I love Jo Nesbo's work. I first heard about him on NPR about a year or so ago, and I went out and bought The Redbreast based on the review that I had heard. I have always loved gritty novels, and this stuff sounded like it was right up my alley. Well, it was. It is. Nesbo's Harry Hole is the best kind of "hero" in my book (well, that phrase sounded better in my head, but there you go): he's an alcoholic, bleakly hopeless man, but a brilliant detective. He's always on the verge of something, and that's all I'm going to say about that because I want you to read these novels.
This review is about Nesbo's eighth Harry Hole installment, but only 6 of them have been translated into English as of yet. Nesbo is Norwegian, and is immensely popular in his home country. With good reason. I don't know how he does it, but Nesbo manages to craft his novels into a mystery/philosophy/textbook conglomeration that stuns me every time. Doesn't sound too appealing does it? But it is. It works. Harry's so damaged and so real that every aspect, every move, every decision in his life is a philosophical treatise even if Nesbo never devolves into actually spouting any philosopher (thank God). Nesbo also researches exhaustively, and here is where the textbook element comes in: I learn something about something that I never knew I wanted to know each time. I can't explain it any better than that, although I will try.
In The Leopard, Harry Hole begins in Hong Kong, returns to Norway, travels to the Congo, back to Norway, again to the Congo, and back to Hong Kong all over again. Seem like a bit much? Well, it could be in less capable hands. Yes, there is a mystery: a series of terrible murders in Oslo, and Harry's expertise is needed even if he is the disgrace of the Crime Squad for his drinking and his attitude. Two young women have been found dead, with curious wounds in their mouths, and no idea of motive or connection to one another. More murders follow, and it is up to Harry to find the connection, battle the politics of an evolving government, fight his own demons, and track down the killer.
To be honest, there is a lot going on in this novel and at times it does become a bit much. Some of Harry's adventures in Hong Kong and the Congo seem extremely fantastical in nature, but I give Nesbo kudos for creativity. However unlikely, those situations do feel like something Harry would find himself in somehow, but there is one element revolving around heroin that is extremely tiresome. There is also a sort of romance that I found unpleasant, but highly realistic. Which is probably why I found it unpleasant in the first place: romance can be messy and ugly, and Harry's usually are.
I love Harry Hole and I can't wait until Nesbo produces a new novel in this series. Phantom is already out in the UK, and I might just break down and order a copy from amazon.co.uk to satisfy my obsession, and the first two novels are due to be released sometime this year. FINALLY!
I highly recommend these novels, but be warned that happy endings are as rare for Harry as they are for the rest of us.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
A Exercise in "Putting It Out There"
Ok. So. I'm posting three of my original poems because I've been asked to do so. This is not something I do often, so please bear with me. Thanks for reading and comments (if this blog will let you do it...i'm having the worst time with my blogs). Here we go:
Just beneath the lump in my throat
Lie all sorts of good intentions,
But I swallow them down with chai latte,
Feeling mostly guilty and slightly free.
The price of all of this is nausea—
A wave of purple illness that surges
Upward, reminding me of past decencies,
Things I don’t care to remember when, while,
This flush of rebellion infuses my cheeks
With a satisfied pinkness.
I curse beautifully—those raw, peeled back
Words foaming over my tongue,
Bubbling comfortably in the atmosphere of conversation.
Laughter isn’t forced from my throat,
But bursts forth in fountains of absolute mirth,
Letting you in on all my hidden vices
That now simmer slightly on the surface of my skin.
AD--3/13/04
Ache.
My body, my soul, whatever part of
Me that can be touched
Aches.
I knew Lonely as a child
But now we are lovers and
Icy cold tendrils of possession
Wrap around me
And the deep, dark nighttimes
Are all I know of intimacy
Given freely with a price
By Loneliness.
Poetry is supposed to be delicate
And filled with subtleties
That provoke the reader’s imagination
And all the accompanying emotions.
It is never supposed to spell out
Exactly what the poet (I mock)
Means to say
And yet here I am (mocking) spelling
It all out so that my reader knows precisely
What moans in me, through me, without me.
Ache.
My body, my soul, my mind.
Whatever part of me that can be touched
Aches.
Freely.
Fiercely.
I am no one and everyone.
I am Me and I am You.
I wish I knew who You were.
I wish I knew the same of Me.
I only know Lonely.
No one can save me now.
My body, my soul, whatever part of
Me that can be touched
Aches.
I knew Lonely as a child
But now we are lovers and
Icy cold tendrils of possession
Wrap around me
And the deep, dark nighttimes
Are all I know of intimacy
Given freely with a price
By Loneliness.
Poetry is supposed to be delicate
And filled with subtleties
That provoke the reader’s imagination
And all the accompanying emotions.
It is never supposed to spell out
Exactly what the poet (I mock)
Means to say
And yet here I am (mocking) spelling
It all out so that my reader knows precisely
What moans in me, through me, without me.
Ache.
My body, my soul, my mind.
Whatever part of me that can be touched
Aches.
Freely.
Fiercely.
I am no one and everyone.
I am Me and I am You.
I wish I knew who You were.
I wish I knew the same of Me.
I only know Lonely.
No one can save me now.
AD—2010
fragment
You can find me
In the dark—
In spoonfuls,
With withered hands
And nightblack eyes
And this—
My too-full heart.
AD—4/30/12
The veiling of the moon
Last night
Caused my mind
To wander as I watched her
Shrink behind the callous Earth's
Shadow.
She belongs to me, you know--
My sometime sister Diana.
And as she dons her shadow cloak
It is then that we
Are one.
It is then that we
Mirror the other
For as she is overshadowed
By the earth's reflection,
So am I eclipsed by the
Ingratitude of man--
The ignorance of his
Ultimately
Inferior
Opinion of how my life should be--
And how my heart
Should feel.
It is only when we wear our shadows
That Serene and I are one--
For I am the moon
And the moon is in me.
11/29/1993
Last night
Caused my mind
To wander as I watched her
Shrink behind the callous Earth's
Shadow.
She belongs to me, you know--
My sometime sister Diana.
And as she dons her shadow cloak
It is then that we
Are one.
It is then that we
Mirror the other
For as she is overshadowed
By the earth's reflection,
So am I eclipsed by the
Ingratitude of man--
The ignorance of his
Ultimately
Inferior
Opinion of how my life should be--
And how my heart
Should feel.
It is only when we wear our shadows
That Serene and I are one--
For I am the moon
And the moon is in me.
11/29/1993
Monday, May 7, 2012
Hiatus, enforced.
So, it has been quite a long time since I posted anything. This is not because I haven't been reading. This is because I was busy graduating, stressing out, traveling, stressing out and then finding a job.
Books, I think I have already mentioned here somewhere, are glorious means of escape for me. When I am seriously stressed out, I read and read and read and read. Losing myself in someone else's troubles (mystery, memoir, general fiction), the extraordinary (science fiction, science, memoir again, history), the "you can't make this stuff up" (history...j'adore) helps iron out my soulful wrinkles. Lately, history has been my go-to wrinkle relaxer.
I read this really great book a couple of months ago called Mornings on Horseback by David McCullough. It is the story of Theodore Roosevelt's childhood up to the point where he becomes, well, TR; the guy we remember as a fearless and vibrant personality with charisma to spare. McCullough only takes us up to the point when Thee (isn't that a wonderful nickname?) begins to make a name for himself in local and state politics. The thing about this book isn't the wonderful prose (oh, it's there) or the riveting examination of 19th century politics (as down and dirty as ever), but the ridiculously enchanting and wistful look into a society that no longer exists. Sure, that society is super privileged and terribly exclusive, but under McCullough's deft pen it emerges as a magical way of life that we ought to mourn for being so far gone. Edith Wharton, one of my very favourite authors, wrote very honestly about how oppressive and judgmental turn of the century high society was, and it would be a huge mistake not to recognise that the world in which Theodore Roosevelt was reared was completely and cunningly manufactured for prime enjoyment. McCullough wisely reminds us of this even as he paints a long-gone world that anyone would want to experience. It's like reading a book in sepia.
Books, I think I have already mentioned here somewhere, are glorious means of escape for me. When I am seriously stressed out, I read and read and read and read. Losing myself in someone else's troubles (mystery, memoir, general fiction), the extraordinary (science fiction, science, memoir again, history), the "you can't make this stuff up" (history...j'adore) helps iron out my soulful wrinkles. Lately, history has been my go-to wrinkle relaxer.
I read this really great book a couple of months ago called Mornings on Horseback by David McCullough. It is the story of Theodore Roosevelt's childhood up to the point where he becomes, well, TR; the guy we remember as a fearless and vibrant personality with charisma to spare. McCullough only takes us up to the point when Thee (isn't that a wonderful nickname?) begins to make a name for himself in local and state politics. The thing about this book isn't the wonderful prose (oh, it's there) or the riveting examination of 19th century politics (as down and dirty as ever), but the ridiculously enchanting and wistful look into a society that no longer exists. Sure, that society is super privileged and terribly exclusive, but under McCullough's deft pen it emerges as a magical way of life that we ought to mourn for being so far gone. Edith Wharton, one of my very favourite authors, wrote very honestly about how oppressive and judgmental turn of the century high society was, and it would be a huge mistake not to recognise that the world in which Theodore Roosevelt was reared was completely and cunningly manufactured for prime enjoyment. McCullough wisely reminds us of this even as he paints a long-gone world that anyone would want to experience. It's like reading a book in sepia.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Just Kids---Patti Smith
My rating: Five stars
I really like a good memoir, but I am always a little bit wary of the celebrity ones. I don't care to read about debauchery on a grand scale (although debauchery on a small scale is ok by me) or about how great and powerful and talented someone is...or thinks that they are. It was with a little bit of trepidation that I decided to read Patti Smith's memoir of her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe. Set in 1960's and 70's New York, this book is an absolute gem. Patti Smith is such a talented writer that I pretty much lost myself in the world that she was describing, and I felt just about all of the sorrows, triumphs, betrayals and reconciliations she experienced. I was dazzled by the casualness of her interaction with people who are now serious music and art legends, but also by how she very humbly acknowledges that she was simply in the right place at the right time. There is a simply amazing passage where she describes sitting in a hotel room while a young Janis Joplin tries out some new tunes on her guitar. One of those songs was a little ditty called "Me and Bobby McGee". Did she know at the time that something magical was happening? Smith never comes right out and says that which is pretty refreshing, but she does admit that she knew her life was out of the ordinary and that she was very lucky to be in the middle of all of the radical changes taking place in both art and music.
And here is where it gets even more interesting: Patti Smith attributes all of this to her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe. For Patti, her introduction into both the art and the music scene may never have been possible without Robert. She describes their meeting as a recognition of soul-mates, which is kind of corny but really turns out to be true. They meet by accident in a park in the early hours of the morning. Patti is dejected over recent heartbreak, and Robert is an ambling young man walking the New York streets in search of inspiration. Once these two get together, they are nearly inseparable for the rest of Robert's life. It is telling that Patti Smith never claims that she knew that Robert was an extraordinary talent. Instead, she describes a life lived together...just kids really...where art and poetry and music collided...where love came and went (for they were lovers once, these two)...where friendships failed and were mended. This memoir is really a love letter. Not only to Robert Mapplethorpe, but also to a New York that no longer exists. It is a love letter to innocence lost and it is a love letter to enduring friendship. Yet I think, in the end, Just Kids is a love letter to youth and to experience and to all the things that have been and also are yet to come. I just loved it.
I really like a good memoir, but I am always a little bit wary of the celebrity ones. I don't care to read about debauchery on a grand scale (although debauchery on a small scale is ok by me) or about how great and powerful and talented someone is...or thinks that they are. It was with a little bit of trepidation that I decided to read Patti Smith's memoir of her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe. Set in 1960's and 70's New York, this book is an absolute gem. Patti Smith is such a talented writer that I pretty much lost myself in the world that she was describing, and I felt just about all of the sorrows, triumphs, betrayals and reconciliations she experienced. I was dazzled by the casualness of her interaction with people who are now serious music and art legends, but also by how she very humbly acknowledges that she was simply in the right place at the right time. There is a simply amazing passage where she describes sitting in a hotel room while a young Janis Joplin tries out some new tunes on her guitar. One of those songs was a little ditty called "Me and Bobby McGee". Did she know at the time that something magical was happening? Smith never comes right out and says that which is pretty refreshing, but she does admit that she knew her life was out of the ordinary and that she was very lucky to be in the middle of all of the radical changes taking place in both art and music.
And here is where it gets even more interesting: Patti Smith attributes all of this to her friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe. For Patti, her introduction into both the art and the music scene may never have been possible without Robert. She describes their meeting as a recognition of soul-mates, which is kind of corny but really turns out to be true. They meet by accident in a park in the early hours of the morning. Patti is dejected over recent heartbreak, and Robert is an ambling young man walking the New York streets in search of inspiration. Once these two get together, they are nearly inseparable for the rest of Robert's life. It is telling that Patti Smith never claims that she knew that Robert was an extraordinary talent. Instead, she describes a life lived together...just kids really...where art and poetry and music collided...where love came and went (for they were lovers once, these two)...where friendships failed and were mended. This memoir is really a love letter. Not only to Robert Mapplethorpe, but also to a New York that no longer exists. It is a love letter to innocence lost and it is a love letter to enduring friendship. Yet I think, in the end, Just Kids is a love letter to youth and to experience and to all the things that have been and also are yet to come. I just loved it.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
What Do I Read When?
I've been thinking about the books that I read and why I choose them in the first place. A lot of it has to do with just "being in the mood" for something. I may have 20 books stacked on my shelves that I've never read, but a lot of times they just don't appeal to me and I am seized with desperation for something to read. I think all readers have this problem. We surround ourselves with books that we bought with the intention to read them in the near future, but months later they are still gathering dust right where we dropped them. I do find myself picking up those very book and losing myself in them, but for the most part time has to pass before I can commit myself to one of them.
In the past year I've learned that when I am really in need of escape I turn to mysteries. If I can lose myself in other people's troubles then I don't have to think about my own for the duration of the story. Mysteries are pretty perfect for this, because there is always a resolution. Someone did something that hurt, or killed, someone else and then they pay. It speaks to my own hurt feelings and disappointments and the revenge factor of wanting the person who hurt me to take responsibility for that. Clearly, it is also a plus that I didn't have to die to gain this satisfaction. At least not permanently. I read this sort of thing to escape from my own frustration and losses and to maybe, just maybe, come to the realization that it could always be worse.
Why do you read what you read? Have you ever thought about it? Or are you just reading something because it interests you without any other reason whatsoever? I'm interested.
In the past year I've learned that when I am really in need of escape I turn to mysteries. If I can lose myself in other people's troubles then I don't have to think about my own for the duration of the story. Mysteries are pretty perfect for this, because there is always a resolution. Someone did something that hurt, or killed, someone else and then they pay. It speaks to my own hurt feelings and disappointments and the revenge factor of wanting the person who hurt me to take responsibility for that. Clearly, it is also a plus that I didn't have to die to gain this satisfaction. At least not permanently. I read this sort of thing to escape from my own frustration and losses and to maybe, just maybe, come to the realization that it could always be worse.
Why do you read what you read? Have you ever thought about it? Or are you just reading something because it interests you without any other reason whatsoever? I'm interested.
Monday, September 26, 2011
The House of Mirth---Edith Wharton
My rating: 5 stars
I loved this book. I love that it isn't about mirth even though the title leads you to believe that it is. I love that a house isn't really the focal point of the novel (even though smart readers will understand the metaphor). I love that this book is a wicked evisceration of "society" and "status", and that it questions established ideas about morality. I love that this book follows decisions and consequences, and that sometimes the outcome of these simply infuriated me. Also, I love that while I was reading this book I could picture just about every reality star on television today, although not as the hero/heroine of the piece.
Lily Bart is an imperfect heroine. Born into riches, spoiled by her mother and ruined (financially) by her over-worked, never-there father, she ends up having to rely on distant relatives for support. The dutiful, yet emotionally distant and morally judgmental Mrs. Peniston, her father's sister, reluctantly takes her in and gives her an allowance for clothes and jewels and all of the other trappings Lily needs to remain in society. It is, of course, understood that Lily will marry into money. Her natural beauty and her mastery of the artifice necessary to ensnare an eligible, wealthy bachelor pretty much assures her success. Yet Lily, when we meet her, is 29 and still "Miss Bart". Her social circle includes wealthy couples (the Trenors and the Dorsets), her cousin Jack Stepney, various Van Osbergh heirs/heiresses, some Van Alstynes (also distant relations), and a very formidable divorcee named Carry Fisher. CARRY FISHER!!! How wonderful is that?
I don't want to spell out the plot here, so I won't. Suffice to say that Lily doesn't trap the wealthy bachelor she has set her sights (if not her heart) on, but she does find something else worth quite a bit more. She finds herself, which is just about the corniest thing I could think of writing down, but is absolutely the truth. Lily Bart finds herself in a slow, painful, and remarkably precise fall from grace. She finds herself in a knowing...an understanding of the rules and how the game is played and when someone will be sacrificed and for what. In this novel there is a great deal of bad behavior. There is an enormous helping of snobbery. There is adultery and tomfoolery and much jacknapery (I made that one up, but wow how it fits!). Men are cuckolded and entitled and women are deceitful and cruel. Hearts are broken and marriages are arranged and love creeps softly in. How I loved the character of poor, sweet Gerty Farish whose hopes are quiet but whose heart is true. How I hated haughty, spoiled, entitled, deceitful Bertha Dorset who pretty much reminds me of any Real Housewife in whatever city anywhere. How frustrated I was with loyal, well-meaning, but constrained by his status Lawrence Selden who was perhaps the only one other than Gerty to understand Lily Bart.
This is not a happy book, but it is certainly an important one. The portal back in time to 1900's New York is pretty much worth it for the description of social expectations alone. How convoluted the rules and regulations were for success in acceptable social circles. How difficult it was to break into an established coterie of thugs (ok, society folk, but the distinction isn't really there), especially if you were new money or a Jew. How breathtakingly blind by choice these people were to infractions, bad behavior, and outright deceit. Money was important but social status could make you a god.
I think that this is the point where I started picturing Jersey Shore, Real Housewives of PRACTICALLY EVERYWHERE, and The Bachelor. Bad behavior practically shouts the similarities, but so do the casual cruelties, the feeling of entitlement for absolutely no reason except someone once told you you were pretty/handsome, and the closed ranks of a very prurient and jealously guarded circle. It makes no sense, but those are the acceptable rules and people will do just about anything, and at the expense of just about anything, to make the inner circle.
The House of Mirth strives to make us understand just what it means to make and fail to make this transition. Far from being filled with joy the inhabitants of this house are mistrustful, wary, desperately jealous, dishonest, and miserable. Lily Bart is the vehicle through which all of these things must pass and they do with a vengeance. She is the girl in the gilded cage and eventually she is the woman on the very edge of everything.
I loved this book. I love that it isn't about mirth even though the title leads you to believe that it is. I love that a house isn't really the focal point of the novel (even though smart readers will understand the metaphor). I love that this book is a wicked evisceration of "society" and "status", and that it questions established ideas about morality. I love that this book follows decisions and consequences, and that sometimes the outcome of these simply infuriated me. Also, I love that while I was reading this book I could picture just about every reality star on television today, although not as the hero/heroine of the piece.
Lily Bart is an imperfect heroine. Born into riches, spoiled by her mother and ruined (financially) by her over-worked, never-there father, she ends up having to rely on distant relatives for support. The dutiful, yet emotionally distant and morally judgmental Mrs. Peniston, her father's sister, reluctantly takes her in and gives her an allowance for clothes and jewels and all of the other trappings Lily needs to remain in society. It is, of course, understood that Lily will marry into money. Her natural beauty and her mastery of the artifice necessary to ensnare an eligible, wealthy bachelor pretty much assures her success. Yet Lily, when we meet her, is 29 and still "Miss Bart". Her social circle includes wealthy couples (the Trenors and the Dorsets), her cousin Jack Stepney, various Van Osbergh heirs/heiresses, some Van Alstynes (also distant relations), and a very formidable divorcee named Carry Fisher. CARRY FISHER!!! How wonderful is that?
I don't want to spell out the plot here, so I won't. Suffice to say that Lily doesn't trap the wealthy bachelor she has set her sights (if not her heart) on, but she does find something else worth quite a bit more. She finds herself, which is just about the corniest thing I could think of writing down, but is absolutely the truth. Lily Bart finds herself in a slow, painful, and remarkably precise fall from grace. She finds herself in a knowing...an understanding of the rules and how the game is played and when someone will be sacrificed and for what. In this novel there is a great deal of bad behavior. There is an enormous helping of snobbery. There is adultery and tomfoolery and much jacknapery (I made that one up, but wow how it fits!). Men are cuckolded and entitled and women are deceitful and cruel. Hearts are broken and marriages are arranged and love creeps softly in. How I loved the character of poor, sweet Gerty Farish whose hopes are quiet but whose heart is true. How I hated haughty, spoiled, entitled, deceitful Bertha Dorset who pretty much reminds me of any Real Housewife in whatever city anywhere. How frustrated I was with loyal, well-meaning, but constrained by his status Lawrence Selden who was perhaps the only one other than Gerty to understand Lily Bart.
This is not a happy book, but it is certainly an important one. The portal back in time to 1900's New York is pretty much worth it for the description of social expectations alone. How convoluted the rules and regulations were for success in acceptable social circles. How difficult it was to break into an established coterie of thugs (ok, society folk, but the distinction isn't really there), especially if you were new money or a Jew. How breathtakingly blind by choice these people were to infractions, bad behavior, and outright deceit. Money was important but social status could make you a god.
I think that this is the point where I started picturing Jersey Shore, Real Housewives of PRACTICALLY EVERYWHERE, and The Bachelor. Bad behavior practically shouts the similarities, but so do the casual cruelties, the feeling of entitlement for absolutely no reason except someone once told you you were pretty/handsome, and the closed ranks of a very prurient and jealously guarded circle. It makes no sense, but those are the acceptable rules and people will do just about anything, and at the expense of just about anything, to make the inner circle.
The House of Mirth strives to make us understand just what it means to make and fail to make this transition. Far from being filled with joy the inhabitants of this house are mistrustful, wary, desperately jealous, dishonest, and miserable. Lily Bart is the vehicle through which all of these things must pass and they do with a vengeance. She is the girl in the gilded cage and eventually she is the woman on the very edge of everything.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
The Rape of Nanking---Iris Chang
My rating: Three Stars
I would have given this book a higher rating, but had trouble with a few things. First, although I expected this to be an erudite look at an historical atrocity I was astounded to find that the author could not form a barrier between her material and her own strong reaction to it. I can't blame her, honestly, but it does manage to inhibit a personal reaction. By this I mean that I was forced to respond on a personal level to not only what happened to the citizens of Nanking, but also to Iris Chang's barely restrained fury. This division actually removed my ability to examine my own reaction to the horrors inflicted on innocents by an invading army. Again, I cannot blame the author for her outrage, but her overt presence in the prose was at times simply overpowering. I can also see how this could have influenced her ultimate decision to end her own life. The deep depression as well as a perceived threat against her which could very well have been real (my inclination is that it was) had to have seriously damaged what seems to have already been a rather fragile psyche.
Secondly, the book came perilously close to simply listing atrocities. More commentary accompanied the stories of one survivor and several foreigners who risked much in an attempt to save lives. Certainly the sheer volume of stories necessitated the abbreviation of anecdotes, but the listing affect was almost clinical. Perhaps this was an effort to limit a sort of voyeurism which is often attached to stories of mass murder and extreme degradation. Kudos for that if such was the case. I will also accede that I personally could not handle expanded versions of the atrocities that were listed.
Having said all of that, I must say that this is a must read if only to honour the lives of those who perished so terribly, but I would hope that it would also continue to be an albatross around the necks of a government which has refused to acknowledge its culpability in an almost unbelievable horror.
I would have given this book a higher rating, but had trouble with a few things. First, although I expected this to be an erudite look at an historical atrocity I was astounded to find that the author could not form a barrier between her material and her own strong reaction to it. I can't blame her, honestly, but it does manage to inhibit a personal reaction. By this I mean that I was forced to respond on a personal level to not only what happened to the citizens of Nanking, but also to Iris Chang's barely restrained fury. This division actually removed my ability to examine my own reaction to the horrors inflicted on innocents by an invading army. Again, I cannot blame the author for her outrage, but her overt presence in the prose was at times simply overpowering. I can also see how this could have influenced her ultimate decision to end her own life. The deep depression as well as a perceived threat against her which could very well have been real (my inclination is that it was) had to have seriously damaged what seems to have already been a rather fragile psyche.
Secondly, the book came perilously close to simply listing atrocities. More commentary accompanied the stories of one survivor and several foreigners who risked much in an attempt to save lives. Certainly the sheer volume of stories necessitated the abbreviation of anecdotes, but the listing affect was almost clinical. Perhaps this was an effort to limit a sort of voyeurism which is often attached to stories of mass murder and extreme degradation. Kudos for that if such was the case. I will also accede that I personally could not handle expanded versions of the atrocities that were listed.
Having said all of that, I must say that this is a must read if only to honour the lives of those who perished so terribly, but I would hope that it would also continue to be an albatross around the necks of a government which has refused to acknowledge its culpability in an almost unbelievable horror.
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