Author: thepassionatereader

This autobiography presents a challenge to review objectively. The restless, Canadian-born, young adventurer, photographer, film-maker, scientist, and naturalist has made a career out of cave diving in some of the most remote challenging environments on earth, including under Arctic Ice, into deep unexplored Mexican underwater caves, and in clefts in huge Antarctic icebergs in the Ross Sea. She has won international acclaim for her contributions to the science of water conservation but really devotes little time here to that science. Her driving force always seems to be the need to conquer her fears and challenge herself to overcome ever increasing odds of dying by taking on new risky adventures. She describes at least a dozen situations where the odds of her survival were at best 50-50, unless she is grossly and consistently overstating the dangers. No one will ever sell her life insurance and she does not shrink away from discussing the very high mortality rate of the whole community of cave divers. Danger seems to be an addiction to many of them.

As a pioneering woman in a male-dominated world of adventure cave divers, she faces barriers that reflect common societal misogynist perspectives. She resents being considered as her husband’s ‘latest girlfriend’ and insists on being recognized for her own accomplishments. Some misogynists would describe her writing as showing neediness and insecurity, and her complaints about not being acknowledged for her work may seem a bit peevish. But there is a fuzzy line between insisting on acknowledgment of one’s accomplishments and being seen as a whiny egotist and I acknowledge that there is still a very real problem of male reluctance to acknowledge remarkable women’s accomplishments. Insistence on recognition of one’s accomplishments is entirely different than a sense of entitlement. Although ‘entitlement’ and ‘recognition’, are somewhat related, the former has some legalistic connotations that the latter does not.

In the next to penultimate chapter the author discusses the genetic basis of people’s propensity for taking risks. She implies that she carries the DHD4-7R allele of the dopamine receptor gene which has been linked to addictions, ADHD and risk-taking behaviours of all kinds. It has been dubbed ‘the Wanderlust Gene’ and it seems likely that this genetic trait has influenced her choices in life. This genetic trait may help to explain the risk-loving nature of people like the author, and Kate Harris who documented her love of risk-taking in Land Of Lost Borders. This raises again the thorny issue of nature vs nurture that I will not discuss further here.

The irony is apparently unrecognized when she preaches about knowing when the risks are too high to continue a pursuit but is herself the best example ever of ignoring that advice.

The description of the geography of the deepest canyons and rivers in Mexico were confusing, and I could not conjure up an imagine the terrain.

One great quote: “We decided that it was more important to live rich experiences than to get rich.” Advice that will stand the test of time, but is not very popular.

This book will appeal to anyone who has ever done any scuba diving, but describes a world that this risk-averse (at least relative to the author) landlubber has difficulty understanding.

Thanks, Michelle.

This autobiography is both a chilling story of hardship and cruelty in one of the most repressive countries on earth and a stark lesson about the ability of political leaders to warp and completely control the minds of entire populations. Few novelists could ever imagine a story so filled with danger and deception as are depicted in this true story. Raised in the North Korean town of Hyesan, across the Yalu River from China, the Lee family father was killed by the security agents of the Kim dictators, but the mother and two children still firmly believed that they were living in the greatest nation on earth. Surviving by engaging in illegal trade with their Chinese neighbours, bribing officials, and obediently worshipping the Great Leader, they were totally isolated from the outside world and from the truth and were taught and believed a history that bore no relationship to reality.

When the author, as a teen, almost by accident, crossed the Yalu to China and realized that she could not return without jeopardizing her life and that of her mother and younger brother, she bribed Chinese officials to get false documents, travelled under constant danger through China and eventually ended up in Shanghai, and then, years later, in South Korea. But only gradually did she recognize that everything she had been taught about the world outside of North Korea was a myth. In constant danger of being betrayed and sent back, she changed her identity a total of seven times, hence the name of the book. Missing her family and her home, she eventually returned to the Chinese border town and persuaded her reluctant mother and brother to join her in a perilous multi-country trek to freedom in Seoul. Romantic liaisons were fractured by the necessity of false pretences, lies, and deceptions for survival, and her personal sense of an identity was constantly questioned.

This story is largely written in short sentences with no over-dramatization. Some readers may have trouble with the meaning of some Korean terms, such as songbun, the Korean equivalent of the Indian caste system, and the unfamiliar names.

There are lessons here for everyone who values freedom and their rights, and those of others. Our basic humanity demands that we find some place of safe political asylum for people such as the author. Many North Koreans may have long-lasting effects from childhood starvation, but they are neither stupid nor uniquely susceptible to political indoctrination and beliefs that bear no relationship to reality. Democracy is under threat almost everywhere and seems to be a fragile, almost illusory system of government that is endangered by would-be dictators spreading lies and deceptions everywhere. We are all susceptible. Fortunately we can and should educate ourselves and vote.

This San Diego emeritus professor of philosophy delves into the motivation controversies about why we have developed altruism, what motivates us to do almost anything, and what neurological mechanisms are at work when we decide to do a and not b. With wide-ranging knowledge of evolution, neuroanatomy, neurochemistry, psychology, sociology and psychiatry, as well as very different schools of thought in moral philosophy, she conveys an abundance of information in clear prose. I have some concerns that some of the extremely complex social science experiments she cites may not be reliable or reproducible.

Detailed discussion of what is known and what is unknown about the neurological mechanisms accompanying moral decision-making is backed-up with complex neuroanatomy sketches that may be at times quite confusing to non-medical readers. The latter parts of the narrative use compelling arguments to dismiss Kantian pure reason, utilitarianism as per Peter Singer, and determinism as per Sam Harris as adequate explanations for our ‘moral intuition.’ The Bernie Madoffs of the world are not excused of responsibility, although the degree to which psychopaths with their apparently genetically defective neural wiring should be held responsible for their cruel actions is not made clear. Not addressed here is the enigma of who to hold accountable when anti-Parkinson’s medication apparently causes harmful sexual deviant behaviour. The dire legal and societal implications and results of the deterministic view that there is no such thing a free will are discussed in detail. Although I get confused by the nuanced arguments about free will, I think Churchland’s stance is close to the compatibilism of Daniel Dennett.

I was surprised to see that the well established selfish gene evolutionary doctrine of Richard Dawkins is nowhere invoked as at least a contributing factor in the development of human altruism, given the evidence that altruism does provide some survival advantage, at least for some of our genes, if not for whole organisms.

A great quote: “ Conscience is a brain construct rooted in our neural circuitry, not a theological entity thoughtfully parked in us by a divine being. It is not infallible, even when honestly consulted.”

This book is not for everyone, but is a thoughtful primer for those who like to dabble in moral philosophy and get thoroughly confused.

I have not read any of Kingsolver’s previous award-winning novels, documentaries, or poetry, so her unique style of writing was entirely new to me. In this 469 page 2018 novel set in the real Vineland, New Jersey, the action alternates in the 18 chapters between the 1870’s and 2015, with the last few words of each chapter becoming the title of the next one. But there is not a lot of action-the beauty of the story is in the meticulously sculpted prose and the vividly realistic cast of quirky characters as the main dysfunctional families struggle with poverty and uncertain futures in spite of having well-educated members and higher education teaching positions.

The author has obviously researched the area and the history well, carefully describing the life of the lonely naturalist, Mary Treat, with her correspondence with Charles Darwin and with the father of botany, Asa Gray. The resistance to the world view implied in Darwinism is well described, with its dire consequences within families and within 1870’s society.

There are places where the author seems to use the characters to deliver sometimes preachily sentimental and at other times insightful social, philosophical, and political commentary through the dialogue, with a distinctly socialist message. The protection of the environment and the carbon conservation record of Cuba is contrasted with the rank consumerism and throw-away culture of the United States, and is made to seem ideal, even if it is something Cubans have no choice about. Although Donald Trump is never mentioned by name and only referred to as a 2015 Republican primary candidate, almost everything he has stood for or accomplished is thoroughly and savagely disparaged.

Two of many typical lyrical lines of simple prose. At a funeral of a young suicide: “The officiating minister, a round-faced woman in owlish glasses, was crooning her way through a one-size-fits-all prayer.” And “They passed a field where two horses stood staring at their long shadows in the dusky light, and she wondered what else they did for fun.”

I thoroughly enjoyed this story. If there were not so many other great modern novels to read, I might take time to read Kingsolver’s earlier works, such as The Poisonwood Bible.

The writing of this Boston general surgeon has been widely praised by people I admire such as the late Oliver Sacks, and for good reason. His writing is informative and straightforward, delivering a sober second opinion on issues in modern medicine and American society, opinions that often challenge ‘conventional wisdom’.

The subtitle of this book, Medicine and What Matters in the End, gives the reader a hint- it is all about dying and the failure of modern medicine and modern society to adequately prepare the elderly, the infirm, and the obviously terminal for the inevitable, and to take into account their priorities and wishes. That is not exactly a fun topic to read about but is an important one to think about. Calling up personal experiences with his patients and his family, he documents the inadequacies of the usual approaches in modern medicine and the harm that often results from denial, unrealistic prognostication, and over-treatment, particularly in the oncology field. A strong advocate for the specialty of geriatrics, hospice care, and allowing the dying to remain at home, he shows by example the harm that often comes from hospitalization, overly optimistic treatment recommendations and denial of the obvious by patients, physicians and families alike. This rings true with my own experience, not only with patients, but with colleagues and acquaintances. He correctly points out that for most of human history, death came unpredictably, usually rapidly, and without hospitalization. Only within the last few decades have we delegated the care of the elderly and the infirm to anyone outside of the home and the extended family. Growing up, it seemed natural that my frail grandfather lived with us rather than in a distant institution, and I have vague pleasant memories of him (and sometimes hid his dentures.)

The late Shep Nuland was one of the first in the era of modern medicine to discuss death in frank terms in his 1993 documentary book How We Die, breaking with the long-standing Western tradition of avoiding this unpleasant topic altogether, as shown by the late Ernest Becker’s Denial Of Death. But even the words ‘the late’ seem to me to be a form of euphemistic denial- they are both dead, not just late.

I have some reservations about this book. Surgeons came late and reluctantly to appreciation of the double-blind controlled trial as the gold standard of all kinds of treatment. Gawande cites only one controlled trail of care delivery, and that was designed and conducted by a geriatrician and predictably showed better outcomes for those cared for by geriatricians. Too many studies are designed to benefit those who design them. And even an old agnostic like me noticed the absence of any significant discussion of spiritual matters in palliative care, recognizing, as I do, that religious beliefs can be a very important source of comfort for the dying.

A couple of quotes. “We want autonomy for ourselves and safety for those we love. That remains the main problem and paradox for the frail.” “Assisted living is far harder than assisted death, but its possibilities are far greater as well.”

With all this discussion of dying, and with an unknown personal expiration mode and date, I am still ambivalent about dying at home, as I would prefer to have paid professionals doing the messy unpleasant work, rather than my family. And I dream of being shot dead by a jealous husband, but only if it was justified and not any time soon. Many relatives would be appalled, but even more would chuckle.

This Aussie native has travelled widely, having lived in Australia, Britain, the U.S., and Canada, and it shows in this very different kind of novel. She also is a graduate of a creative writing school, and that also is obvious from the lyrical, meaningless literary gobbledegook that is scattered throughout this novel.

Most of the story is told in the first person singular by a thirty-something single mother who is also a lawyer and the proprietor of a New Age Sydney cafe. She is singularly introspective and insecure, goes through a series of affairs, and joins a mysterious group who are invited to an island to be taught how to fly, after corresponding with the leader of what seems to resemble a secret cult, over years. The back of the cover of the book is loaded with superlatives in its praise from other authors that I had never heard of.

There is an abundance of very dry humour, deceptions, keen insights, apt metaphors, and some interesting twists here that kept me reading. The correspondence and meetings of the “Flight School” group of gullible misfits who are promised that they can learn to fly keeps the troubled narrator from reading any self-help literature for years, but when she finally turns to these sages to guide her through life, she finds no comfort from them and savages the trite jargon-loaded Dr. Phil psychobabble with biting sarcasm and wit.

A few quotes may clarify what I mean by ‘meaningless literary gobbledegook’. “There was rain falling, music playing quiet.” “The number three bounced around my vision, flashing lights and pixels.” “The absence of knowledge reared from behind me, .. an absence of children loomed ahead of me. The two reached out and tugged at each other.” But there also are some keen observations. “…if women write about love, it is chick lit or, at most domestic drama. Novels about love by men, on the other hand, are just plain novels, or possibly masterpieces.”

I cannot seriously recommend this novel, but I can understand why it will appeal to many readers. I am developing an aversion to books by graduates of Creative Writing courses and schools, but that is just me. And I must become more sceptical of praise written by people I have never heard of, but not to the point of tunnel vision and tunnel choices. Perhaps Moiarty should return to her previous genre of books for children- their imaginary worlds more readily mesh with the real world.

This very experienced and knowledgeable Princeton, New Jersey journalist has covered conflicts and political uprisings around the world for The New York Times. Perhaps that background goes some way to explaining his extremely negative portrayal of his home country in this screed delivered in language that could have been lifted directly from Karl Marx or Fidel Castro. Long on carefully identifying worsening political, economic and cultural problems in America, he is very short on offering any workable realistic solutions. In chapters on Decay, Heroin, Work, Sadism, Hate, Gambling, and Freedom, he describes his interviews and interactions with the downtrodden, the unemployed or underemployed, the angry, and the disillusioned as he tours the country. Many of these subjects are clearly hardened criminals by anyone’s criteria. Much of their sometimes justified anger leads to contradictory recommendations for remedies. He carefully avoids documenting the lives of anyone who had ever experienced any prolonged success.

Hedges conveniently forgets to reveal, even in About The Author that he is a Harvard graduate

an Ivy League teacher, and an ordained Presbyterian minister, putting him indisputably in the elite class that he thoroughly castigates. He seems to conclude that Americans are all fated to either go to hell, or to experience hell on earth. There is certainly no acknowledgement that any secular humanist such as myself could possibly be conscientious, concerned about the very legitimate societal problems he identifies, or offer any meaningful solutions.

In the final few pages he self-identifies as a socialist who believes his country is doomed to become an autocracy ruled by the corporate capitalist 1% who exploit and oppress the rest of us for monetary gain. He concludes that only a radical, perhaps violent, revolution has any chance of saving democracy. (He seems to hedge, as his name suggests, on advocating or condoning violence.) There is a lot of truth in his insights into the plight of those he encounters, but he denigrates almost anyone who has had any success in the mainstream of society, including the mainstream press that he belonged to, and all university professors, who are depicted as subservient to the capitalist elite, even as he advocates for universal free tuition and wider access to higher education. Even Barack Obama is scorned as a pawn of the corporate capitalists.

The chapter on gambling is perhaps the most revealing in uncovering the cold, calculating exploitation of the unsuspecting, particularly by one Donald Trump and his Taj Mahal casino. And the detailed documentation of the cynical psychological, monetary, and physical abuse of the unfortunate in the private prison system makes a mockery of the word Correction in their names.

To put my critique of this work into perspective, perhaps I need to acknowledge my own privileged position in a much less autocratic western country, as a lucky, relatively wealthy, healthy, and happy retiree after a long very satisfying career. But I found the tone of this book to be so gloomy and the predictions so bleak that it made me wonder if the title was some sort of personal cry of despair, or even a veiled suicide note. Although I learned a lot, I cannot seriously recommend this book for the general public. But it would be a great resource for a Sociology 101 course.

Federal election campaign open season begins this week, so I got this very up-to-date documentary about the last four years of rule by Justin Trudeau to educate myself and perhaps help me decide how to vote in October. The very experienced journalist author works as a senior writer with the CBC’s Parliamentary Hill Bureau, and previously worked for Maclean’s. It would be naive and unrealistic to expect any writing about politics to be entirely balanced and unbiased, and this certainly is not. There is little doubt that Wherry favours most of the programs and changes that the Liberals have tried to implement but he does not gloss over the problems that Justin Trudeau has encountered in his steep learning curve as a political boss-his failure to deliver on election reform, his farcical wardrobe display in Mumbai, his broken promises re the budget deficit, and his office’s apparent interference in the SNC Lavalin prosecution

There is a huge amount of interesting factual information as seen from the perspective of one with unusual access to all the major players whether they be the Ottawa pols or bureaucrats, their provincial counterparts, U.S. politicians, or business leaders. Just as one example, the controversy surrounding the SNC Lavalin prosecution is explained in terms that even I can now understand.

It appears that SNC Lavalin lobbying was almost entirely responsible for getting the Deferred Prosecution Act written into Bill Morneau’s 2018 budget. What is left unmentioned is that they allegedly have a mutually profitable business relationship with the billion dollar company, Morneau Shepell, a human resource company partially owned by guess who? Instead, the focus is on the apparent conflicts of interest, ego clashes, and differing legal perspectives between various people in the Justice Department, (unwisely combined with the Attorney General’s Office) and the Prime Minister’s Office staff. Why is Bill Morneau not held accountable for his part in this fiasco?

As is to be expected in any book rushed to publication (this one covers events up to June of this year) there are a few grammatical and spelling errors. And there is at least one factual error. In discussing and excusing Jean Chretien’s ability to deliver on only 37% of his 1993 election promises, Wherry says they faced a debt crisis half way through their four year mandate. That was clearly a crisis of their own doing.

To be a well-informed voter, I probably should now read a book about each of the other party leaders, but I am not sure I can stomach a book praising Andrew Sheer with his divisive, intolerant, vague promises on any number of issues, although he has no monopoly on ad hominem attack ads. My wife has pointed out that a number of candidates, in campaign flyers and newsletters fail to even reveal which party they belong to; it is as though they are running as independents. If our local Liberal candidate in Kanata-Carleton, Karen McCrimmon, is sure to win in October, I may vote for the NDP or Green Party, to increase ever so slightly their vote share. I am not, and never will be a partisan voter.

This is a very informative book that deserves to be widely read- with a grain of salt, before it becomes largely irrelevant by November.

It is back to school week, so I delved into this extremely dark debut novel by an ex-pat Indian now living in Texas, to learn a bit about the Indian caste system and its nasty consequences. The reality may be a bit less frightening than portrayed here but is nevertheless awful. In a remote Indian village, in the 1980s, the local economy seems to depend on a pedophile ring of upper caste men forcing all the low caste girls into temple prostitution, under the guise of satisfying the needs of the Goddess Yellamma. According to the Author’s Note, this widespread practice persists, and is tolerated by authorities in many remote parts of India. One such child is rescued from this life by an apparently altruistic wealthy upper caste gentleman aided by her mother and one grandmother, both retired temple prostitutes, but appearances are deceptive and none of the characters are really altruistic. The two girls that bond in the upper caste home over five years, then become separated with multiple tragic deaths in the Mumbai bombings of 1993 that impact both, only to be reunited in the last few pages. Family secrets, disputed paternity, deceptions, loneliness, and abandonment add to the complex, realistic plot. Longing for affection and parental approval that never develops is a recurring theme. The deep emotions expressed by the characters, and those that will be elicited from the readers, do not seem somehow to be extreme, given the pathos of the circumstances.

The writing is not at all lyrical in spite of some poems, and there are a few grammatical errors as well as abundant terms that will not be familiar to most English readers, but their meaning can usually be inferred from the context. Extensive use of the time shift literary device (between 1984 and 2007) seems hardly necessary and the chapters could be enjoyably read in chronological order, with some minor editorial changes.

This is not a fun read, but it is very engaging, well-written, and educational. But do not read this if you are at all prone to depression.

My wife assured me that I did not need to read the two previous Rosie books to appreciate this one by the hilarious Aussie novelist, narrated in the first person singular by Rosie’s socially inept husband, Don. But then she conceded that I would have found the many characters much easier to keep straight if I had read the other two books.

The characters are indeed a mishmash of social misfits, including Rosie and Don’s eleven year old son, Hudson, and his albino classmate named Blanche. Political correctness is pilloried as Don gets suspended from his job as a university genetics researcher for his apparently inappropriate characterization of racial differences in a lecture, only to find a calling as a high end cocktail innovator. Numerous social gaffes by several characters lead them to consider whether or not they belong on the spectrum of autism. The criteria for this now popular diagnosis are also mocked as several characters, including the narrator, self-diagnose the condition, even as they develop advanced social skills. The reader is left with the impression that almost everyone has some of the traits said to be characteristic of autism. They are all ‘autistic’ or ‘people with autism’ as the debate rages about which is the correct wording. At the most basic level, the serious message from this not-very-serious book is about being comfortable with who you are.

The characterization of school authorities and school psychologists as they work with parents to ensure that all children ‘fit in’ is also subtly mocked. In the past, when autism was not a well recognized condition, and the school psychologists were all amateurs known as teachers, we just considered those children ‘on the spectrum’ to be weird or social misfits. Now it appears that getting a diagnosis of autism is an acceptable explanation for all kinds of unusual behaviour and socially unacceptable conversations and actions. Perhaps I should seek a diagnosis of autism to justify my frequent embarrassing social gaffes.

I enjoyed reading this book, but I would recommend reading the previous two Rosie books, The Rosie Project, and The Rosie Effect, first, and in that order.

I am not posting any book reviews this week, as I have not read any recently that warrant the effort. I subscribe to no daily newspapers, but get two weekly magazines online and two monthlies. So I am just posting my musings about those, not as any kind of academic assessment, but as a tentative guide to what some readers, if at all like me, might expect to get from them.

The Atlantic: (online, monthly). This very informative magazine has a distinctive U.S. focus, but covers some international topics in each issue. The publishers maintained a strict neutrality with respect to coverage of U.S. politics until the Trump era, and then carefully explained why they came to overtly oppose his agenda. Long reviews and opinion pieces cover diverse topics from changing race relations, gender issues, and income inequality, to background in-depth analysis of historical trends, often with unique perspectives. The poetry and fiction stories, often written by creative writing gurus frequently leave me confused and disappointed. The book reviews are often very lengthy and some of the books chosen will be of very limited interest. But I usually read most of each issue, and learn a lot.

The Economist: (online weekly). As befits economists, this extensively researched magazine with a British flavour follows an unvarying format, starting with the very-up-to-date section called The World This Week that reports world news from as late as 24 hours before publication. That is followed by Leaders, Letters, United States, The America’s, Asia, China, Middle East and Africa, Europe, Britain, International, Business, Finance and Economics, Science and Technology, Books and Literature, Financial Indicators, and an Obituary, always in the same order. If you are interested in the challenges facing dictators anywhere in the world, the trends in the economy of any country, or the latest scientific discoveries, you are likely to find relevant information here. There are abundant, sometimes contrived, charts and graphs, and, as one would expect, a lot of predictions. The writers seem fond of quoting members of various think tanks but seldom reveal the inevitable biases of the thinkers. Political leaders and parties are invariably described as being somewhere on the right/left axis, as though that somewhat outdated distinction explains where they stand on every issue. There is never any doubt that economic growth measured by such figures as the GDP is the acme of human achievement. And some of the science and technology described is so complex, especially if it involves astronomy, that I despair of ever understanding it. Given the poor track record of economists in predicting anything, the frequent predictions need to be regarded with enlightened scepticism. I can’t declare that I read it cover-to-cover, but I may get through 75% and I enjoy reading it. There are rarely any spelling, grammar, or syntax errors, although I am jarred by oft-used “But although”, which seems to me to be a redundancy.

Harpers: (monthly, paper, not sure why I don’t get the e-edition). It is unabashedly iconoclastic and critical of mainstream political and philosophical trends (some would label its focal point as ‘far-left’). I enjoy the contrarian essays as a counterbalance to some group-think ideas taken as the gospel truth not to be questioned, in other publications. It’s reports are perhaps less research-based conclusions, and more an appeal to use careful logic to reach sound conclusions about all manner of social ills, political issues and day-to-day problems. The iconic one page Index masterfully shows the absurd inconsistencies and unintended consequences of a great variety of political actions and laws as well as our daily capacity to make irrational decisions. The last page, Findings, documents some very bizarre conclusions from the world of science, including all of the social sciences. The artwork on display is often abstract and leaves me unimpressed. I probably only read about half of most issues.

The New Yorker: (online, weekly). O.K. skip the first few pages, Goings On About Town, detailing the latest shows, night life possibilities, dining fads, art exhibitions, etc, unless you live in NYC or are planning a trip there. Designed carefully to appeal to urban liberals, the long essays on politics, social issues, and science discoveries are very informative and well researched. I am concerned that the recent endless Trump bashing may be helping him label the facts as fake news and thereby appeal to his base- he probably regards any negative publicity from his fellow privileged wealthy urbanites as an asset. The famous cartoons are scattered throughout the articles and some are hilarious. The choices for long book reviews often puzzle me, but I start in to all of them anyway, looking for hidden treasures. The poems and fiction pieces seldom appeal to me, even with the option of listening to the author’s read them. I probably read an average of 60 % of most issues.

Which magazine would I give up if time constraints dictated less reading? Probably Harpers. But I would still read at least the Index and Findings in each library copy. I suppose I could give up all of my subscriptions and just take up residence in the library.

A brilliant, intense Brit now at Western University in London Ontario, documents, in layman’s terms, the work he and his teams have undertaken to explore the boundaries of consciousness and what it means to be alive as a human being. Using a variety of innovative neuroimaging techniques that have garnered worldwide attention, they conclusively show that some people with no other means of communicating that they are alive, thinking, and capable of diverse emotions, are in fact, aware, are still “in there,” locked in a body unable to communicate by any of the usual means.

But the techniques are not foolproof and occasional patients in a “persistent vegetative state” who repeatedly do not show any responsiveness or awareness of their surroundings, using the most advanced technologies to communicate, later evolve into a state approaching mental normality. Family members, it seems, often are the best judges of who is aware in this Gray Zone after devastating brain injuries, even if they misinterpret what they are seeing. And the possibility that the comatose unresponsive individual is listening, understanding, seeing feeling, smelling, etc. should be the default assumption of everyone who cares for him or her.

This work is fraught with ethical, legal, and philosophical dilemmas with no easy answers which the author acknowledges. Like almost all modern neuroscientists, Owen seems optimistically confident that computer-brain interfaces will in the future vastly enhance the quality of life for those whose brains seem unable to communicate with the outside world, but all such predictions are, at best, guesses.

The discussion of the limitations of advance directives is insightful. How could I possibly know that I would want my family to help me die given the endless possibilities of the exact injuries leading to my non- communicative state, until I am actually there? Many patients in a persistent vegetative state communicate, via technology, that they are quite happy, have a good quality of life, and do not want to die.

As I read of this work, I feel grateful that I was never involved in the decisions about donors for organ transplantation, only working with recipients and potential recipients. Donors who fulfill criteria for brain death present few of the ethical problems that the later practice of DCD, (donation after cardiac death) pose. In this practice, someone who does not fulfill criteria for brain death, but for whom the decision has been made to withdraw life support and donate organs after their hearts have stopped beating, may become a donor. How can all involved be sure that the non-communicative person did not want to continue living? At least the transplant professionals are not directly involved in those decisions. I do not envy those professionals and family members charged with making such difficult decisions.

The discussion of societal consciousness, group consciousness, or “cosmic consciousness” reminded me of another London, Ontario professional, Dr. Richard Maurice Bucke, a nineteenth century psychiatrist who developed a theory of cosmic consciousness that never caught on. His biography by my late friend, Dr. Peter Rechnitzer, was a fun read.

The writing is clear and easy to understand even though it is absolutely humourless and less than lyrical. I think this book will be of continuing interest to philosophers, ethicists, and neuroscientists (and those of us who aspire to be at least amateurs in those fields). And kudos to my alma mater for having recruited him away from more prestigious institutions. Thanks, Maria Moore, for the suggestion.

One of my favourite novelists is back with another great story set between 2013 and 2022. It is told in the first person singular by Adam James Coryell, a Toronto teen who dreams of becoming a writer. But instead he is pushed into an unhappy though very lucrative career as a professional golfer by his high school phys-ed teacher and a grumpy Swedish university professor of kinesthesiology; the latter is forever banished to Adelaide because of a rather hilarious deficit of social skills. He simply has “no filter.” The description of him reminded me of Fredrick Bachman’s A Man Called Ove.

The central premise is that a series of detailed body measurements, when fed into an algorithm developed by the professor, can predict which sport any subject will be best suited for and likely to excel in, a perhaps weak proposition, (well, a seven foot tall lanky teen’s sport of choice is easy to predict), yet Fallis makes it seem logical. I won’t reveal the consequences of the narrator’s career in golf, but there are lots of adventures around the world, eccentric characters, an attempted kidnapping, a tragic death, and a tender sweet romance. Anyone who thinks modern novels are enhanced by graphic descriptions of explicit pornographic sex scenes needs to read this story to be disabused of that premise- there is really no sex at all here, except for vague hints of some teenage groping. There are endless double entendres, witty quips, and lots of dry humour in the lush fluid prose. The discussions of the joys of writing with various luxury fountain pens with different vintage inks are a little over-the-top but will resonate with some writing aficionados. I once owned a Montblanc and enjoyed writing with it immensely.

I can readily relate to the difficulties of getting books published. Like the main character, I had the contract with a publisher for my second book cancelled because the publishing house went broke, in my case after all the hard work of writing, editing and design had been done. As a non-golfer, I probably missed some nuances of the game described here, but I am confident that most golfers will love this story.

The implied serious advice here is to pursue your dreams rather than what others think you should do or what seems easy or most lucrative. In this respect, this book conveys a more profound message than any of Fallis’ previous comedic novels. And that advice must resonate with the author who found the work he loves in his 40s after a variety of less fulfilling jobs.

There are so many great quotes that I chose to publish two. “Sure, watching paint dry is boring. But if golf were the only other option, it wouldn’t necessarily be an easy call.”

“If you want to make a small fortune, start with a big fortune and become a novelist, or open a book store, or better still, both.”

I am not sure where to place this book in the lineup of seven Fallis novels, all of which I have enjoyed immensely. But it is near the top, maybe on a par wth The Best Laid Plans. And I hear that Angus McClintock may make a comeback in a future Fallis novel.

This book, appropriately written before the unpredictable events of 9/11, by a professor of history at the University of Toronto, addresses one of my favourite topics- the lack of predictability and the apparent randomness of everything that impacts our lives on this mediocre small rocky chunk of matter orbiting a medium-sized hot star on a small spur of a medium sized spiral galaxy. That may seem too bleak, cynical and pessimistic but is not nearly as bleak, cynical, and pessimistic as many of the predictions that have fortunately not yet come true in this documentary about our species inability to accurately predict almost anything. Wilson acknowledges that we all need a vision of the future to plan in the present- this documentary is not about the everyday personal planning for the future of ordinary individuals, but about those who set themselves up as experts in predictions for all of us, especially those who claim to have religious revelations about the Rapture, the Apocalypse, the Second Coming, and the end of the world. He acknowledges that he only deals with this from the perspective of largely Christian Anglo-American history, but the long history of predictions that have been proven false is dealt with in a scholarly, mocking, and often comical manner. And the escape clauses used by prophets to explain their apparent failures and retain or even increase their following when the date of the predicted calamity passes uneventfully are quite ingenious. But their secular Enlightenment philosopher compatriots did no better than the religious fanatics in predicting the future.

Much of the history of religious predicting involved, and continues to involve decoding the meaning of the bizarre events described in the Old Testament Book of Daniel and the Book of Revelation, using strained arithmetic calculations that had to be recalculated when the timing proved wrong and the millennial reign of Christ did not develop on schedule. John Napier invented logarithms in the sixteenth century to identify the Beast in the Book of Revelation. According to Wilson, as of the time of writing at least eight million Americans continued to believe that the Second Coming would occur in their lifetime. Many of the millennialists in the Middle Ages were simply delusional megalomaniacs. It seems to me that the simple flawed mathematics that they used to predict the future in most of history has now been replaced by complicated computer algorithms, but should we expect them to be much more accurate? Are the confident tech gurus equally delusional?

The predictions of utopia as envisioned by the Marquis de Condorcet or dystopia as exemplified by Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, and George Orwell, are discussed and their consequences were horrific, including the Reign of Terror following the French Revolution, the acceptance of eugenics leading to The Holocaust, and the Soviet Gulag, although George Orwell’s writing was intended as a forewarning.

I have childhood memories of being confused and skeptical listening in on discussions between my devout Baptist parents and my maternal uncle, an ordained minister of the Pilgrim Holiness church, about whether the Second Coming would occur before or after the millennium.

Wilson has some good advice for would-be prophets. “It is a good idea to avoid specifics such as the date of the end of the world. ….should someone get it right, there will be no one around to appreciate the call anyway.” And if you can backdate your predictions to make it seem like you predicted what has already happened, so much the better. Or pick a date well beyond your lifespan, if you are unconcerned about your posthumous reputation.

This is a clever fun book, as relevant now as it was when it was written.

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In the aftermath of 9/11, the residents of a fictional small town in the Berkshire mountains of southwestern Massachusetts struggle to deal with new anxieties, economic priorities, and the intrusion of a new rich family fleeing the uncertainty of NYC. Although the attacks of 9/11 are always in the background, much of the story just relates to the deteriorating economic, political and cultural prospects of small town New England locals from about 2001 to 2015. There is nothing predicable about the plot, but there are few surprises either and this is not a thriller or mystery novel. It’s beauty is in the wonderfully alive, realistic, and sometimes deeply flawed characters, including a remarkable depiction of the teen angst and confused ambiguity of a girl growing up in that environment and time; that evokes shades of the Occupy Wall Street movement. The writing is direct and eloquent with characters’ differing deeply-held political beliefs conveyed with keen insight but little judgement.

Much of the conflict is between the struggling poor locals and the super-rich newcomers from NYC, and some details are left to the reader’s imagination. Did the town cop actually shoot and kill the angry, poor, unemployed resident protesting his new enforcement of parking regulations? There is an abundance of very foul language that will be offensive to some readers (do not read this one aloud in sensitive mixed company), but it does not seem out of place in the talk of the struggling, unemployed and poorly educated locals with dim prospects for any advancement, and a paranoid distrust of the rich, powerful, and authoritative outsiders. Marital infidelities, drunkenness, and family conflicts round out the picture of the struggling locals.The subtle ways of exerting control over fellow citizens and the balance between individual freedom and state security are delicately dissected.

There are some loose ends. The class-action law suit which occupies much of the first thirty four pages is barely mentioned thereafter and is never brought to a close, and the low-life petty Manhattan thief that narrates those pages detailing the atmosphere there in first few days after 9/11 is never heard from again. But these are minor quibbles.

I lived in New England for three years in the 70s and enjoyed visiting the small towns of Massachusetts and Connecticut, which may have helped me relate to this story. But the small town depicted could equally be fitted into parts of rural southern Ontario, where I spent my first eighteen years, (even though I was oblivious to most of the intrigue) but the politics would be a bit different.

A great timely novel with a potent message for our times, highly recommended.

This very dystopian modern sci-fi is far removed from the usual choices for my reading. But when I checked at the local library, none of the 19 books on my want-to-read list were available, so I checked it out, recalling that I once enjoyed Eric Blaire’s 1984, and Animal Farm, and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.

In this disjointed fable, a Stanford neuroscientist develops a complex machine, a magnetoencephalogram, which, while a subject is under the influence of injected drugs, captures the exact neuronal maps of the memories they are recalling, developing a memory catalogue. Initially, she aims to use this to assist demented patients to retain memories. Inevitably, the technology falls into nefarious hands and is used, along with a sensory deprivation tank to deactivate one set of memories and activate a different set to control people’s past and future experiences. Time becomes just a confusing, fragile, unnecessary variable of limited significance, as people remember the future, lead multiple past lives, and alternate between many different lives experienced at the same time: they lead parallel lives on several different memory tracks. A race ensues to keep the apparently infectious implantation of false memories under control but False Memory Syndrome becomes epidemic.There is a mass False Memory Syndrome outbreak in Manhattan as a 40 story building suddenly appears overnight. Eventually the theft of the technology by the Russians and Chinese lead to nuclear war annihilation.

There is a thin veneer of plausible science to this story with a heavy load of pseudoscience superimposed. The use of sensory deprivation in tanks of warm buoyant salt water will resonate with some readers and meditators extolling the spiritual experience of temporarily disconnecting from anything material, but few would like the drug-induced near-death or actual death experiences necessary to switch memory tracks. This is said to be mediated by massive release of dimethyltryptamine from the pineal gland. This natural plant hallucinogenic is actually present in our bodies (unknown source) in trace amounts and some scientists postulate that it may mediate the hallucinations of near death experiences, and may even be involved in ordinary dreaming.

Other bits of science seem far-fetched, such as the SQID (superconducting quantum interference device), and the travel of memories through wormholes in space-time to enter microscopic black holes. There are intimations of resurrections and reincarnations.

It is hard to criticize a work of this nature for factual errors when all facts become suspect, but one New York headline reported on Amor Townes death, describing him as a prominent architect. (Perhaps he switched memory tracks from or to that of a novelist.) And one character is said to have choked with pain as the supercooled air he inhaled travelled down his esophagus!

I did not enjoy this book and cannot recommend it, although I suspect many sci-fi aficionados will enjoy it, and it may well become a staple of the genre.

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This somewhat outdated scholarly treatise is subtitled A Natural History of the Wind. The late Lyall Watson had a reputation for taking an iconoclastic viewpoint on everything he ever studied and certainly did so with this erudite extensively researched book. There are excellent chapters on the physics and geography of winds that explain the terms in common usage for describing winds- jet stream, trade winds, monsoon, chinook, Gulf Stream, hurricane, tornado, cyclone, typhoon, polar vortex, fronts. The physics of conventional layers of the atmosphere and the various types of clouds of great interest to aviators and meteorologists is explained in terms that anyone can grasp, and that are still accurate 35 years later. It is when Watson strays into the metaphysical realm, treating the atmosphere and winds as part of a living and breathing super-organism, Gaia, James Lovelock’s concept of Mother Earth, that the discussion becomes ephemeral, scientifically questionable and difficult to follow.

The chapter on the biology of wind is the best discussion of the early findings of organic compounds, and even intact viruses, bacteria and fungi in the mesosphere one hundred miles above earth. It is especially interesting, and leads logically to the panspermia hypothesis of the origin of life that Watson clearly endorsed. This posits that life began somewhere in vast interstellar or even intergalactic space, rather than in the earthbound primordial soup that most evolutionary biologists propose as the necessary milieu for life to begin. The panspermia hypothesis has been criticized, but had its advocates including the late Fred Hoyle and Stephen Hawking, and is still very much alive (pardon the pun) in some scientific circles.

When Watson swerves into the psychology of wind and claims to document very dramatic effects of ordinary winds on human physical and mental heath, the science does not stand up to even cursory examination, and correlation is confused with causation. And the Philosophy of Wind chapter becomes a tedious delineation of the names and attributes of winds from writers and philosophers from many generations and cultures- very esoteric but tiresome.

The list of 400 names, for winds in many languages from around the world is a useful guide and a testament to the breath of knowledge of the author.

There must be many more modern treatises on wind in the academic literature of atmospheric scientists, but there are probably none that integrate the science with the human experience as thoroughly as in this book. I have mixed feelings about recommending it, but certainly learned a lot by reading it.

This screed by an ex-Muslim, ex-Syrian, American psychiatrist has been lauded by many conservative Americans and others obsessed with the threat that Islamic beliefs pose, including Geert Wilders of the far right anti-immigrant Dutch Party For Freedom. Like Ayana Ali Hirsi’s Infidel, and her Nomad, it is part autobiography and part an expose of the inherent evils and consequences she sees in all Islamic belief systems. The author relates the cruel practices, fear and intolerance of others in Islam to the hardscrabble existence of pre-Islam Arab bedouins who lived in constant fear of dying of thirst or starvation, and raided and killed or were raided and killed. Her experiences as an abused child in a misogynous polygamous society are heart-wrenching.

The prayers recited five times daily by all devout muslims denigrate Christian’s and Jews. It is disheartening to realize that in the twenty-first century hundreds of millions of people regard the Prophet as beyond reproach and then read that he married a six year old girl, consummated the marriage when she was nine, and after killing more than one hundred Jews, married one of the widows the next day. But then, is it much different than the cognitive dissonance of secular Americans’ who worship Thomas Jefferson who fathered several children by one of his slaves? And the author is simply wrong to assert that Allah’s “repugnant qualities are not to be found in other gods….” as anyone who has read Deuteronomy in the Jewish and Christian Old Testament should realize. Therein, the god of Jews and Christians ordered his faithful to commit theft, rape and genocide.

For a trained atheistic psychiatrist, it seems odd that Sultan does not engage in some analysis of the state of mind of the Prophet and some of the radical modern Muslims. As he is described, any number of labels from the DSM IV manual would seem applicable, and some scholars have suggested that, like Paul on the road to Damascus, he may have suffered from temporal lobe epilepsy to account for his sudden bizarre religious visions.

Sultan does make a clear distinction between Arab and non-Arab muslims, the latter being spared the Arab cultural influences that come from a long history of desert deprivations. She seems to imply that non-Arab muslims, not familiar with the Arabic language, are often unaware of the meaning of the prayers they recite daily and that they may present less of a threat to western culture and democracy than do Arab Muslims. But to depict all members of any world religion as all good or all evil ignores the extreme diversity invariably represented. The numerous Muslim colleagues, friends and patients I have known, including many Arabs, are either ingeniously adept at hiding their contempt for me and for western secularism, or else I am extremely naive, if they really are as devious and evil as Sultan would have me believe.

The writing is a bit repetitive and preachy, and the logic of the arguments is difficult to follow at times. There may well be an urgent need to sound a note of caution about the dangers inherent in accepting Muslim beliefs as a part of western societies, but the alternative of isolating the believers to ramp up their radicalism by mutual reinforcement is not very attractive. Better to engage than isolate.

The fire that damaged or destroyed more than one million books at the Central Library of Los Angeles on April 29th, 1986, is central to this expansive discussion of the role of libraries throughout history. The story starts off slowly with the author’s personal love of libraries and books, but the second half comes alive with colourful characters, unsolved mysteries, and perceptive insights into the changing role of libraries around the world.

Perhaps the most controversial character was the young itinerant Harry Peak, a flamboyant gay, veteran liar who was accused of staring the fire, boasted about it to friends, then denied any involvement and changed his alibis so many times that arson investigators were never able to charge him, although most believed he had set the fire. But the philandering Charles Lummis, appointed as director of the L.A. libraries could challenge him for the role of most eccentric man associated with the library, as could the Reverend Clark Smith, the cigar-chomping, foul-mouthed evangelical pastor of a nondenominational nearby, now defunct, megachurch.

This book is arranged in a somewhat confusing non-chronological order, with chapters skipping from one decade to another, seemingly at random. There are some unhelpful fillers and some hyperbole such as the author’s overly sentimental angst about burning a useless book. But there is also an abundance of interesting information such as the longstanding erroneous assumptions that have plagued arson investigations over many decades, and have led to wrongful convictions and even wrongful executions for murder by arson. And new to me was the legality of selling “air rights”- the seven-story library, for several million dollars, sold the rights to the air above it to developers of nearby properties who could then build skyscrapers much taller than they would otherwise be allowed.

The Little Free Libraries Association has set up 60,000 free libraries around the world, not counting the unregistered ones such as one my granddaughter has set up on her front lawn.

There are some deep insights, mostly of a nihilistic nature such as this: “The idea of being forgotten is terrifying. I fear not just that I, personally, will be forgotten, but that we all are doomed to be forgotten- that the sum of life is ultimately nothing; that we experience joy and disappointment and aches and delights and loss, make our little mark on the world, and then we vanish, and the mark is erased, and it is as if we never existed.” Perhaps true, but a very egotistical poor excuse to write a book.

Modern librarians, who are generally portrayed as dedicated altruistic public servants, will appreciate this book, but it will not interest many others.

Greek mythology has always seemed confusing to me with gods too numerous to keep track of, in various disguises, always playing nasty tricks on mortals. There seem to be endless seductions and wars with the most brutal genocidal fighters always being the heroes. So when a member of the book club recommended this fictional account of a Homeric fictional account of the possibly completely fictional Trojan War, I already had major reservations. The story is told from the viewpoint of Briseis, the princess captured and enslaved by Achilles in the sacking of the Trojan city of Lyrnessus. The story, as told here, is not even compatible with that related in Homer’s The Iliad, part of which tortured me as required reading in high school English and Latin classes. I was thoroughly confused when Briseis, while still a slave of Achilles started talking to Helen of Troy, long before the capture of Helen by the Greeks in the final sacking of Troy and the slaying of Hector by Achilles. Perhaps I am just too unfamiliar with all the different versions of the myths, but I thought Helen was captured from Sparta by Paris, son of Priam and remained a slave in Troy until it’s final downfall.

Possibly because of the many layers of fiction, the author seems to feel that a reasonable geographic setting is really not necessary. It is not clear whether the thousands of fighters travel on foot, by horseback, in chariots or by ship to the sites of various battles, but they seem to return daily to the coastal Greek camp. The boundaries of this encampment of the Greek king Agamemnon, where Achilles, Patroclus, Nestor, and Odysseus also are based, are unspecified, although there are endless rows of huts, thousands of fighters, a big hospital, a hierarchy of personnel and craftsmen, and stables, chariots and ships- all apparently within hearing distance of the many battlegrounds. And I do not recall reading about the homosexual relationship between Achilles and Patroclus in the previous iterations. The wily old Nestor listening to the wounds of returning soldiers for the sound of escaping gas indicating what would now be called gas gangrene from Clostridium perfringens infection, is the only interesting feature from a medical viewpoint.

The extreme sadism and cruelty of various characters is described in details that made me cringe in horror. The story as told here is supposedly the story of the war from a female perspective, and without exception the females are depicted as sexual toys, good only for pleasure and as bargaining chips for loot, bought and sold, less valuable than the horses and the shields of battle. Oh, and as reproductive machines to produce warrior sons.

Where was the copy editor? There are at least six instances where the words ‘who’ and ‘whom’ are used incorrectly; some sentences lack any verb, and a scratched eyelid scrapes an iris! At least she could have checked out ophthalmic anatomy.

We have not yet discussed this work at our mixed booked club. I am anxious to hear why my brilliant nuclear physicist friend recommended it, but I doubt that he will convince me of its literary value.