to talking about the Midwest in general terms (table manners!) while sinking the boot into the ever kickable Confederate South. The final 20% went completely off the rails with our narrator indulging his ex-wife and her paramour in a rustic duel. Reasons, who needs them.

The writing is fine, the grammatical nitpicking boring, and there is the odd funny thing amongst the repetition and unoriginal, inadequate character development. The denouement reminded me of Ann Patchett: the author was so invested in his people that he needed to give them a decent sendoff.

Goodreads. Aiming for absurd and missing. He got scammed! — and so did we. Courageless. Later: Sigrid Nunez summarised it at the New York Review of Books.

Well the time did come to read Marr's magnum opus. I scored a brand new hardcover for the bargain price of 33.98 AUD from Amazon U.S. via their AU store. Their pricing algorithm put up a fight but I feel like I came out on top.

This is the first piece of serious history I've tried to read. The effort, skill and care involved in its assembly is obvious even to a non-specialist. The writing is excellent; my only beef was that I felt the footnotes often contained substantive information that could've been inlined in the main text. It would've helped if I'd known more about the specifics of World War II and pre-revolutionary China. I was perplexed that the Vietnamese phrases and titles were translated but not the French; perhaps it's the case that anyone serious about Vietnamese history knows enough French to get by, but surely they'd be fluent in Vietnamese. The separate appendix of words with diacritics attached is so archaic now. (The text has apparently been updated for the ebook.) The worst part is the section on French metropole politics which was dull and obscure — as French party politics so often is — and somewhat irrelevant as all sides (Vichy included) agreed on the need to recover their imperial jewel after the war. Overall the book was as good as promised.

The causes of the major famine in 1945 are laid out early on. As I understand it now, and coarsely put, the French ran the colony in a sustainable way (or at least weren't so heavy-handed as to starve the peasantry) but the extraction of resources by the Japanese war machine from 1940 to 1945 put more strain on supply than could be borne. News to me was the narrow avoidance of a second major famine later in 1945 after the Red River dikes failed mid-year; as Marr puts it so well, restoring the dikes was a test of legitimacy that the new revolutionary regime passed, though the river didn't get that high again until 1970.

The latter situation obviously pushed any remaining fence sitters in the North to stand against all occupying powers. The British in the South, there to take the surrender of the Japanese troops and repatriate them, compounded the situation by stifling the flow of rice northward and releasing and arming the French colonists incarcerated by the Japanese after their coup on March 9. (This coup was pivotal — it precipitated the revolution — but undertaken somewhat reluctantly by the Japanese after the liberation of Paris/installation of the de Gaulle regime/imminent cessation of the Japan-France alliance meant they lost trust in the Vichy colonial administrators.) Marr provides some clues as to why things didn't stick in Sài Gòn: the poor communication channels with the North, the competition amongst "Viet Minh" groups that refused to resolve their differences, the attitude of the Japanese governor (Fujio Minoda) after the coup. Inaugural Independence Day (September 2) was a total fiasco in Sài Gòn.

I wish I had known more about the China of the day as the détente between the Nationalist and Communist forces, facilitated by the U.S., as faced by the Vietnamese was complex and fascinating. Marr had good access to senior O.S.S. operatives and provides ample context for the U.S.'s schizophrenic policy toward Indochina. (Roughly Roosevelt was ambiguously keen to move past empires but Truman was more concerned about Cold War imperatives and keeping a deeply wounded France sweet.)

Against this Marr is a bit light on for structural analysis. I wanted to know how the Viet Minh (eventually) got organised over such vast distances — did Hồ Chí Minh learn anything from the Irish? — and why they were so strong so early in (remote) Quảng Ngãi. Similarly the competing (and enduring) power bases of the Hòa Hảo (what a flag) and Cao Đài are inadequately explored, perhaps because they are so far from the epochal events in Hà Nội. The Catholic Church's support of the nascent DRV is not justified beyond an appeal to the broad shoulders of Hồ Chí Minh's charisma. It's still unclear to me how Ngô Đình Diệm and brothers came to power in the South, and Marr leaves us hanging about Bảo Đại (last seen in closeup meeting Hồ Chí Minh in Hà Nội). The role of the party (the Indochinese Communist Party) is sometimes brought to the fore and sometimes omitted; often I was wondering what General Secretary Trường Chinh was up to as events unwound, especially after the big ICP meeting at Tân Trào in August. This may've helped clarify whether the Viet Minh intended to be a broad tent in the longer term (incorporating other independence-seeking political organisations) or was just flushing out the competition. And so on and on.

Marr was fortunate to interview many of the players between 1967 and 1992 and his love for archival work shines through. The colour is sometimes epic, leaving me wondering what happened to this person or that who earnt a sentence or two in one of his footnotes. At various points Marr seemed to be steering me to Stein Tønnesson's The Vietnamese Revolution of 1945: Roosevelt, Ho Chi Minh and de Gaulle in a World at War (1991) and I felt he stopped short on delivering on his promise to cover 1945: the text fades into a zoomed-out Epilogue after Hồ Chí Minh reads the declaration of independence on September 2. I guess Marr knew the best writers and best works always leave the reader wanting more.

Goodreads. Greg Lockhart reviewed it for JSEAS (1996), Mark W. McLeod for the American Historical Review (1997).

Kindle. Billed as a spy thriller but really it's a discursive research dump. Quite often I wanted to throw the Kindle across the room as I waited for it to get good. It didn't; the final 10% or so does get moving but by then it's too late, and the concluding farce can't make up for what came before.

Our Californian narrator "Sadie Smith" bills herself as a spy. She's more of an agent provocateur though. The task which she chose to accept was to infiltrate a pseudo-kibbutz in the Guyenne region in southwestern France via the pants of a minor Parisian film auteur in ballpark 2010. Her actual job is to bore us witless at length with trivial observations about early hominids and excessive but inconsequential drinking. Does she (or Kushner?) really think that archeologists and anthropologists are so stupid that they do not understand survivorship bias? Everyone knows that left-wing French politics has been dead boring since 1968, and there's a lot of glory but not much substance in theory; I mean, it's just free association.

The early flashback structure demonstrates that Kushner put more value in finding homes for her research/notes from a holiday in France than in telling a good story; I tend to feel that if the narrative and characters have any strength then they can be presented linearly, from start to finish. If they don't, no amount of faux intellectualism is going to save things.

While chugging through this (in lengthier bouts as I realised there was nothing memorable in the offing) it struck me as mostly derivative of other works. Fundamentally there's Adam Johnson's Parasites Like Us but without its humour or actual erudition, and the entrapment of Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent. The tendentious and shallow concept of a person's "salt" struck me as a pale imitation of Persig's grappling with quality in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Perhaps, like in Gone Girl, someone found the sex sexy, maybe even including the repugnant bits. Ultimately I couldn't tell if Kushner was patronising her readers or actually intended her narrator to present as patronising and stupid. Or was it all an accident?

Widely reviewed. Like me, Brandon Taylor was completely unimpressed. Reading his article now, after the book, I see my beefs are a subset of his. The vacuity is laid bare by how "Sadie Smith" chooses to spend her retirement, by doing nothing much of anything. Dwight Garner gushed and also liked the bit about cave-dwelling Bruno getting head lice from a dead German soldier during the occupation of France. And so on. Hats off to the marketing team once again.

Kindle. George Mackay Brown's first novel. He certainly wrote about what he knew. Set in a fictional town (Greenvoe) on a fictional island (Hellya) in the Orkneys, he ably documents a dying way of life in an isolated community. The characters and their proclivities are closely and sympathetically observed. I got the feeling he split his own into a few people here. He does not shy away from the ugly things in life but greets them with gentleness. The nested and shifting story frames are smoothly and deftly handled. The writing is quite fine and the specialised vocabulary is a necessary part of the requiem. Far more engaging than you'd expect from what is structurally a soap opera.

As with Fankle-the-cat the outro here rails against the destruction of nature and deep history, the displacement of the locals, for expedient and withheld reasons. (Just what was Black Star?) It comes with a rush and a change of style and voice, a simplification of language, like he's explaining himself to a bureaucrat from London.

Goodreads. Calm, entertaining, thoughtful. Mystical. Robert Crawford on Mackay Brown.

Kindle. Inevitable after Andrina. Billed as stories for kids, and indeed the writing is direct and fine but the vocabulary requires an adult. The cat of the title is black (of course) and comes to live with a young school girl on an island in Orkney. The stories are in the vein of Oscar Wilde: gentle moral fables garbed in fantasy and magic realism. We visit ancient Egypt, imperial China, a pirate ship and the island itself in the present time. Fankle hates the snow. The coda is an acerbic take on man's relationship with creation.

Goodreads.