Some reading thoughts that don't merit a full review.
The New New Thing by Michael Lewis (December 2020)
My favorite Michael Lewis book, which is saying something given all his other work. This 1999 release isn't routinely included among his classics, and perhaps this explains why his subject, Jim Clark, remains somewhat unknown today. So who is this guy? You may wish to Google him, informed reader, but be warned - despite founding three-separate billion dollar companies IN SILICON VALLEY, Clark is somehow the second search result, pipped to the checkered flag by a Formula One driver. I suppose it's just another detail to add to the long list compiled in The New New Thing, which is pure Lewis throughout - his trademark "can you believe how ridiculous this is?" incredulity is the rail running beneath the work, and along the way we learn a few things about a quirky moment in the early days of the internet boom.
Thirty-One Nil by James Montague (March 2021)
Montague hopscotches his way through the qualification process for the 2014 FIFA World Cup in this wide-ranging book. Each chapter focuses on a different match, starting in Tajikistan with Afghanistan's "home" match against Palestine and building up to the highest profile matchday in the tournament, Europe's final playoff round. I suspect I enjoyed the style more than the average reader, as Montague's travel itinerary bore some resemblance to the way I've navigated Wikipedia's article about the qualification process; certain readers may prefer the traditional style of one journalist covering an entire team's journey. This is the only complaint I could invent for an otherwise remarkable book, and I look forward to rereading it ahead of next year's tournament finals.
Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami (January 2020)
Longtime TOA readers are surely exhausted of hearing about this work, which I've mentioned on thirteen prior occasions, so I'll spare you the extended analysis; my recent observations are in these book notes.
I've written before about the way Murakami creates a specific mood in Hard-Boiled Wonderland, which I notice on certain winter days when the sun goes down a little too soon, a little too fast, like it's taking the future with it as it dives out of sight; this feeling was evident again in last year's rereading. I also left that reading experience with a new question - where is the line between what we lack and what we do not appreciate? Can we find what we need by seeing the existing in a new light? To restate the thought in terms of the walls that play a constant thematic role in this book - at what point do we stop looking out, opting instead to look inward and fill in our missing spaces? Murakami's other books are rightfully acclaimed and Hard-Boiled Wonderland is missing some of the features that built his international popularity, but for me this book will likely remain my favorite of his work.
