archytas's reviews
1677 reviews

This is a grippingly told ode to the book - a deftly crafted tale that winds through various turning points in the life of a text. Doerr's characters are all inspired in their own way, to try to create something better. At first this seems more philosophical but as the novel winds on, it becomes clearer that this book is connected in a very practical way to the future of humanity. I found it slow going at first, but by the middle I was desperately hooked into the story, and the fates of all the individual characters.

It is slightly surprising that this book is as good as it is, given what it is attempting. Baxter combines a painfully sharp - in the funniest way - study of the messy psychology of making art with a broader social critique of how women are patronised, boxed in and denied gravitas in the scene. This means balancing a narrative around her protagonist's anxiety spiralling her out of control - often played for laughs - with a narrative about how difficult it is for her to be taken seriously and claim her power. Somehow, it really, really works, making this a fun, if chaotic, read that never fails its characters. The book is propelled by the same frenetic energy that captures its main character - who is beside herself as her latest exhibition opening approaches - 
I suspect I would have liked it a great deal more if I knew the art scene being satirised, or even had artists as a part of world. But as someone uneasy around conceptual art, I still found it a great read. And maybe I know a little more now!

This is movingly written set of stories about women in Chile. All the women have burdens - they are seeing a psychologist - but they also reflect the lives of women everywhere, not just in Chile. What binds them together is their determination to strive beyond the limitations that have been placed on them - by societal expectation, war, disability, parental or spousal control. 

This is a moving and thoughtful account of Opantish, which sought to mobilise against gang sexual assault in Tahrir Square during the Arab Spring. El-Rifae has an anthropologists eye here, and a deep interest in how this work impacted the volunteers, and in examining the group dynamics, making it a very engaging read for anyone with experience of organising in mass demonstrations. The stakes are high - both because of the sense of urgency in the movement, and the brutal, systematic and overwhelming nature of the attacks. Committed to making a difference, these activists persist even when the scale of the danger - female activists on the teams in the square frequently are sexually assaulted themselves, and male activists also on occasion - and the sheer impossibility of keeping up is clear. This creates a range of dynamics, all of which El-rifae mines with compassion and respect, to draw out some kind of lesson about how to organise and exist in unjust societies.
This is not an easy read often - I had little idea how bad the assaults were before reading it - but it is a hopeful and invigorating one. One of the most memorable bits for me is when the group start enlisting men on the outskirts (or even inskirts) of the assaults to help, recognising that the line between hero and abuser can be thinner than we often acknowledge and using community accountability in interesting ways. This theme also enables El-rifae to balance her regrets and her pride in ways that enable analysis and also a call to action.

I don't know how to review this book, because nothing about it should work and yet everything does. This reads more like memoir than a novel, but the strong insistence that it is a novel also forces the question of what narrative is, what writers try to achieve, and how life and work intersect. It reminded me incessantly of Monkey Grip - possibly because it is set in a in the same city in similar eras (well a decade or so) - but likely because both inhabit this similar uncertain netherworld in which art is made out of truth, or maybe truth is made out of life, in a way that examines the intersection between social constraint and self.  De Kretser's work has always felt carefully constructed to me, but Theory and Practice did not (although it clearly was). Rather it feels unleashed, like this was just waiting to be written, even as it resonates, puns and circles back on itself in clever ways. And even as it explicitly toys with how our theories and our practice shape each other. Our protagonist grapples with her love for Woolf and her growing exposure to Woolf's racism and antisemitism, just as she hits the Melbourne theory-intensive English literature scene, and just as she jealously fixates on her lover's girlfriend while writing feminism. We see how theory can be a refuge, but also a deception, an avoidance and a hypocrisy.  A way of not-seeing or refusing to look. The work also chronicles the way that things which feel eternal in your 20s change, like everything else, like you, in fact.
It has been almost two weeks since I read this that I am reviewing, and my thoughts about this book still feel more whirled than settled. I did love reading it though, and tore through it, which feels worth recording. I also want very much to say that I thought she was very kind to St Kilda, a suburb with great pubs but a lousy beach, but this is not at all relevant to anyone else's enjoyment of the work. 

This is a highly readable history, full of courtly intrigue, and focused on the friendship between Pasha Ibrahim and Suleyman. It reads almost like historical fiction - and I probably would have been more comfortable with it if it had  been marketed as that - but there is no question that de Bellaigue is a cracking read which helps to understand how Ottoman politics worked. 

A reasonably didactic, beautifully drawn, graphic novel covering a small group of students in Ankara in the 1970s and 1980s. A little understanding of history would help going in, as White's strength here is in evoking the sense of rapid change and semi chaos, perhaps sometimes at the expense of clarity. I very much enjoyed it though, and we have too few tests which cover what intense periods of social upheaval were like to those at the centre.

Based on extensive oral histories, this volume explores Australia's 1980s and 1990s world of hospital-based AIDS care. Fela is interested in the groundbreaking aspects of this movement, which was shaped by the strong demand by queer communities for involvement in all aspects of care and treatment. Fela is interested in how things changed through this process, and the role of individuals, AIDS Councils and unions in achieving that.
Fela brings the varied stories to life - from the significant number of queer nurses (more likely, Fela warns us, to participate in the project) to nurses who met their first gay man on the job.  Most unforgettable is Aunty Gracelyn Smallwood, whose detirmination to make a difference, courage to speak truth to power and sheer hard work were probably decisive in avoiding high infection rates in Aboriginal communities.
This has been strongly recommended to me by many people, who noted the depth of emotion that Fela is able to tap into in writing these stories. I think the book's impact is also in that it recognises the kinds of achievements that are made steadily, whose significance may not be apparent until well after the fact.

"La Tortuga had always walked in uncomfortable shoes. Pain, she understood, was built into everything, and nothing worked well or did what it was supposed to. That was one of the reasons she was a fixer. There was so much to fix."

Pearson's strengths as a writer are at full power in the Eyes of the Earth, an ambitious, lyrical and often achingly tender book about a woman who gets on with it, a man who doesn't have to, and a beautiful, broken, world. The book centers around 73-year-old La Tortuga, a hero for the ages, who arrives with her backpack and her strength as an undocumented migrant to Mexico, fleeing a too-familiar combination of personal and political violence. Contrasting La Tortuga, we have Henry, a young American on a trip to find himself. Both Henry and La Tortuga - and a major child character Miguelito - are compelling, engaging protagonists, rendered with Pearson's potent mix of warm empathy and lurking anger.  These are certainly the avatars that Pearson intends them to be, but they are also people whose journeys we invest in, recognising parts of ourselves. Pearson peppers the book with interlude portraits of migrants, leveraging a lifetime of observation, to render as seen many who are not.
"Marvin and his friends made short funny videos dressed in some of the random things people had donated to the migrant shelter; a pointy hat, a glittery suit jacket, sports vests. At night when he couldn't sleep he would balance his phone on his forehead. the next morning he would wake up and it would still be there. He laughed and joked his way through life. Even when he was riding on the roof of the train, he had stood up and waved his hands in the air as it passed through towns."
It is in the details that this novel soars, whether describing the people of Mexico City, the waste dumps or the magical, delightful forms of alebrige.
This attention to details somehow pulls together the ambitious tonal scope of the novel, which includes magical realism and political commentary.
It's not perfect, there is the odd clunky sentence and the sections covering avatars of evil sat a little awkwardly alongside the empathetic approach to individuals for me, but they are minor. This is a much more polished novel that Pearson's first outing, and features a distinct, unique, passionate voice that never falters in its focus on the story.

This is an admirably candid memoir of Ghada's time in the West Bank as an advisor to the Palestinian Authority. It reads a little like the writing is a way to make sense of her own experiences, especially perhaps her disillusionment with the PA, her attachement to the people of Palestine, and her abiding anger at the binds that tie them. The scenes set in Gaza were hard to read because of the 2025 context of reading them, and trying to understand just how much worse what is going on now is than what could possibly have been imagined.