a succinct, merciless Absurdist classic, and a classic for a reason. less of a narrative, more of a thought experiment — Camus’ philosophy made flesh. a companion piece to his essay The Myth of Sisyphus and, imo, the more compelling of the two because instead of explaining his worldview, we are given a walking, talking embodiment of it.

there’s been a lot of criticism of Meursault as a character (much of it valid) but i think it’s more interesting to see him as Camus’ unfeeling universe, or at least its kin. a universe that follows its own logic, which has nothing to do with human morals or social norms.

if Meursault is the indifferent universe on trial, then the court scene becomes a stark and ridiculous exposé of our innate human tendency to demand that the universe justify itself, explain itself, perform remorse for its failures to care. and in a single scene of conflict between Meursault and the chaplain, Camus squeezes so much discourse around the origin, purpose, and limitations of religion.

The Stranger doesn’t try to inspire empathy with its narrator, nor does it allow you to hate him fully. it refuses to take sides. it doesn’t fully commit to the abyss of nihilism (there is no meaning) nor to the more optimistic perspective of existentialism (we make our own meaning). we’re stuck in limbo, grasping for a hold, utterly unresolved, searching for meaning — and this absurdity, it seems, is where Camus wants us.

a depressing read to some, a comfort to others. but nevertheless, delicious food for thought.

“For the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself—so like a brother, really—I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again.”

This was such a mind-trip of a book, it almost feels like it was all a dream. The writing is so soft and tinged with a palpable sense of quiet wonder and whimsy. It is at different times tender, lovely, lonely, mournful, haunted, anguished, reverent, and magical, but always in such layered and beautifully subtle ways.

This book is SO smart and intricate, especially in the first half, but the author is just THAT skilled, and had such a clear sense of what she wanted to do, that the experience of reading it feels…simple. There were parts where I was thinking about how each sentence and section has meaning upon meaning heaped onto it, woven together with an impressive complexity and deftness, but it’s crafted as naturally as water flowing downhill. The tone and style are so endearing and charming and delightful, it’s impossible not to fall a little bit in love with the narrator. It’s a book that manages to make time stand completely and perfectly still, while also feeling a bit fleeting, somehow? It felt a bit ephemeral, a bit insubstantial, a bit not-there around the edges. As if I could look away from the pages for a moment, and the words would have disappeared when I looked back down, gone with the passing clouds.

In a way - and hopefully this is not too spoiler-y, lol - this is a book about endings, and like all endings, it is not without its unique anguishes. But it’s all so enchanting to get lost in it.

I will say that this book feels more about the Experience TM than it is about the plot and such. There is a plot, but it’s quite simplistic. Basically everything is wrapped up at the climax, and I wished that there were some points that were explored with more depth or complexity given how skillfully the author had built up to them in the first half. They were interesting and cool! I wanted to know more! And it felt like a little bit of a let-down to just breeze over everything the way that the book did. But, I still really enjoyed this regardless. It’s all just so dang clever.

⭐ 4.1/5 stars

I'll be honest and admit that a great deal of this book was way above my head, but I do feel like I have a better understanding of some basic astrophysics concepts now. Mack writes with humor and enthusiasm, and it's clear that she is passionate about communicating why this subject is exciting. I really enjoyed her authorial voice and particularly valued hearing her explain why certain industry explanations didn't seem good enough to her. She encourages critical thinking and boundless curiosity about a subject (I'm guessing) many people find intimidating.

I also appreciated her thoughts on what this all means for humanity in an existential way, although I found her perspective fairly different from my own. I do feel existential grief and anxiety over the idea of mass human extinction, but not because of the theories Mack described in this book. Actually I sought this book out in part to soothe this part of me. Learning about endings in nature, past and future, that we were not present for or that we lack the power to stop, helps me put our current ecological crisis in context and makes me feel a little more able to breathe. Do I want mass extinction? Of course not. The thought of it terrifies, enrages, and deeply upsets me. This is a coping mechanism for my debilitating emotional response to what I see happening, not an excuse to not care or do what I can.

in Helgoland, Rovelli brings the basics of quantum physics to life and lays out what they actually mean for us and our understanding of the universe. he captures an incredibly complex and counter-intuitive subject and pins it down in lush, sensory prose.

i loved the framing of quantum mechanics as a fundamental change in perspective — from a worldview focused on measurement to one built on probability; from a world of objects to one defined by the relationships between every single part of nature, including us.

”“Everything is what it is only with respect to something else.”

at times (especially the second half) it does get a little esoteric if you don’t have any existing background on physics, philosophy, neuroscience or the russian revolution, but otherwise a truly stunning piece of science communication.

”Watching what appeared to be as solid as rock melt into air makes lighter, it seems to me, the transitory and bittersweet flowing of our lives. The interconnectedness of things, the reflection of one in another, shines with a clear light that the coldness of 18th century mechanics could not capture, even if it leaves us astonished — even if it leaves us with a profound sense of mystery.”

pokemon poetry!!! i’ll take five billion copies please!!!

ok ok ok guys i am absolutely crazy about this book. and not only because poetry and pokemon happen to be two of my favorite things. capable monsters is just… so EXPANSIVE and IMPRESSIVE and EXCITING. it’s 36 pages but it’s a whole living breathing lifetime. incredibly moving, beautifully complex. and so. fucking. cool. (i mean, it’s structured ike a literal POKEDEX??? how awesome is that???)

i think w poetry, it can often be taught in a super inaccessible way. it can feel very rigid, almost antiquated. i love love love contemporary poetry that embraces the freedom, the looseness, of now - doesn’t restrict itself to writing about things on whose inherent beauty humans have always agreed. i love when contemporary poets choose instead to write about and find the poetry in the small stupid gorgeous distracting every day shit: social media, cars and texts and facetime calls, favorite albums and anime and doing the fucking laundry and in this case - pokemon, something lots of people wouldn’t ever consider to be deep or even artful. but this book rejects that, it is a book about growing up black and queer and it is a book about little monsters and it is a book about wondering if you are a monster too because that’s what you’ve been told, looking for your own power, your own strength, wondering where you fit, can you ever even be “cataloged” at all. it is gorgeous and fresh!! it is everything!!!!

“The world that exists behind a story is never fully known, not even to the author. That is what I had in mind as I created this. I hope you have enjoyed reading this memento of a story that has ended.”

It’s unusual to start a review with a quote from the book’s acknowledgements, but I feel like this quote really captures the spirit of the novel. Strange Weather in Tokyo is a memory, a brief glimpse: we open a window into the characters’ lives, get an unfiltered look at their world and inner feelings, and then close that window again, gently. There is no big plot, no emotional catharsis or epiphanies: there is just life, as complex, subtle and unexplained as it actually is.

Our protagonist, Tsukiko, is lonely in every possible way. She is literally alone: she lives alone and spends her free time mostly alone. She is also emotionally alone: she does not have friends nor family whom she feels emotionally connected to. And, as a single Japanese woman in her thirties with no intention of marrying nor of developing her “wifey skills” (e.g. cooking), she is also alone in a social sense: she exists outside of social expectations and traditional narratives of what her life should look like.

Tsukiko is also very detached from her own emotions: she often knows how she’s feeling, but not why or what it means. Because we are inside her head, we feel all of her contained, confusing yet sincere emotions, and also follow her in rare moments of emotional clarity. I think this is what makes her such a compelling protagonist: she doesn’t try to hide her thoughts or feelings, not from the reader nor from herself, but she simply doesn’t know how to interpret them or act on them. This tension is what gives the story momentum.

This tension is also what opens up a space in Tsukiko's life for Sensei's presence. Her old school teacher, Sensei is now in his seventies and just as lonely as Tsukiko (literally, emotionally and socially), but much more experienced due to his age. Tsukiko and Sensei connect because they understand the kind of loneliness the other one is experiencing, and the fact that they are in such different life stages makes it so that they have nothing to hide from each other. What could they possibly have in common, other than their past teacher-student relationship? Why would Tsukiko care about a seventy-year-old man who isn’t related to her in any way?

In my opinion, it is this apparent lack of connection that makes it possible for Tsukiko and Sensei to connect: they don’t want anything from each other, they can hardly influence each other’s lives in ways that matter to the rest of society, and that gives them a special kind of freedom that is hard to find in Japanese society. Whether their connection is romantic, familial, platonic, or something else entirely, doesn’t really matter: this is simply a story about two people who, at a specific point in their lives, are able to give each other a kind of comfort and understanding they can’t get from anyone else.

I really loved this. The writing is seemingly simple yet packed with meaning, just like the story: nothing much really happens, yet the emotions and inner worlds of the characters are rich, layered and compelling. The novel is structured as a series of vignettes, and each chapter reads almost like a short story. The structure works perfectly with the story and mirrors Tsukiko’s flowing, uneven emotional world. I’m looking forward to picking this one out of my shelf here and there to briefly glimpse back into Tsukiko's life and reread my favourite chapters.

So, all of that being said, would I recommend this novel? Well, yes and no. Like I said at the start of this review, you won’t find much plot or big cathartic moments here: this is a very slow story focused on Tsukiko’s inner life and her relationship with Sensei, where often what is left unsaid is just as important (if not more) than what is explicitly stated on the page. In my opinion, this is Japanese literary fiction at its best, full of sincere emotions and subtle writing, but it definitely won’t be for everyone.