Review: The Book That Held Her Heart, by Mark Lawrence

The Book That Held Her Heart is the third and final book of the Library fantasy trilogy and a direct sequel to The Book That Broke the World. Lawrence provides a much-needed summary of the previous volumes at the start of this book (thank you to every author who does this!), but I was still struggling a bit with the blizzard of character names. I recommend reading this series entry in relatively close proximity to the other two.

At the end of the previous book, and following some rather horrific violence, the cast split into four groups. Three of those are pursuing different resolutions to the moral problem of the Library's existence. The fourth group opens the book still stuck with the series villains, who were responsible for the over-the-top morality that undermined my enjoyment of The Book That Broke the World. Lawrence follows all four groups in interwoven chapters, maintaining that complex structure through most of this book. I thought this was a questionable structural decision that made this book feel choppy, disconnected, and unnecessarily confusing.

The larger problem, though, is that this is the payoff book, the book where we find out if Lawrence is equal to the tricky ethical questions he's raised and the world-building masterpiece that The Book That Wouldn't Burn kicked off. The answer, unfortunately, is "not really." This is not a total failure; there are some excellent set pieces and world-building twists, and the characters remain likable and enjoyable to read about (although the regrettable sidelining of Livira continues). But the grand finale is weirdly conservative and not particularly grand, and Lawrence's answer to the moral questions he raised is cliched and wholly unsatisfying.

I was really hoping Lawrence was going somewhere more interesting than "Nazis bad." I am entirely sympathetic to this moral position, but so is every other likely reader of this series, and we all know how that story goes. What a waste of a compelling setup.

Sadly, "Nazis bad" isn't even a metaphor for the black-and-white morality that Lawrence first introduced at the end of the previous book. It's a literal description of the main moral thrust of this book. Lawrence introduces yet another new character and timeline so that he can write about thinly-disguised Nazis persecuting even more thinly-disguised Jews, and this conflict is roughly half this book. It's also integral to the ending, which uses obvious, stock secular sainthood as a sort of trump card to resolve ideological conflicts at the heart of the series.

This is one of the things I was worried about after I read the short stories that Lawrence published between the volumes of this series. All of them were thuddingly trite, which did not make me optimistic that Lawrence would find a sufficiently interesting answer to his moral trilemma to satisfy the high expectations created by the build-up. That is, I am sad to report, precisely the failure mode of this book. The resolution of the moral question of the series is arguably radical within the context of the prior world-building, but in a way that effectively reduces it to the boring, small-c conservative bromides of everyday reality. This is precisely the opposite of why I read fantasy, and I did not find Lawrence's arguments for it at all convincing. Neither, I think, did Lawrence, given that the critical debate takes place off camera so that he could avoid having to present the argument.

This is, unfortunately, another series where the author's reach exceeded their grasp. The world-building of The Book That Wouldn't Burn is a masterpiece that created one of the most original and compelling settings that I have read in fantasy for a long time, but unfortunately Lawrence did not have an equally original plan for how to use the setting. This is a common problem and I'm not going to judge it too harshly; it's much harder to end a series than it is to start one. I thought the occasional flashes of brilliance was worth the journey, and they continue into this book with some elaborations on the Library's mythic structure that are going to stick in my mind.

You can sense the story slipping away from the hoped-for conclusion as you read, though. The story shifts more and more away from the setting and the world-building and towards character stories, and while Lawrence's characters are fine, they're not that novel. I am happy to read about Clovis and Arpix, but I can read variations of that story in a lot of places. Livira never recovers her dynamism and drive from the first book, and there is much less beneath Yute's thoughtful calm than I was hoping to find. I think Lawrence knows that the story was not entirely working because the narrative voice becomes more strident as the morality becomes less interesting. I know of only one fantasy author who can make this type of overbearing and freighted narrative style work, and Lawrence is sadly not Guy Gavriel Kay.

This is not a bad book. It is an enjoyable adventure story on its own terms, with some moments of real beauty and awe and a handful of memorable characters, somewhat undermined by a painfully obvious and unoriginal moral frame. It's only a disappointment in the context of what came before it, and it is far from the first series conclusion that doesn't quite live up to the earlier volumes. I'm glad that I read it, and the series as a whole, and I do appreciate that Lawrence brought the whole series to a firm and at least somewhat satisfying conclusion in the promised number of volumes. But I do wish the series as a whole had been as special as the first book.

Rating: 6 out of 10

Review: Paper Soldiers, by Saleha Mohsin

The subtitle of Paper Soldiers is "How the Weaponization of the Dollar Changed the World Order," which may give you the impression that this book is about US use of the dollar system for political purposes such as sanctions. Do not be fooled like I was; this subtitle is, at best, deceptive. Coverage of the weaponization of the dollar is superficial and limited to a few chapters. This book is, instead, a history of the strong dollar policy told via a collection of hagiographies of US Treasury Secretaries and written with all of the skeptical cynicism of a poleaxed fawn.

There is going to be some grumbling about the state of journalism in this review.

Per the author's note, Saleha Mohsin is the Bloomberg News beat reporter for the US Department of the Treasury. That is, sadly, exactly what this book reads like: routine beat reporting. Mohsin asked current and former Treasury officials what they were thinking at various points in history and then wrote down their answers without, so far as I can tell, considering any contradictory evidence or wondering whether they were telling the truth. Paper Soldiers does contain extensive notes (those plus the index fill about forty pages), so I guess you could do the cross-checking yourself, although apparently most of the interviews for this book were "on background" and are therefore unattributed. (Is this weird? I feel like this is weird.) Mohsin adds a bit of utterly conventional and uncritical economic framing and casts the whole project in the sort of slightly breathless and dramatized prose style that infests routine news stories in the US.

I find this style of book unbelievably frustrating because it represents such a wasted opportunity. To me, the point of book-length journalism is precisely to not write in this style. When you're trying to crank out two or three articles a week covering current events, I understand why there isn't always space or time to go deep into background, skepticism, and contrary opinions. But when you expand that material into a book, surely the whole point is to take the time to do some real reporting. Dig into what people told you, see if they're lying, talk to the people who disagree with them, question the conventional assumptions, and show your work on the page so that the reader is smarter after finishing your book than they were before they started. International political economics is not a sequence of objective facts. It's a set of decisions made in pursuit of economic and political theories that are disputed and arguable, and I think you owe the reader some sense of the argument and, ideally, some defensible position on the merits that is more than a transcription of your interviews.

This is... not that.

It's a power loop that the United States still enjoys today: trust in America's dollar (and its democratic government) allows for cheap debt financing, which buys health care built on the most advanced research and development and inventions like airplanes and the iPhone. All of this is propelled by free market innovation and the superpowered strength to keep the nation safe from foreign threats. That investment boosts the nation's economic, military, and technological prowess, making its economy (and the dollar) even more attractive.

Let me be precise about my criticism. I am not saying that every contention in the above excerpt is wrong. Some of them are probably correct; more of them are at least arguable. This book is strictly about the era after Bretton Woods, so using airplanes as an example invention is a bizarre choice, but sure, whatever, I get the point. My criticism is that paragraphs like this, as written in this book, are not introductions to deeper discussions that question or defend that model of economic and political power. They are simple assertions that stand entirely unsupported. Mohsin routinely writes paragraphs like the above as if they are self-evident, and then immediately moves on to the next anecdote about Treasury dollar policy.

Take, for example, the role of the US dollar as the world's reserve currency, which roughly means that most international transactions are conducted in dollars and numerous countries and organizations around the world hold large deposits in dollars instead of in their native currency. The conventional wisdom holds that this is a great boon to the US economy, but there are also substantive critiques and questions about that conventional wisdom. You would never know that from this book; Mohsin asserts the conventional wisdom about reserve currencies without so much as a hint that anyone might disagree.

For example, one common argument, repeated several times by Mohsin, is that the US can only get away with the amount of deficit spending and cheap borrowing that it does because the dollar is the world's reserve currency. Consider two other countries whose currencies are clearly not the international reserve currency: Japan and the United Kingdom. The current US debt to GDP ratio is about 125% and the current interest rate on US 10-year bonds is about 4.2%. The current Japanese debt to GDP ratio is about 260% and the current interest rate on Japanese 10-year bonds is about 1.2%. The current UK debt to GDP ratio is 160% and the current interest rate on UK 10-year bonds is 4.5%. Are you seeing the dramatic effects of the role of the dollar as reserve currency? Me either.

Again, I am not saying that this is a decisive counter-argument. I am not an economist; I'm just some random guy on the Internet who finds macroeconomics interesting and reads a few newsletters. I know the Japanese bond market is unusual in ways I'm not accounting for. There may well be compelling arguments for why reserve currency status matters immensely for US borrowing capacity. My point is not that Mohsin is wrong; my point is that you have to convince me and she doesn't even try.

Nowhere in this book is a serious effort to view conventional wisdom with skepticism or confront it with opposing arguments. Instead, this book is full of blithe assertions that happen to support the narrative the author was fed by a bunch of former Treasury officials and does not appear to question in any way. I want books like this to increase my understanding of the world. To do that, they need to show me multiple sides of debates and teach me how to evaluate evidence, not simply reinforce a superficial conventional wisdom.

It doesn't help that whatever fact-checking process this book went through left some glaring errors. For example, on the Plaza Accord:

With their central banks working in concert, enough dollars were purchased on the open market to weaken the currency, making American goods more affordable for foreign buyers.

I don't know what happened after the Plaza Accord (I read books like this to find out!), but clearly it wasn't that. This is utter nonsense. Buying dollars on the open market would increase the value of the dollar, not weaken it; this is basic supply and demand that you learn in the first week of a college economics class. This is the type of error that makes me question all the other claims in the book that I can't easily check.

Mohsin does offer a more credible explanation of the importance of a reserve currency late in the book, although it's not clear to me that she realizes it: The widespread use of the US dollar gives US government sanctions vast international reach, allowing the US to punish and coerce its enemies through the threat of denying them access to the international financial system. Now we're getting somewhere! This is a more believable argument than a small and possibly imaginary effect on government borrowing costs. It is clear why a bellicose US government, particularly one led by advocates of a unitary executive theory that elevates the US president to a status of near-emperor, want to turn the dollar into a weapon of international control. It's much less obvious how comfortable the rest of the world should be with that concentration of power.

This would be a fascinating topic for a journalistic non-fiction book. Some reporter should dive deep into the mechanics of sanctions and ask serious questions about the moral, practical, and diplomatic consequences of this aggressive wielding of US power. One could give it a title like Paper Soldiers that reflected the use of banks and paper currency as foot soldiers enforcing imperious dictates on the rest of the world. Alas, apart from a brief section in which the US scared other countries away from questioning the dollar, Mohsin does not tug at this thread. Maybe someone should write that book someday.

As you will have gathered by now, I think this is a bad book and I do not recommend that you read it. Its worst flaw is one that it shares with far too much mainstream US print and TV journalism: the utter credulity of the author. I have the old-fashioned belief that a journalist should be more than a transcriptionist for powerful people. They should be skeptical, they should assume public figures may be lying, they should look for ulterior motives, and they should try to bring the reader closer to some objective truths about the world, wherever they may lie.

I have no solution for this degradation of journalism. I'm not even sure that it's a change. There were always reporters eager to transcribe the voice of power into the newspaper, and if we remember the history of journalism differently, that may be because we have elevated the rare exceptions and forgotten the average. But after watching too many journalists I once respected start parroting every piece of nonsense someone tells them, from NFTs to UFOs to the existential threat of AI, I've concluded that the least I can do as a reader is to stop rewarding reporters who cannot approach powerful subjects with skepticism, suspicion, and critical research.

I failed in this case, but perhaps I can serve as a warning to others.

Rating: 3 out of 10

Review: Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City, by K.J. Parker

Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City is... hm, honestly, I'm not sure what the genre of this novel is. It is a story about medieval engineering and siege weapons in a Rome-inspired secondary world that so far as I can tell is not meant to match ours. There is not a hint of magic. It's not technically a fantasy, but it's marketed like a fantasy, and it's not historical fiction nor is it attempting to be alternate history. The most common description is a fantasy of logistics, so I guess I'll go with that, as long as you understand that the fantasy here is of the non-magical sort.

K.J. Parker is a pen name for Tom Holt.

Orhan is Colonel-in-Chief of the Engineers for the Robur empire, even though he's a milkface, not a blueskin like a proper Robur. (Both of those racial terms are quite offensive.) He started out as a slave, learned a trade, joined the navy as a shipwright, and worked his way up the ranks through luck and enemy action. He's canny, practical, highly respected by his men, happy to cheat and steal to get material for his projects and wages for his people, and just wants to build literal bridges. Nice, sturdy bridges that let people get from one place to another the short way.

When this book opens, Orhan is in Classis trying to requisition some rope. He is saved from discovery of his forged paperwork by pirates burning down the warehouse that held all of the rope, and then saved from the pirates by the sorts of coincidences that seem to happen to Orhan all the time. A few subsequent discoveries about what the pirates were after, and news of another unexpected attack on the empire, make Orhan nervous enough that he takes his men to do a job as far away from the City at the heart of the empire as possible. It's just his luck to return in time to find slaughtered troops and to have to sneak his men into a City already under siege.

Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City is told in the first person by Orhan, with an internal justification that the reader only discovers at the end of the book. That means your enjoyment of this book is going to depend a lot on how much you like Orhan's voice. This mostly worked for me; his voice is an odd combination of chatty, self-deprecating, and brusque, and it took a bit for me to get used to it, but I came around. This book is clearly competence porn — nearly all the fun of this book is seeing what desperate plan Orhan will come up with next — so it helps that Orhan does indeed come across as competent.

The part that did not work for me was the morality. You would think from the title that would be straightforward: The City is under siege, people want to capture it and kill everyone, Orhan is on the inside, and his job is to keep them out. That would have been the morality of simplistic military fiction, but most of the appeal was in watching the problem-solving anyway.

That's how the story starts, but then Parker started dropping hints of more complexity. Orhan is a disfavored minority and the Robur who run the empire are racist assholes, even though Orhan mostly gets along with the ones who work with him closely. Orhan says a few things that make the reader wonder whether the City warrants defending, and it becomes less clear whether Orhan's loyalties were as solid as they appeared to be. Parker then offers a few moral dilemmas and has Orhan not follow them in the expected directions, making me wonder where Parker was going with the morality of this story.

And then we find out that the answer is nowhere. Parker is going nowhere. None of that setup has a payoff, and the ending is deeply unsatisfying and arguably pointless.

I am not sure this is an objective analysis. This is one of those books where I would not be surprised to see someone else praise its realism. Orhan is in some ways a more likely figure than the typical hero of a book. He likes accomplishing things, he's a cheat and a liar when that serves his purposes, he's loyal to the people he considers friends in a way that often doesn't involve consulting them about what they want, and he makes decisions mostly on vibes and stubbornness. Both his cynicism and his idealism are different types of masks; beneath both, he's an incoherent muddle. You could argue that we're all that sort of muddle, deep down, and the consistent idealists are the unrealistic (and frightening) ones, and I think Parker may be attempting exactly that argument. I know some readers like this sort of fallibly human incoherence.

But wow did I ever loathe this ending because I was not reading this book for a realistic psychological profile of an average guy. I was here for the competence porn, for the fantasy of logistics, for the experience of watching someone have a plan and get shit done. Apparently that extends to needing him to be competent at morality as well, or at least think about it as hard as he thinks about siege weapons.

One of the reasons why I am primarily a genre reader is that I don't read books for depressing psychological profiles. There are enough of those in the news. I read books to spend some time in a world better than mine, where things work out the way that they are supposed to, or at least in a way that's satisfying.

The other place where this book interfered with my vibes is that it's about a war, and a lot of Orhan's projects are finding more efficient ways to kill people. Parker takes a "war is hell" perspective, and Orhan gets deeply upset at the graphic sights of mangled human bodies that are the frequent results of his plans. I feel weird complaining about this because yes, it's good to be aware of the horrific things that we do to other people in wars, but man, I just wanted to watch some effective project management. I want to enjoy unexpected lateral thinking, appreciate the friendly psychological manipulation involved in getting a project to deliver on deadline, and watch someone solve logistical problems. Battlefields provide an endless supply of interesting challenges, but then Parker feels compelled to linger on the brutal consequences of Orhan's ideas and now I'm depressed and sickened rather than enjoying myself.

I really wanted to like this book, and for a lot of the book I did, but that ending was a bottomless pit that sucked away all my enjoyment and retroactively made the rest of the book feel worse. I so wanted Parker to be going somewhere clever and surprising, and the disappointment when none of that happened was intense. This is probably an excessively negative reaction, and I will not be surprised when other people get along with this book better than I did, but not only will I not be recommending it, I'm now rather dubious about reading any more Parker.

Followed by How to Rule an Empire and Get Away With It.

Rating: 5 out of 10

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