Edgar's Book Round-Up, September 2024

Got a little behind on these, for reasons outlined elsewhere. Gaza still needs esims. Links go to Bookshop.

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First up this month, we have Why We Remember: Unlocking Memories Power to Hold On to What Matters by Charan Ranganath, which I read in audiobook form. It is worth noting that this, like many another “why…” book, is less about “why” and more about “how,” which isn’t necessarily a problem. Ranganath, himself a professor of psychology with a substantial background in neuroscientific research, is well positioned to explain how we form memories and what purpose they serve for us, exploring classic and contemporary cases of memory’s failure. Interspersed with fact are reflections on Ranganath’s own life experiences, especially focusing on his travels in India and his relationship with music, whether playing in punk bands or bonding with fellow researchers about their favorite groups. It is these personal touches that now stand out to me about the book, though it amuses that I not only do not recall why I decided to read it, I also do not recall much about the book itself, given the near-two-month gap between when I read it and now — but what I do recall, I recall fondly.

Genuinely, this is a must-read if you want to know what autobiography could be, or if you like Surrealism.

Next up, in print, is Claude Cahun’s ostensible autobiography, Aveux non avenus (not available on Bookshop, so here’s the Wikipedia entry). Cahun, with whom I am quite smitten, was a contemporary of Andre Breton and the rest of the Surrealist Brotherhood — but Cahun’s approach was quite different from many of the names we might immediately associate with that group. Much of their work (and I allow myself a gender neutral pronoun because I have it and I think, based on what I had read about them previously and strengthened by what I read in this memoir, they wouldn’t have minded) uses photography and collage to create unsettling dreamscapes. Punctuating the text of the memoir, Cahun’s illustrations are rich and simultaneously highly personal and instantly comprehensible to a reader in the twenty-first century, and the “memoir” itself is treated with collagiste approaches. Cahun braids together reminiscence with philosophizing, temporally-ambiguous plays relying on their classical studies and dream-narratives that take the reader on what I can only describe as cosmic voyages. While I do not feel that I necessarily have a better grasp on the events of Cahun’s life — and for the anglophone reader interested in that, Shaw’s Exist Otherwise, which I reviewed here, is a perfectly good resource — I do wish more memoirs were like this one. Highly recommended, especially if you, like me, enjoy Surrealist writing.

Once again, Evangeline Gallagher knocks it out of the park with this cover illustration.

I followed that with another print book: Andrew Joseph White’s Compound Fracture. It’s hard to express how entirely My Shit this novel is: we follow Miles, a newly-out trans boy as he becomes embroiled in local politics grown deadly, the rot in his community extending back to the murder of his socialist, union-organizing great-grandfather, whose ghost will help him peel back the layers and layers of secrets that shaped their West Virginia town. This is, by a lot, White’s most literarily accomplished novel, the hard-hitting plot and nervy, supercilious characters balanced against really beautifully observed prose. The depiction of Miles’ family and their collective experience of his coming out is especially touching and feels very true-to-life: White allows Miles’ parents to fuck up while remaining entirely sympathetic as characters, and their relationships to each other and their wider circles of friends and family have a verisimilitude that speaks to White’s own background in the region. It’s fucking great, honestly, and I continue to enjoy following White’s career.

I next finished Joe Koch’s Invaginies, as an ebook provided to me by the author. Koch came onto my radar via his incredible writing on Lovecraft and body horror, but this short story collection is my first experience with his work in a more sustained fashion. And what a body of work it is! From the one-two punch of the title story and “Bride of the White Rat,” which open the collection, to the long mourning of “The Wing of Circumcision Hands,” Koch has produced an incredibly strong gathering of violations, transgressions, and truly rancid vibes. As the title implies, there’s a lot of body in these stories: “Chironoplasty” centers around a futuristic gender affirmation, while “Oakmoss and Ambergris” features a character who produces the titular substance. The stories that stood out the most to me, though, were the ones that dwelt in the trash of the twentieth century — “Coneland” and “Pigman, Pigman” stand out here. Koch evokes the kind of grubby, vicious horror that makes movies like Longlegs work so well, digging deep into the pervasive brutality of something closer to the quotidian and then ripping it open and distorting it into something simultaneously immediately recognizable and totally horrific. I am so glad that Koch provided the book to me, and very excited to read more of his work.

In audiobook form, I finished up Broken Hands beloved T. Kingfisher’s Saint of Steel books, which I will discuss here as a unit, though each book stands reasonably well on its own (here’s the first one). The four books each follow a different one of the remaining paladins of a dead god as they attempt to rebuild their lives in the wake of that trauma — while also dealing with the fact that they are capable of berserker rages, and also falling in love. While romantic fantasy is pretty hot right now, apparently, Kingfisher brings out the best of the genre, and makes some delightfully characteristic choices: her protagonists are in their 30s and 40s; they have interests and entanglements beyond their love stories. And true to form, there’s at least one “eurgh!” moment per book, as well as a pretty richly constructed fantasy world riddled with gods, poisoners, magic users good and bad, and at least one plague doctor. I was a little annoyed that the one book that focuses on a queer romance is so much shorter than the others, but beyond that, I have no real qualms with the series. Kingfisher is a reliable favorite of mine, and these were fun and light-hearted without shortchanging their characters.

All else aside, I love a tawdry cover, and this delivers.

Next up was Samuel R. Delany’s Tales of Nevèrÿon, a book that almost defies description. It’s definitely sword-and-sorcery (as the cover art amply suggests), but plot summary is difficult when the novel’s concerns are so resolutely elsewhere. I have not encountered a fantasy so intent on exploring what fantasy is, and what it means, since I read M. John Harrison’s Viriconium books in my youth. Throughout the novel, Delany references thinkers like Edward Said, quoting postcolonial thinkers at the beginnings of each of the sections. His prose, too, is phenomenally efficient without sacrificing texture and setting. I will note that, partway through my reading, a friend brought Delany’s support of NAMBLA. Doris V. Sutherland offers a very thoughtful discussion of the situation — but I certainly found that it soured my enjoyment somewhat.

It’s worth noting that here, I finished The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie in audiobook form, the first book in the First Law Trilogy. Unfortunately for all of you, I fucking love these books — literally, as I was walking around listening to this one, I found myself muttering, “Yes! Yes!” like the Sickos guy. That said, I will contain myself, and discuss the trilogy as a whole when I finish the third book again. I will only note that I loved these books dearly once, and I am thrilled to discover that I love them dearly still.

We close out this round-up with Susan Cooper’s Dark Is Rising sequence, which I also read as audiobooks. (If it seems like I read a ton of audiobooks, that is definitely true, but it’s worth noting that I listen to most of them at 1.5 or 1.75 times the recorded speed.) Considered classics of both children’s literature and Arthuriana, I finally took the plunge because of how much I enjoyed Johnny Flynn’s EP inspired by the books. The novels follow a group of children, brought together by an old man who might actually be Merlin, as they seek to secure Arthurian treasures for the use of the Light in its battle against the Dark. I’ve known several people who really liked the books, and I can certainly see why: Cooper is especially good at creating an unstable, dreamlike atmosphere, where characters are both in the real world and in another, more mythic realm, and her historicizing approach to Arthuriana is definitely the kind of thing that, encountered at the right time, can make a real impression on someone. I am, however, a little past the target age demographic, and it often felt like Cooper was pulling her punches, especially with respect to the villains, who just stop short of twirling their mustaches and cackling — but only barely. I appreciated that she did make clear that racism is very much something the Light abhors, though that wasn’t until the final book. They were pretty good, and I almost wish I’d read them earlier, but as it is, I will probably foist them on a child at some point.

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