Review: Up the Down Staircase, by Bel Kaufman

Up the Down Staircase is a novel (in an unconventional format, which I'll describe in a moment) about the experiences of a new teacher in a fictional New York City high school. It was a massive best-seller in the 1960s, including a 1967 movie, but seems to have dropped out of the public discussion. I read it from the library sometime in the late 1980s or early 1990s and have thought about it periodically ever since. It was Bel Kaufman's first novel.

Sylvia Barrett is a new graduate with a master's degree in English, where she specialized in Chaucer. As Up the Down Staircase opens, it is her first day as an English teacher in Calvin Coolidge High School. As she says in a letter to a college friend:

What I really had in mind was to do a little teaching. "And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche" — like Chaucer's Clerke of Oxenford. I had come eager to share all I know and feel; to imbue the young with a love for their language and literature; to instruct and to inspire. What happened in real life (when I had asked why they were taking English, a boy said: "To help us in real life") was something else again, and even if I could describe it, you would think I am exaggerating.

She instead encounters chaos and bureaucracy, broken windows and mindless regulations, a librarian who is so protective of her books that she doesn't let any students touch them, a school guidance counselor who thinks she's Freud, and a principal whose sole interaction with the school is to occasionally float through on a cushion of cliches, dispensing utterly useless wisdom only to vanish again.

I want to take this opportunity to extend a warm welcome to all faculty and staff, and the sincere hope that you have returned from a healthful and fruitful summer vacation with renewed vim and vigor, ready to gird your loins and tackle the many important and vital tasks that lie ahead undaunted. Thank you for your help and cooperation in the past and future.

Maxwell E. Clarke
Principal

In practice, the school is run by James J. McHare, Clarke's administrative assistant, who signs his messages JJ McH, Adm. Asst. and who Sylvia immediately starts calling Admiral Ass. McHare is a micro-managing control freak who spends the book desperately attempting to impose order over school procedures, the teachers, and the students, with very little success. The title of the book comes from one of his detention slips:

Please admit bearer to class—

Detained by me for going Up the Down staircase and subsequent insolence.

JJ McH

The conceit of this book is that, except for the first and last chapters, it consists only of memos, letters, notes, circulars, and other paper detritus, often said to come from Sylvia's wastepaper basket. Sylvia serves as the first-person narrator through her long letters to her college friend, and through shorter but more frequent exchanges via intraschool memo with Beatrice Schachter, another English teacher at the same school, but much of the book lies outside her narration. The reader has to piece together what's happening from the discarded paper of a dysfunctional institution.

Amid the bureaucratic and personal communications, there are frequent chapters with notes from the students, usually from the suggestion box that Sylvia establishes early in the book. These start as chaotic glimpses of often-misspelled wariness or open hostility, but over the course of Up the Down Staircase, some of the students become characters with fragmentary but still visible story arcs. This remains confusing throughout the novel — there are too many students to keep them entirely straight, and several of them use pseudonyms for the suggestion box — but it's the sort of confusion that feels like an intentional authorial choice. It mirrors the difficulty a teacher has in piecing together and remembering the stories of individual students in overstuffed classrooms, even if (like Sylvia and unlike several of her colleagues) the teacher is trying to pay attention.

At the start, Up the Down Staircase reads as mostly-disconnected humor. There is a strong "kids say the darnedest things" vibe, which didn't entirely work for me, but the send-up of chaotic bureaucracy is both more sophisticated and more entertaining. It has the "laugh so that you don't cry" absurdity of a system with insufficient resources, entirely absent management, and colleagues who have let their quirks take over their personalities. Sylvia alternates between incredulity and stubbornness, and I think this book is at its best when it shows the small acts of practical defiance that one uses to carve out space and coherence from mismanaged bureaucracy.

But this book is not just a collection of humorous anecdotes about teaching high school. Sylvia is sincere in her desire to teach, which crystallizes around, but is not limited to, a quixotic attempt to reach one delinquent that everyone else in the school has written off. She slowly finds her footing, she has a few breakthroughs in reaching her students, and the book slowly turns into an earnest portrayal of an attempt to make the system work despite its obvious unfitness for purpose. This part of the book is hard to review. Parts of it worked brilliantly; I could feel myself both adjusting my expectations alongside Sylvia to something less idealistic and also celebrating the rare breakthrough with her. Parts of it were weirdly uncomfortable in ways that I'm not sure I enjoyed. That includes Sylvia's climactic conversation with the boy she's been trying to reach, which was weirdly charged and ambiguous in a way that felt like the author's reach exceeding their grasp.

One thing that didn't help my enjoyment is Sylvia's relationship with Paul Barringer, another of the English teachers and a frustrated novelist and poet. Everyone who works at the school has found their own way to cope with the stress and chaos, and many of the ways that seem humorous turn out to have a deeper logic and even heroism. Paul's, however, is to retreat into indifference and alcohol. He is a believable character who works with Kaufman's themes, but he's also entirely unlikable. I never understood why Sylvia tolerated that creepy asshole, let alone kept having lunch with him. It is clear from the plot of the book that Kaufman at least partially understands Paul's deficiencies, but that did not help me enjoy reading about him.

This is a great example of a book that tried to do something unusual and risky and didn't entirely pull it off. I like books that take a risk, and sometimes Up the Down Staircase is very funny or suddenly insightful in a way that I'm not sure Kaufman could have reached with a more traditional novel. It takes a hard look at what it means to try to make a system work when it's clearly broken and you can't change it, and the way all of the characters arrive at different answers that are much deeper than their initial impressions was subtle and effective. It's the sort of book that sticks in your head, as shown by the fact I bought it on a whim to re-read some 35 years after I first read it. But it's not consistently great. Some parts of it drag, the characters are frustratingly hard to keep track of, and the emotional climax points are odd and unsatisfying, at least to me.

I'm not sure whether to recommend it or not, but it's certainly unusual. I'm glad I read it again, but I probably won't re-read it for another 35 years, at least.

If you are considering getting this book, be aware that it has a lot of drawings and several hand-written letters. The publisher of the edition I read did a reasonably good job formatting this for an ebook, but some of the pages, particularly the hand-written letters, were extremely hard to read on a Kindle. Consider paper, or at least reading on a tablet or computer screen, if you don't want to have to puzzle over low-resolution images.

The 1991 trade paperback had a new introduction by the author, reproduced in the edition I read as an afterward (which is a better choice than an introduction). It is a long and fascinating essay from Kaufman about her experience with the reaction to this book, culminating in a passionate plea for supporting public schools and public school teachers. Kaufman's personal account adds a lot of depth to the story; I highly recommend it.

Content note: Self-harm, plus several scenes that are closely adjacent to student-teacher relationships. Kaufman deals frankly with the problems of mostly-poor high school kids, including sexuality, so be warned that this is not the humorous romp that it might appear on first glance. A couple of the scenes made me uncomfortable; there isn't anything explicit, but the emotional overtones can be pretty disturbing.

Rating: 7 out of 10

Review: Ghostdrift, by Suzanne Palmer

Ghostdrift is a science fiction adventure and the fourth (and possibly final) book of the Finder Chronicles. You should definitely read this series in order and not start here, even though the plot of this book would stand alone.

Following The Scavenger Door, in which he made enemies even more dramatically than he had in the previous books, Fergus Ferguson has retired to the beach on Coralla to become a tea master and take care of his cat. It's a relaxing, idyllic life and a much-needed total reset. Also, he's bored. The arrival of his alien friend Qai, in some kind of trouble and searching for him, is a complex balance between relief and disappointment.

Bas Belos is one of the most notorious pirates of the Barrens. He has someone he wants Fergus to find: his twin sister, who disappeared ten years ago. Fergus has an unmatched reputation for finding things, so Belos kidnapped Qai's partner to coerce her into finding Fergus. It's not an auspicious beginning to a relationship, and Qai was ready to fight once they got her partner back, but Belos makes Fergus an offer of payment that, startlingly, is enough for him to take the job mostly voluntarily.

Ghostdrift feels a bit like a return to Finder. Fergus is once again alone among strangers, on an assignment that he's mostly not discussing with others, piecing together clues and navigating tricky social dynamics. I missed his friends, particularly Ignatio, and while there are a few moments with AI ships, they play less of a role.

But Fergus is so very good at what he does, and Palmer is so very good at writing it. This continues to be competence porn at its best. Belos's crew thinks Fergus is a pirate recruited from a prison colony, and he quietly sets out to win their trust with a careful balance of self-deprecation and unflappable skill, helped considerably by the hidden gift he acquired in Finder. The character development is subtle, but this feels like a Fergus who understands friendship and other people at a deeper and more satisfying level than the Fergus we first met three books ago.

Palmer has a real talent for supporting characters and Ghostdrift is no exception. Belos's crew are criminals and murderers, and Palmer does remind the reader of that occasionally, but they're also humans with complex goals and relationships. Belos has earned their loyalty by being loyal and competent in a rough world where those attributes are rare. The morality of this story reminds me of infiltrating a gang: the existence of the gang is not a good thing, and the things they do are often indefensible, but they are an understandable reaction to a corrupt social system. The cops (in this case, the Alliance) are nearly as bad, as we've learned over the past couple of books, and considerably more insufferable. Fergus balances the ethical complexity in a way that I found satisfyingly nuanced, while quietly insisting on his own moral lines.

There is a deep science fiction plot here, possibly the most complex of the series so far. The disappearance of Belos's sister is the tip of an iceberg that leads to novel astrophysics, dangerous aliens, mysterious ruins, and an extended period on a remote and wreck-strewn planet. I groaned a bit when the characters ended up on the planet, since treks across primitive alien terrain with jury-rigged technology are one of my least favorite science fiction tropes, but I need not have worried. Palmer knows what she's doing; the pace of the plot does slow a bit at first, but it quickly picks up again, adding enough new setting and plot complications that I never had a chance to be bored by alien plants. It helps that we get another batch of excellent supporting characters for Fergus to observe and win over.

This series is such great science fiction. Each book becomes my new favorite, and Ghostdrift is no exception. The skeleton of its plot is a satisfying science fiction mystery with multiple competing factions, hints of fascinating galactic politics, complicated technological puzzles, and a sense of wonder that reminds me of reading Larry Niven's Known Space series. But the characters are so much better and more memorable than classic SF; compared to Fergus, Niven's Louis Wu barely exists and is readily forgotten as soon as the story is over. Fergus starts as a quiet problem-solver, but so much character depth unfolds over the course of this series. The ending of this book was delightfully consistent with everything we've learned about Fergus, but also the sort of ending that it's hard to imagine the Fergus from Finder knowing how to want.

Ghostdrift, like each of the books in this series, reaches a satisfying stand-alone conclusion, but there is no reason within the story for this to be the last of the series. The author's acknowledgments, however, says that this the end. I admit to being disappointed, since I want to read more about Fergus and there are numerous loose ends that could be explored. More importantly, though, I hope Palmer will write more novels in any universe of her choosing so that I can buy and read them.

This is fantastic stuff. This review comes too late for the Hugo nominating deadline, but I hope Palmer gets a Best Series nomination for the Finder Chronicles as a whole. She deserves it.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review: Cascade Failure, by L.M. Sagas

Cascade Failure is a far-future science fiction adventure with a small helping of cyberpunk vibes. It is the first of a (so far) two-book series, and was the author's first novel.

The Ambit is an old and small Guild ship, not much to look at, but it holds a couple of surprises. One is its captain, Eoan, who is an AI with a deep and insatiable curiosity that has driven them and their ship farther and farther out into the Spiral. The other is its surprisingly competent crew: a battle-scarred veteran named Saint who handles the fighting, and a talented engineer named Nash who does literally everything else. The novel opens with them taking on supplies at Aron Outpost. A supposed Guild deserter named Jalsen wanders into the ship looking for work.

An AI ship with a found-family crew is normally my catnip, so I wanted to love this book. Alas, I did not.

There were parts I liked. Nash is great: snarky, competent, and direct. Eoan is a bit distant and slightly more simplistic of a character than I was expecting, but I appreciated the way Sagas put them firmly in charge of the ship and departed from the conventional AI character presentation. Once the plot starts in earnest (more on that in a moment), we meet Anke, the computer hacker, whose charming anxiety reaction is a complete inability to stop talking and who adds some needed depth to the character interactions. There's plenty of action, a plot that makes at least some sense, and a few moments that almost achieved the emotional payoff the author was attempting.

Unfortunately, most of the story focuses on Saint and Jal, and both of them are irritatingly dense cliches.

The moment Jal wanders onto the Ambit in the first chapter, the reader is informed that Jal, Saint, and Eoan have a history. The crew of the Ambit spent a year looking for Jal and aren't letting go of him now that they've found him. Jal, on the other hand, clearly blames Saint for something and is not inclined to trust him. Okay, fine, a bit generic of a setup but the writing moved right along and I was curious enough.

It then takes a full 180 pages before the reader finds out what the hell is going on with Saint and Jal. Predictably, it's a stupid misunderstanding that could have been cleared up with one conversation in the second chapter.

Cascade Failure does not contain a romance (and to the extent that it hints at one, it's a sapphic romance), but I swear Saint and Jal are both the male protagonist from a certain type of stereotypical heterosexual romance novel. They're both the brooding man with the past, who is too hurt to trust anyone and assumes the worst because he's unable to use his words or ask an open question and then listen to the answer. The first half of this book is them being sullen at each other at great length while both of them feel miserable. Jal keeps doing weird and suspicious things to resolve a problem that would have been far more easily resolved by the rest of the crew if he would offer any explanation at all. It's not even suspenseful; we've read about this character enough times to know that he'll turn out to have a heart of gold and everything will be a misunderstanding. I found it tedious. Maybe people who like slow burn romances with this character type will have a less negative reaction.

The real plot starts at about the time Saint and Jal finally get their shit sorted out. It turns out to have almost nothing to do with either of them. The environmental control systems of worlds are suddenly failing (hence the book title), and Anke, the late-arriving computer programmer and terraforming specialist, has a rather wild theory about what's happening. This leads to a lot of action, some decent twists, and a plot that felt very cyberpunk to me, although unfortunately it culminates in an absurdly-cliched action climax.

This book is an action movie that desperately wants to make you feel all the feels, and it worked about as well as that typically works in action movies for me. Jaded cynicism and an inability to communicate are not the ways to get me to have an emotional reaction to a book, and Jal (once he finally starts talking) is so ridiculously earnest that it's like reading the adventures of a Labrador puppy. There was enough going on that it kept me reading, but not enough for the story to feel satisfying. I needed a twist, some depth, way more Nash and Anke and way less of the men, something.

Everyone is going to compare this book to Firefly, but Firefly had better banter, created more complex character interactions due to the larger and more varied crew, and played the cynical mercenary for laughs instead of straight, all of which suited me better. This is not a bad book, particularly once it gets past the halfway point, but it's not that memorable either, at least for me. If you're looking for a space adventure with heavy action hero and military SF vibes that wants to be about Big Feelings but gets there in mostly obvious ways, you could do worse. If you're looking for a found-family starship crew story more like Becky Chambers, I think you'll find this one a bit too shallow and obvious.

Not really recommended, although there's nothing that wrong with it and I'm sure other people's experience will differ.

Followed by Gravity Lost, which I'm unlikely to read.

Rating: 6 out of 10