I don't know what it is with Ursula Le Guin, but every one of her books, whatever the rate I end up giving the whole, have at least one instance where she emotionally wreaks me, and it's always exquisite. It's like looking at the page and feel like telling her "Damn, that's one beautiful dagger you are stabbing me with"*

I feel like pointing it out just because in this case, since it happens to clear my 3stars Le Guin base bar with ease to nestle by World is Forest, Forgiveness, and Left Hand. Maybe even like a caveat. Just so I can qualify that I'm biased and it's all emotionally stabbed city here.

And what stabs ME particularly, beyond the punctual sad, is the theme. While at first sight the theme seems to be religion and spirituality vs technologic advance or consumerism, what it's actually about is culture and all the infinite components that make it, and all the ways introducing an outsider element, even with the best intentions, can fuck it up enough for it to devour itself, or at least severely up-heave and endanger, what it's about is balance, and fanaticism, and dogmatic corruption. The Telling is the passing of cultural information. In it's basis, it's words, stories, oral and written, and funnily enough, when it comes down to it, science and religion are part of it, right along with dances, meals, music, rites, customs, history.

That is my interpretation for this book. As a person that loves books, and myths, and folklore, that seats to watch movies and series as a bonding activity with my family, that cleans while blasting music, that was taught religion formally even if never practiced, that learnt my regional dances from my grandmother and uncles, to cook from my grandfather, to love reading from my mother, and science from my father, this is like a love letter received, and like a verbalization of all that strange juggling or balancing act one does inside with all the pieces that make home/root/culture and seem incongruous, or even like they'd require alternate suspense of disbelief and double-though. Culture is a mess, and it's incongruous, and unfathomably vast, and it's made of big and little pieces that sometimes contradict, and it does never really make sense. But it's the ground you stand upon; to try to erase it is to loose your step. And its life-blood is the word.


*(and if you get internet in heaven, I hope you get this... from my catholic raised, agnostic leaning towards atheism ass... which is a bad joke that only makes sense in theme)

Here's a conundrum: how to review a book that's all about how people judge (and review) things? It's well-researched, really interesting, and has the potential to be widely popular. It's fascinating stuff about literal and figurative taste, what we like, and how we like. It is a dense book, full of information, but entertaining nonetheless. I also really like his book Traffic.

What follows is a very specific example of how my attitude towards this book is colored by an unrelated aside, and is not intended to be part of the actual review of the book, but just the bit that sticks out at me as an illustration of some of the concepts he writes about, and that I feel compelled to write about because while I'm aware that other people might read my reviews, they are primarily a journal of reading for me to look back at. So feel free to skip the following.

 <spoiler>I generally like it when nonfiction writers let a little of their personal lives bleed into their work: the pretense of detachment and disinterest and "fair and balanced" is bogus and everyone knows it. And mostly it works well here. But early on he casually observes how his neighborhood in Brooklyn happens to be mostly thin people. Okay, this is a guy who should know that thinness correlates with wealth and that fat people are penalized to hell and gone in the US in healthcare, education, advancement at work as well as the ubiquitous fat-shaming. It's not some kind of statistical fluke that his neighborhood is thin: it's thin privilege letting him be oblivious. Like I said, this is pretty early on, like the introduction or first chapter. So he kind of accidentally mentioned a topic that I know a fair bit about, and that brief flash of annoyance became attached to the signifier Brooklyn. And then (it seemed like constantly but couldn't possibly have been), he kept mentioning Brooklyn. So now even though I really appreciate his writing I'm left feeling really hostile towards smug Brooklynites, which by exposure to only possibly one is unfair both to the innocent smugless residents of one of New York's five boroughs, and probably to the author in particular as well. But there it is: my opinion of the book might well be forever colored by a casual aside and I'm quite likely to always be put on edge when I come across Brooklyn as well. And now I've written about three times as much about my emotional reaction to this aside as I have about the book in general, because that's how people's taste and discussion of same tend to roll. And if anyone else bothers to read this little spoiler, they will probably have an emotional reaction towards what I've written which could easily go "The hell?" or "Oh, me too, I hate that" and life is really complicated isn't it?</spoiler>

Library copy

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At this point I have written two different reviews for this book and I just can't summon the energy to start over yet again.

The Handmaid's Tale is amazing and horrifying, even as a reread after thirty years.

The Testaments is also amazing and horrifying, but where the first was a cautionary tale the second is the product of a different perspective. There is agency and volition about some of the ways women of different ages, classes, and circumstances can find to rebel against an oppressive regime.

The Testaments is a rallying cry, and really, just what I needed this year.

Library copy

Also das war wirklich überhaupt kein Regionalkrimi nach meinem Geschmack.
Ausdauer-Extremsportler ala Ironman und Ironwoman, die permanent über ihr Hobby  schwadronieren, sind offensichtlich fiktional in Begleitung von Mord und Totschlag genauso gähnend langweilig wie im richtigen Leben. War die erste Szene noch witzig und kurios, als der ortsansässige Adler die Drohne killte, die den Triathlon im slowenischen Bergtal filmen sollte, so ging es dann für mich stetig bergab mit der Story.  

Zudem tummeln sich auch noch brünftige, lüsterne Frauen in der Geschichte, die beim Anblick der nackten Bauchmuskeln des Triathleten Benoit völlig den Verstand verlieren, indem sie zudem auch noch pseudo-lyrische sehr abwegige Gedanken äußern, die meine Freundinnen nicht mal im Traum denken würden und die mir tatsächlich die Zehennägel aufdrehen:  
"Hach er ist wirklich eine griechische Gottheit, wo sind Marmor und Meißel, wenn man sie mal braucht."
Solche "romantischen" Szenen und amourösen Verwicklungen sind speziell für mich sowieso immer sehr traumatisch.

Die Polizeitruppe, die als Amateursportler im Urlaub nebenbei ermitteln, fand ich jetzt auch überhaupt nicht prickelnd, eher peinlich, alle Männer und Frauen (nicht nur jene, die die Autorin explizit als unreif schildert) sind derart unreife Charaktäre, dass ich überhaupt keinen Zugang zu den Figuren bekommen habe. Meist kam ich mir vor wie in einem Kindergarten mit völlig nervigen Blagen, mit nervigen Emotionen, die auch noch stetig über ihre nervigen Hobbies und ihre seichten Liebesgefühle plaudern, oder wie Dr. Pfeiffer in der Feuerzangenbowle diese Pennäler erstmals erlebt haben muss. Ich weiß zwar, dass es solche Persönlichkeiten im richtigen Leben zu Hauf gibt, aber als Erwachsene, in solch einer konzentrierten Dichte, derart unreif, an einem Ort, ist das sehr unwahrscheinlich - wobei ich noch nie auf solchen Sportveranstaltungen war - könnte sein, dass sie sich dort vor mir verstecken. Sogar der Polizeipsychologe ist derart unreflektiert, dass ich mich fragen muss, wie der an seinen Job gekommen ist.

Gerwürzt ist der Plot, um die Regionalität des Krimis zu manifestieren, nicht mit atemberaubenden Landschaftsbeschreibungen, sondern auch noch mit ziemlich deplatziertem Lokalpatriotismus und "Mir san Mir"-Mentalität. Das geht sogar so weit, dass alle Slowenen, die nicht aus den angrenzenden Bergtälern stammen, pauschal als Laibacher diffamiert werden. Als ob es in Slowenien keine anderen großen Städte gäbe. *Kopfschüttel*

Im Rahmen des Krimiplots war mir das Motiv von Anfang an klar, wodurch für mich der Täterkreis sehr stark eingeschränkt war. Da half auch die zugegebenermaßen gut konstruierte Fährte mit dem Nazischatz, der im lokalen Bohinj-See versenkt sein soll, nicht viel weiter.

Fazit: Kein Krimi für mich: die Figuren überzeichnet und unrealistisch, die Sprache simpel, der Plot durchsichtig, der unnötige Schuss Schwülstigkeit und Romantik und der Lokalpatriotismus. Stern Nummer 2 gibt es übrigens für die köstliche erste Szene mit dem ersten Todesopfer - der Drohne und für die Idee mit dem versenkten Nazischatz als Ablenkungsmanöver.