I've followed The Women's Prize for Fiction for many years and found many great books through it. So it's quite exciting that they've just launched a sister award for Non-Fiction. In the past couple of years I've tried to incorporate more non-fiction into my reading. So it's wonderful to be presented with a range of titles about subjects as diverse as science, history, memoir, technology, literary biography, health, linguistics, investigative journalism, art history, activism, travel-writing and economics. Many are specialists in their fields who are publishing for a general readership for the first time. There are authors from Britain, America, Jamaica, Canada, Australia, India and the Philippines. I've only read one of these books thus far so I'm looking forward to exploring others.

Recently I read Naomi Klein's excellent “Doppelganger” which begins as a personal story about how Klein has often been confused online for the public figure Naomi Wolf for the simple reason they share a first name and hair colour. Both also often write about power structures – however, they come to very different conclusions. Wolf has recently led her listeners down paths of conspiracy theories and Klein has often received negative messages intended for Wolf. I can sympathize with how alarming this online confusion can be when several years ago I started receiving angry messages out of nowhere. Another man named Eric Anderson who is also a gay writer who is American and lives in England posted an article about why he believes men are naturally polygamous. In response, I started receiving furious messages from wives who accused me of trying to justify their husbands cheating. I was baffled at first until I tracked down the reason for this outcry. Klein broadens her confessions about her personal experience to a wider discussion about the literary and symbolic traditions of doubles.

However, she also uses her ideological divide between her and Wolf to contemplate the way we've become such a divided society. This has been exasperated by online culture and the crisis of the recent pandemic. It's really interesting how she traces the way people can quickly fall down conspiracy theory rabbit holes and how this can lead to sharply drawn political camps which are difficult to traverse. In this way, Klein gets at some of the most heated arguments in our culture today. She approaches this with great reason, thought and humour. “Doppelganger” has also been listed for The Writers' Prize alongside “Thunderclap” by Laura Cumming. I'm greatly looking forward to reading this other title which is a history of a deadly explosion and art. I've also been eager to read Anna Funder's book about Eileen O'Shaughnessy, George Orwell's wife whose influence upon his work has been largely unacknowledged until now. I probably won't have time to read all these books before the announcement of the shortlist on March 27 or the winner on June 13, but I'd like to read several more.

I’ve also made a video discussing all these titles which you can watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHj59NMFGCQ. Have you read any of these books? Which are you looking forward to reading?

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson

It's a solace knowing that my propensity for acquiring vast shelves of books isn't an oddball impulse because book hoarding and the cultivation of large private libraries has been around since the first book was created. Vallejo has composed an ambitious and fascinating history of physical books from scrolls initially created using papyrus plants in ancient Egypt to the development of digital books. The story follows not only evolution of books as objects but the way they've been an integral part of building our culture and civilisation over the centuries. It emphasizes how fragile books are as objects being prone to deterioration, loss and purposeful destruction. While the author mourns the loss of certain texts and writing which now only exists in fragments, she also celebrates the miraculous way certain key books have survived over the centuries.

I found it especially fascinating that creating essential reading lists is also a process as ancient as books themselves and such hierarchies created by dedicated readers heavily contributed to why certain books have survived the weather of time over others. She gives fascinating examples of how female authors have been de-prioritised over male authors over the centuries and she makes a compellingly strong case for why original texts shouldn't be revised to remove offensive ideas and terminology. Alongside accounts of intriguing historical figures from literate leaders to scribes to book traders to fearless librarians, Vallejo occasionally interjects the personal role books have played in her own life. I appreciated how this added an emotional undercurrent to this well-researched and knowledgeable history of my favourite object.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesIrene Vallejo

Marit Kapla was born in the small village of Osebol situated in the dense forests of rural Sweden. Though she's often lived elsewhere she's continuously returned to this humble location whose adult population is only about forty. In 2016/17 she conducted a series of interviews with the village's residents about their lives, the history of this location and their points of view. They range in age between 18 and 92 years old. Their accounts are presented in this book in short statements. While it's detailed at the bottom of each page who is speaking and their date of birth (in some cases there is also a date of death because some have since died), the way these narratives are arranged allows them to flow together as a continuous stream of speech. Gradually a larger picture of village life and its past emerges. Reading this book feels partly like watching a documentary about a single obscure location and partly like reading a highly accessible prose poem. It's both surprisingly compelling and comforting. In listening to the multiplicity of voices from this small Swedish village we come to understand the full spectrum of our society in microcosm - as well as getting to know the unique personalities and histories of an endearing group of people.

Though there are some young people still in the village the majority of its residents are much older. Fewer educational and employment opportunities mean the younger population has been moving away for years. Trees are no longer farmed in this region for timber and other industries such as tourism have been flailing which has left both the locals and regional government worse off. As such the public resources are crumbling – in particular a double arch bridge which can now only be used by pedestrians. The only way to drive in or out of the village is over a potholed dirt road leaving it almost cut off from the rest of the country. It's touching how this location comes to feel like a quiet island with its last remaining voices relating stories about a near-forgotten past and people who have long since died. Yet there is so much life and humanity in their stories it makes for compulsive reading. It's also not as melancholy as it might seem because of the humour which emerges from petty grievances which have played out over generations and droll observations such as “You don't see youngsters out on their bikes these days. They've started going out a bit more thanks to Pokemon Go.”

A wide range of points of view are presented concerning how both the shrinking village and the larger country should be governed. There's a more radical liberal who was a leader in a commune that existed in the village in the 1970s and a conservative family who blame a lack of funding for the community on an influx of refugees. There's someone who keeps a holiday home in Osebol and a relatively young person who moved to the village because they prefer small town living to city life. Some residents have family who have lived here for many generations and others are recent immigrants. There's a general sense that the village has gone from having a more communal spirit “when potatoes were grown who actually owned them became irrelevant and people took what they needed” to possessing a more insular nature “People used to get together in their homes and chat. Now you have to be invited before you go.” Naturally, the residents all have very different opinions about the quality of local life and characteristics of the region. The community is small enough that there is no one personality to an Osebol resident. As Istvan Foth observes: “In a place like this you don't have people around you you have individuals. You get closer to one another.” The book presents a beautiful portrait of a village which isn't very distinct on the surface but is filled with meaning because of the diverse people who inhabit it.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesMarit Kapla
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The recent pandemic was such a world changing event which altered all our lives, but I think so many of us were left reeling as it happened so fast and we all had to scramble to understand what was going on. So it's invaluable to read the inside perspective of someone who is an expert on infectious diseases and who was one of the first people to hear about this mysterious new respiratory disease in China. Jeremy Farrar traces the history of this pandemic from the first outbreak, explains the nature of the disease and why a failure to properly contain and report on it helped it to spread across the globe. The title refers not only to spikes in infections as the disease was traced through different countries, but also the spike protein found on the surface of Covid-19 virus cells which aids it in invading the body. Not only does he give an inside perspective on the medical channels across the globe which sought to understand it and rapidly develop a vaccine, but as a member of the SAGE emergency committee he gives an invaluable perspective on the UK's uneven plan for dealing with this outbreak.

It's sobering to think how the pandemic could have been responded to so much better, but also terrifying to realise it could have been so much worse if it weren't for the valiant efforts of certain scientists, leaders and medical professionals! Farrar highlights some of the real heroes, but also politicians who failed to act on the best advice or actively lied to the public at different points: “Ministers were not following the science even if they said they were.” The author doesn't mince his words in condemning Boris Johnson and his cabinet for their arrogance, incompetence and lack of planning which led to unnecessary deaths and societal chaos. It's pointed out how the idea of “herd immunity” is a dangerous notion without any basis in scientific fact. He also humbly admits how a lack of information led him to hesitate at certain points when he should have acted more forcefully. Understandably, he also seriously considered the possibility of certain conspiracies such as the theory that the disease was created in a lab and accidentally released – a notion which has now been judged to be absolutely false. Farrar describes the heart racing stress at certain points of not only realising the seriousness of this highly infectious disease, but knowing how improper government handling was going to lead to it spreading more and causing many more deaths.

The book concludes with some sensible advice about the way in which governing bodies and scientific cooperation across the globe can help prepare us for future pandemics and prevent them from being as destructive as Covid-19. There are many financial and political challenges which will make following these steps difficult, but it's vital to address these issues. It felt somewhat triggering to mentally return to this tense time period. However, I think this book gives an essential understanding of the pandemic which we can learn a lot from as well as standing as an invaluable document to historically catalogue what actually happened.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesJeremy Farrar

I really enjoy watching nature documentaries about different animals and climates as well as science programs about the origins of the universe and the growing field of astrobiology. “Otherlands” is like a unique combination of these different scientific surveys. It examines several eras of Earth itself to provide a guided tour which stretches back to the origins of life. We start by viewing a specific region from 20,000 years ago and end up in a location 550 million years ago so that our own planet appears increasingly alien. From this vantage point the history of humans looks very small indeed. Halliday takes care not only to highlight particular plants, microorganisms and other living creatures which look increasingly peculiar the further back we go, but how the ecosystems of different eras worked as a whole given the geological makeup and weather conditions of the time. From this vantage point we can see how systems of life have come and gone on our planet, the staggered methods by which different lifeforms have evolved over time and how examining these things might show us what will happen to humankind in the future with the advent of climate change. It's an awe-inspiring journey which draws upon archeological evidence to transport the reader deep into the history of our planet.

I was drawn to reading this book after it was shortlisted for this year's Wainwright Prize for Nature Writing. The narrative is written in a highly personable style which made me as curious about what we're being shown as the author evidently felt in studying and recreating a picture of these different eras. Halliday's prose is very evocative making it easy to visualise how select parts of the planet appeared very different in these deep layers of history. While he makes comparisons to plants and animals we're familiar with, he takes care to highlight how they aren't necessarily from the same biological family and they inhabited a unique place within these past ecosystems. It's also noted how our common understanding of the origins of humankind and the study of this science itself has been influenced by different politics so Halliday strives to provide as de-politicised and science-based perspective as possible. Though this book is steeped in carefully-researched facts and carries a timely environmental message, it also revels in the wonders of what has come before including the first creature to exhibit parental care to its offspring, the largest waterfall to have ever existed and the startlingly diversity of lifeforms which arise in sync with the changing conditions of our planet. Though each chapter begins with a map of the planet from that particular era and a visual example of a life form that inhabited it, this feels like too sparse an amount of imagery to accompany such graphic text. I'd love to one day see this book turned into a nature television series which could further bring these periods of the planet's history to life.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesThomas Halliday
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Every year I look forward to browsing through the list of books nominated for The Wolfson History Prize. It's fun to pick a nonfiction book to dive into as I primarily read novels and this year is special as it's the award's 50th anniversary. In the past I've read some great titles such a biographies of Toussaint Louverture and Oscar Wilde as well as John Barton's absolutely fascinating account of “A History of the Bible”. This year I avidly read a true tale of mid-17th century puritanical fervour and paranoia in Springfield, a frontier town in New England. Malcolm Gaskill's “The Ruin of All Witches” is a fascinating account of a couple named Mary and Hugh Parsons who seemed set to start a flourishing family in the New World, but whose personalities and misfortunes led them to being marked as targets and tried as witches by their own neighbours.

My only previous knowledge of this area and time period comes from accounts of the Salem witch trials and acting in a production of Miller's 'The Crucible'. I mostly think of those horrific events as being the result of bouts of mass hysteria, but Gaskill gives an interesting elaboration on the economic, social and religious factors which contributed to the spate of witch trials that occurred during these decades in both England and the American colonies. The author gives a well judged overview of how large scale transformations in society directly contributed to the extreme actions of individuals. Though people in the small, rapidly-growing communities in New England had to rely on one another there was also a lot of envy and mistrust. Gaskill's research dramatically places us in the psychological mindset of these figures by drawing upon historical records and their testimonies.

Although this is a nonfiction account it reads at times very much like a novel and follows the arc of how this particular couple came to live in Springfield. There's even a descriptive list of the “principal characters” at the start of the book which is useful to refer back to while following this story. Though we know from the beginning of the book that they are fated, Gaskill compellingly traces the gradual breakdown of their relationship, incidents which led to their complete undoing and even how they come to suspect each other of making a pact with the devil. Working conditions for both women and men were very hard in these circumstances and the author gives a visceral understanding of this as well as how it could easily lead to simmering psychological turmoil. I felt a building sense of tension as the tale progressed as well as sympathy for the isolated figure of Mary who probably suffered from psychological issues which would today be labelled as mental health conditions.

With a modern mindset it's challenging to conceive that instances of spoilt pudding and discoloured milk could lead villagers to make serious accusations of witchcraft. However, add to that severe weather, devastating disease and a high death rate among children and the desperation to find a scapegoat becomes more clear. Though the accusations seem ridiculous and visions of the occult feel fanciful now, Gaskill hastens to remind us that “witchcraft was not some wild superstition but a serious expression of disorder embedded in politics, religion and law.” It's engaging how the author embeds us in this reality and the sobering result it produced for a couple in as precarious a position as Mary and Hugh. Though this book is rooted in a specific history, it also speaks more widely to how in times of great economic and social pressure people who differ from the norm are more likely to be unfairly prosecuted. This captivating historical account is a fitting memorial to one such instance of personal tragedy.

In Memory of Memory by Maria Stepanova.jpg

At some point in life we all wonder about our family history. Who were these ancestors whose coupling through succeeding generations has unwittingly resulted in us? What do any surviving photographs, stories and momentos say about them and can we ever obtain a meaningful understanding of these lives from the past? Maria Stepanova has been trying to construct an account of her family history for a long time and become its narrator like a documentary filmmaker: “I would become a stranger, a teller of tales, a selector and a sifter, the one who decides what part of the huge volume of the unsaid must fit in the spotlight's circle, and what part will remain outside it in the darkness.” When her Aunt Galya dies she sifts through the belongings Galya left and discovers that “The meek contents of her apartment, feeling themselves to be redundant, immediately began to lose their human qualities and, in doing so, ceased to remember or to mean anything.” 

Thus, Stepanova presents us with memories, anecdotes, letters, diary entries and other documents alongside her journeys to significant locations from her ancestors' lives to form a loose picture of their past. In doing so we gain access to not only her personal family history, but Russian Jewish life over the course of the 20th century. There are innumerable accounts of this period of European history, but Stepanova brings a new perspective of rigorous enquiry into how we memorialise people from the past and how their narrative has been self-consciously shaped. More than this, Stepanova rigorously questions how we interact with fragments from the past and what memory means: “This book about my family is not about my family at all, but something quite different: the way memory works, and what memory wants from me.” The result is an utterly enthralling rumination on this subject which sheds light on what the past really means to us and the responsibility tied to the act of remembering.

Some books take me longer to read than others and this was one I really needed to be patient with – not only because it's 500 pages long but because the text contains such a density of ideas I often stopped to copy passages out, look up references or documents such as the short film 'Diversions' by Helga Landauer and ruminate upon the many dilemmas the author presents. She gives so much to consider when contemplating the meaning of memory and includes numerous scholarly, literary and artistic references through which to probe how we relate to the past. At some times it does feels too cluttered and that it could have been usefully cut down to streamline the points she's making. Of course, part of the point is: how do you begin to form a story about the past with the enormous amount of material which survives, especially when so many of these things don't really mean anything anymore? She elegantly summarises how “Pointless knowledge expands at an unstoppable rate: not like a building, which grows with the slow addition of floors, more like that terrifying wartime spring thaw when the bodies were slowly exposed by the melting snow.” But it feels like there's a lot to wade through before getting to Part 3 which beautifully summarizes her own unique mission to memorialise the story of her family. Though she concedes at the beginning of the book “I need to make it very clear at this point that our family was quite ordinary” I grew to feel real affection for them through some of the fragments Stepanova includes and her own reflections on deceased family members. There is so much which remains unknowable about these array of individuals including her young male relative who died in combat as part of the “ill-fated Sinyavinsky Operation” of 1942 or a female ancestor who studied to be a doctor in Paris. However, it's not answers about their lives but the abiding mystery which is what's important.

This book does something truly revolutionary. Rather than present dry historical documents which we inflict our imaginations upon to imbue them with meaning, Stepanova demands we grant a dignified independence to people who can no longer speak for themselves and not shape them into a desired narrative. At first this message felt too unsentimental and accusatory to me, but as I continued reading I came to more dynamically understand the moral implications of fixing people from the past within a certain story. How much of our family histories is true and how much embroidered with fiction? And how do we deal with the feeling that to recite the facts is dull but to fabricate is to deviate from history? It's given me such a new perspective on memory and family history which will continue to impact how I think about the past. At times, Stepanova risks sounding curmudgeonly in her point of view when she forcefully dismisses the prevalence of selfies or damns pornography as the lowliest form of documentation. I'd certainly not make a case for the lasting importance of either of these things, but she doesn't fully consider their broader meaning. While I didn't always agree with a number of the author's points, I've learned so much from this book and it's expanded my perspective on the enormous subject of memory. It's also encouraged me to take a more active engagement in my own family history and speak with my parents about where we come from.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesMaria Stepanova
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Gay Bar Jeremy Atherton Lin.jpg

Journalists have been noting the rapid closure of gay bars for years and the economic strain of the past year's pandemic has certainly added to the demise of many more of these venues. So it feels especially poignant to read Jeremy Atherton Lin's nonfiction/memoir “Gay Bar” now as he catalogues his personal experience going to gay bars and other historic examples of notable establishments where gay people congregated. From this he considers the meaning of gay identity itself, notions of intimacy and the political/personal importance that these physical locations played in queer communities. The subtitle of this book “why we went out” feels especially poignant when considering why he and his long term partner 'Famous' went to bars to make friends, view the “scene” and have sex with other men. I really valued how candidly and explicitly he describes his experiences and what a positive example this gives of how sex is a part of Lin's own evolving sense of being a gay man and how an open long term relationship can work. His life, sensibility and values are very different from my own but I appreciate the intelligent and skilful ways he considers how experiences in gay-designated spaces can positively and negatively contribute to our personal and collective sense of gay identity. 

Though Lin's experiences span decades and nations, it's perhaps telling how surprisingly small the gay community really is given that a number of the bars he describes are places I've been to and even some of the people he encounters I've met myself. I'm not someone who enjoys going out that much so I understand how the experience of gay bars can sometimes be tedious and even stifling given how self-conscious the gaze of men in these venues can make me feel. Yet, I've also had some wonderfully empowering and liberating experiences at gay bars whether that's been dancing to Kylie in a Prague bar, drunkenly playing pool with a stranger in a London gay pub or having a heart-to-heart talk with an older drag queen in Cleveland dive. What Lin describes so well is how these experiences are, of course, particular to the individual but they also allow the potential for instant connections no matter where you are in the world. The interactions that occur in these spaces also contribute to an ongoing community conversation we're having about how to negotiate living in a largely straight society as gay men. I think it's clever how the author balances playful points such as how San Francisco blow jobs differ from Los Angeles blow jobs with more series accounts of how gay bars became meeting grounds to launch gay liberation and inspire AIDS activism. This book is a valuable historical document which manages to be both intellectually rigorous and arousing.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson

Readers are a special type. We're drawn to spending hours between the covers of a book when the world tells us there are more important and more exciting things to do. But readers know that there is nothing more important or more exciting than the story which is waiting on the page to come alive in our imaginations. As such we devote countless hours to reading and we make room in the busyness of life for this remove from reality because we know that it is richly-rewarding time well spent. Cathy Rentzenbrink is a true reader. In “Dear Reader” she enumerates the many books which have held special meaning for her while chronicling the events of her life. More than this, she elegantly describes a life spent reading – how books are a central fixture in her life providing ballast, comfort and joy. Although reading is necessarily a solitary activity it also makes us all feel less alone. Rentzenbrink states “I find it consoling to be reminded that I am not alone, that everything I feel has been felt before, that everything I struggle with has been perplexing others since the dawn of time. My favourite books are specific yet universal. They illuminate my own life as well as showing me the lives of others and leave me changed, my worldview expanded.” This beautifully summarises the gift of reading and why for many of us it is a way of life. 

If reading is viewed as a leisure activity predominantly for the middle-upper class, Rentzenbrink proves this is wrong. She describes her youth being raised in a working class family with a father who only learned to read and write later in life. Books were always present from an early age: “My granny gave me my first book when I was a few months old.” Growing up she always got her hands on books through the library or school or buying books as a special treat. As a naturally gregarious and extroverted individual, Rentzenbrink worked in pubs when she became an adult. But her penchant for recommending books to people naturally led her to becoming a book seller. The jobs she held in a number of different bookstores from Harrods to Waterstones to Hatchards is described so compellingly from the mechanics of shop life to the varied experience of dealing with customers.

Because her passion was so integral to her work, it naturally led to more opportunities in the wider publishing industry including programmes to encourage reading/writing in prisons and initiatives to support adults who struggle with literacy. In addition to being the fascinating life story of a bookish soul, what I loved about this account is the way Rentzenbrink comes into contact with a wide spectrum of readers from many different social groups. It shows the many ways books populate and influence people's lives.

A quality common to all readers is an intense curiosity about what other readers are reading. The author describes a familiar habit of peering at the covers of what people are reading on public transport and when someone is reading a book she loves finding it difficult to resist striking up a conversation with them about it. Part of the draw of this book is seeing what titles Rentzenbrink will discuss. The experience is like scanning a great reader's bookshelf where I quickly identified books I'm familiar with (“Little Women”, “The Goldfinch”, “A Tale for the Time Being”, “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing”, “What Belongs to You”); titles I've always meant to read (“The Diary of a Nobody”, “The Crimson Petal and the White”, “Jamaica Inn”); and novels that I've not heard of before but Rentzenbrink makes them sound so intriguing (“March Violets”, “Mr Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore”, “Instructions for a Heatwave”). But many more books are discussed throughout. She groups lists of books under certain qualities or styles and summarises each with brief insights into how she personally connected with them. They're bracingly honest book recommendations like you'd get from a friend. When describing the novel “A Little Life” she accurately assesses “I won't lie to you, dear reader: there is little comfort or joy in this novel, but it is a work of genius that asks the hardest questions about the limitations of love.” It's wonderful the sheer variety and scale of Rentzenbrink's reading especially as she explains how she never distinguished between so-called “high” and “low-brow” literature when she was growing up.

There were so many parts of this book that I found myself nodding at because even though the author has a very different life from my own I could deeply connect with her experiences as a reader. This includes issues such as the bewildering question which committed readers are often asked “How do you read so much?”, the dilemma of not wanting to say anything bad about a book and the feeling of not being good enough as a reader “it is too easy to get in a panic and decide that the fact I haven't read everything means I have no right to love books.” She also describes the dismaying feeling we can get when going through a period of our lives where we can't concentrate on reading as we normally do. This is commonly known as the dreaded “book slump”. There was a period following the birth of her son when Rentzenbrink couldn't read and she describes how “I hadn't felt right before, like I'd been robbed of my magic powers.” What the author also describes so movingly is the reason why we readers are so engrossed by this solitary activity and how it provides an endless source of inspiration for us throughout our lives: “The very way that fiction works – the process of conflict and resolution at the heart of every story – means that novels are full of people encountering challenging situations and, usually, surviving them. Books are a masterclass in how to carry on.”

This book is deeply consoling for any keen reader. It made me feel understood. Opening this book is like passing under that sign in Foyles bookshop that proclaims “Welcome book lover, you are among friends.” Rentzenbrink is brilliant at articulating why the physical object of a book and its content is so important to us. “Every book holds a memory. When you hold a book in your hand, you access not only the contents of that book but fragments of the previous selves that you were when you read it.” I think that's partly why my personal library is so important to me. Not only do these books offer enthralling stories I can return to and learn more from but they are touchstones to the past and to the person I was when reading them. If you're a reader, you'll know what it means to stare at a shelf of books and feel like they are a part of you. “Dear Reader” poignantly conveys the deep pleasure to be found in the experience of reading and the communities that books build.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
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Caste Isabel Wilkerson.jpg

Like many people recently I've been observing the rise of populism and the continuing deadly effects of racial conflict (especially in the USA) with anger, frustration and sorrow. 'Why is this still happening?' is a question I continuously ask myself and seek answers for by reading a variety of journalists and listening to social commentators. I was aware of many of the historic reasons which would allow hierarchies and systems of injustice to remain in place, but reading Isabel Wilkerson's “Caste” has better equipped me with a framework, understanding and language with which to comprehend why society continues to experience such strident conflict. In this extensive, well-researched and compulsively-readable study the Pulitzer Prize winning journalist clearly defines the difference between racism and the caste system at the heart of American society by drawing parallels with the examples of Nazi Germany and the long-established caste system in India. In doing so, she powerfully describes the way artificial hierarchies in any society create a vicious imbalance of power that leads to the subjugation of a certain segment of the population. 

Wilkerson illustrates her points with many examples (both personal and well-documented historic cases) that bring her arguments to life and explain why progressive legislation alone can't dispel with persistent racism. Caste is a psychology that's been bred into the national identity leading to countless examples of injustice which have long-term detrimental effects for every member of our society. Although it shouldn't have surprised me, I was startled to learn how the Reichstag looked to codified racism in America to inform the anti-Jewish legislation created in their 1935 “Party Rally of Freedom” meeting in Nuremberg. The author also details many specific examples of how the caste systems in different nations has led to the dehumanization or deaths of individuals designated to be of lower caste. I felt a furious sympathy reading about the memories Wilkerson recounts where she as a woman of African American heritage has been slighted or discriminated against because of her position in the caste system – especially as someone who frequently inhabits spaces traditionally designated for the dominant caste. It reminded me of the importance of speaking up when witnessing examples of injustice and to examine more closely my own unconscious biases as a product of the caste system.

Some people try to explain or dismiss specific examples of racism as unfortunate isolated cases. For instance, it's frequently claimed that the many cases of US police officers using extreme force against unarmed black men are simply due to the actions of a few “bad apples”. Rather than trying to simplify these violations as extreme cases of racism, Wilkerson's book shows how it's important to understand that these actions are a consequence of the way people have been programmed to think and act within their caste. The primary tenets of caste are enumerated over a number of sections to show exactly how it functions and why it's so difficult to dispense with this system once it's in place. It's extremely enlightening how the author comprehensively shows the way everyone in society is subjected to this mindset and how we can only progress out of it by making heart-to-heart connections with people outside our designated caste rather than resorting to more violence.

I've read several reader reviews which criticise this book for its liberal political bias. This is not a study standing outside of a particular time and place. Rather, Wilkerson situates her arguments and her story in where we are here and now in Trump's presidency with the COVID-19 virus running rampant throughout America. The country is in turmoil and, as usual, people at the lower end of the caste system are struggling the most. Wilkerson uses objective facts and clearly-researched social analysis to delineate why we are in this position. It's much larger than any single election or figurehead. It's about working on a personal and political level to try to dispense with the caste system we're all unknowingly trapped within.

Since we're nearing the end of the year, I always enjoy looking at the 'best books of the year' and this book has appeared on multiple lists including from Publisher's Weekly and Time Magazine. I'm glad this encouraged me to pick up Wilkerson's tremendous study because I don't read that much nonfiction and it's given me such a different perspective on an important issue.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
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I don’t often read much nonfiction so I always look forward to following the Wolfson History Prize each year for guidance of what biographical or historical books I should catch up on. Last year I read Matthew Sturgis’ excellent biography of Oscar Wilde but this year I thought I’d challenge myself a bit more by reading priest and Oxford scholar John Barton’s much-acclaimed “A History of the Bible”. Firstly, I must declare that although I was raised with regular Sunday trips to a Lutheran church I am an atheist so my interest in the Bible comes from a purely secular point of view. To be honest, I’ve never had much interest in reading the Bible or thought deeply about its origins. However, its historical, social and cultural significance is of such magnitude that it feels like I should learn more about it. Barton’s intricately researched and well balanced account embraces the enormous challenge of tracing the history and many permutations of the text which makes up the Bible as used in the Judaic and Christian faiths. It was absolutely fascinating learning about its complex and lengthy history.

One of my biggest misconceptions about the Bible is that it has been at the absolute centre of both these major religions since their beginnings like a “sacred monolith between two black-leather covers”. Barton reasonably describes how Judaic and Christian faith reside more in their practices and traditions. While the Bible obviously provides many important religious insights for these faiths, they are not grounded in the Bible. It can’t be taken as a map that provides absolute laws about what is to be believed and Barton pointedly states that “Fundamentalists venerate a Bible that does not really exist, a perfect text that perfectly reflects what they believe.” This is because the actual text of the book in all its iterations and translations contains contradictory information and instruction. The Bible’s contents are instead “a repository of writings, both shaping and shaped by the two religions at various stages in their development”. This is an illuminating point of view which not only broadened my understanding of what the Bible actually is but how faith is most commonly practiced in these religions.

I was disappointed to see this event with Barton was cancelled because of the pandemic because it would have been fascinating to hear him discuss it

I was disappointed to see this event with Barton was cancelled because of the pandemic because it would have been fascinating to hear him discuss it

It’s admirable how thoroughly Barton traces the origins of the text of the Bible, detailing the many debating theories about how it was written and by whom. He also summarizes the popular consensus of scholarly research about when certain sections were completed in the form we have today. Of course, it’s very difficult to verify many details with absolute certainty; so much about the Bible’s true creation cannot be proved as it was transcribed and revised by so many different people over many years. Since I mostly read novels, I’m accustomed to reading any book as a story written by one author who created a certain narrative structure. But, of course, the Bible cannot and was not meant to be read in this way. So I found it illuminating how Barton describes the way in which different sections of the Bible weren’t intended to be chronological. Nor are many parts meant to be interpreted as providing a clear set of instructions. Instead, they were more likely meant to serve many different purposes in the practice of worship.

I’m not going to pretend to completely understand or to have fully absorbed the extensive amount of information and detailed explanations Barton provides in his book. As someone so unfamiliar with the structure and contents of the Bible, I did find reading Barton’s thorough history somewhat overwhelming at times. This is not at all a fault on the author’s part as he does a brilliant job at laying out so many complex and competing ideas about this religious text’s origins and purpose. But this historical account is over 600 pages long and there’s a lot to absorb! The Bible has obviously been scrutinized and fought over for hundreds of years. So delving into Barton’s impressive and very readable book has merely keyed me into how much more I have to learn - not only about where the Bible came from but why there is so much disagreement about its meaning. Certainly, I will never become a scholar of its text but I’m so grateful to have read Barton’s historical account as its given me an invaluable overview of the Bible’s place in these religions and our broader culture.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesJohn Barton
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It can be so easy to get caught in the here and now of life when most of it consists of a routine path between home and work. I’ve certainly found that where day after day I take the same trains while passing by the same trees and buildings. After a while I barely notice them because I’m so fixated on looking at my phone or a book. But reading Robert Macfarlane’s “Underland” gives a radically new perspective on time and space as he describes his various journeys to subterranean landscapes. From ancient caves in England and Norway to the bottom of glaciers near Greenland to the subterranean chambers of London and Paris, Macfarlane explores terrain that few people have tread but which has always existed under our feet. In doing so he explores the concept of deep time where he can see the marks of many past centuries inscribed upon the rocks and ice hidden here. This is where resources are extracted from, bodies are buried, waste is disposed of and treasure is hidden. It’s also where scientists can detect changes to the environment and archaeologists can study the oldest traces from human history. Macfarlane recounts his experiences in these places, sympathetically describes the colourful individuals who guide him through them and meaningfully reflects on our hidden relationship to these subterranean regions.

It’s interesting how many people that he meets who either work, study or inhabit these spaces under the land have a strong sense of character. Many are devoted to a particular cause such as preserving the environment, snubbing the law to form a culture of undercity dwellers or mining resources for the good of society. It’s often just as interesting learning about his companions as it is about the underland spaces they’re exploring and Macfarlane shows what a deeply empathetic person he is in how he interacts with them and recounts their perspectives. One of the most compelling people he meets is a boisterous and fiercely independent fisherman named Bjornar who lives on a remote island in Norway. He’s the descendent of generations of such men and this deeply entwined relationship with the sea and landscape have given him a deep understanding of this environment far more meaningful than the oil companies scanning it for resources and the environmental impact of extracting them. I appreciate how Macfarlane gives voice to a plethora of points of view showing how battles over the land are such a complex social issue. However, the crisis of climate change is made absolute clear in the transforming landscapes he explores.

What elevates Macfarlane’s account above a standard travelogue is the beautifully poetic language he uses to evoke these varied subterranean spaces as well as his own state of being when passing through them. He also makes poignant connections referencing different poetry, novels and music so the book functions as a way to philosophically define our relationship to the natural world. But it never comes across as pretentious as he frequently feels humbled by what he finds. In fact, there are points where language is utterly defeated because it cannot describe what he’s seeing such as the glacial ice in Greenland: “Here was a region where matter drove language aside. Ice left language beached. The object refused its profile. Ice would not mean, nor would rock or light... a terrain that could not be communicated in human terms or forms.” This book gives a powerful sense of being humbled before the vast expanse of our world’s history and invites the reader to recall our part within it.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
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I've wanted to read more of Nelson's books since I first encountered her breakout 'The Argonauts' a few years ago. Her approach to contemplating certain ideas and their personal impact is so striking and thought-provoking. I picked up this book (first published ten years ago) because she gave a fascinating talk at the Southbank Centre in London. 'Bluets' considers her powerful attraction to the colour blue, its manifestations in ordinary objects and art as well as its symbolism in paintings, songs and writing. She originally intended its subject to remain within these boundaries and join in a literary tradition which considers colour. But when writing it she also included references to the break down of a love affair and her close friendship with a woman who has become a quadriplegic. Her musings weave through the analytical and personal to present a striking way of thinking about our perceptions, emotions and language. 

I've also always felt the appeal of the colour blue. It has a warmth to it but also induces a melancholy feeling. People have always remarked on how strikingly blue my eyes are. Once I was in a group where we were asked to organize ourselves in a line from people whose eyes are deepest brown to those whose eyes are the brightest blue. The group decided my eyes are the bluest and for some reason this felt like a great compliment to me. Nelson considers “Does the world look bluer from blue eyes? Probably not, but I choose to think so (self-aggrandizement).” It's a romantic idea but a ridiculous one. This is part of the reason I appreciate Nelson's point of view though. She takes her research and political views seriously but at the same time she playfully toys with the theoretical and enjoys the teasing pleasure that can be had with language.

I appreciate that Nelson describes how her collection of blue objects feels meaningful to her even though she can't recall their origins or significance. All that's left is their beauty. I think we have a similar relationship to cherished memories of events and people in our lives. There's a feeling that resonates when we recall them even if we can't recreate all the details of the past. She describes how “blue has no mind. It is not wise, nor does it promise any wisdom. It is beautiful, and despite what the poets and philosophers and theologians have said, I think beauty neither obscures truth nor reveals it. Likewise, it leads neither toward justice nor away from it. It is pharmakon. It radiates.” Quite often she describes experiencing the colour blue like a sensation that is beyond words – as are the feelings it generates. Therefore, she sets herself the impossible task of trying to describe something which can't be summed up, but what she provides instead are approximations and discussions around the meaning of the colour blue.

Nelson also engages in serious dialogue with writers, philosophers and artists from the past who have written about colour. Sometimes she looks to their texts for knowledge or support for her own theories. Other times she repudiates the folly of their reasoning. For instance, she takes issue with the way William Gass asserts we can't see what we really desire in reality and that it's better to look in fiction for it because there the desire can be perfectly encapsulated in words and our imaginations. Nelson asserts: “I will not choose between the blue things of the world and the words that say them: you might as well be heating up the poker and readying your eyes for the alter. Your loss.” There is both pleasure and pain to be found when engaging in reality with all its attendant imperfections. It'd be a mistake to close oneself off to its jagged contours.

In a way I'm surprised I found this book to be as emotional as it is intellectually stimulating. Normally I get frustrated when authors withhold details that convey the core impulse driving them to write about a particular subject. Nelson refers to the breakdown of her relationship only glancingly and yet I felt the weight of its enormous loss all the same. She describes the debilitating feeling of being alone: “I have been trying, for some time now, to find dignity in my loneliness. I have been finding this hard to do. It is easier, of course, to find dignity in one's solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem.” She also asks “what kind of madness is it anyway, to be in love with something constitutionally incapable of loving you back?” Perhaps it's not so mad to be in love with a thing that's so beautiful specifically because it's incapable of loving you back. If it can't reciprocate feelings it's also incapable of rejecting you.

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesMaggie Nelson

Many book lovers have fond childhood memories of going to the library and discovering there the wondrous breadth and power of great storytelling. Early in “The Library Book”, author Susan Orlean gives a moving personal account of her burgeoning passion for literature found in the library and also the quality time spent there with her mother as they’d take regular trips to borrow new books. It’s her memories and ardour for the institution which prompts Orlean to explore the bizarre mystery surrounding the horrific fire in Los Angeles’ historic Central Library which occurred on April 29, 1986 and destroyed approximately 400,000 volumes or 20 percent of the library’s holdings. She gives a vivid account of the incident and the case surrounding it - especially the investigation of Harry Peak who was suspected of starting the fire. Moreover, Orlean meditates on the LA library system’s history as well as how libraries are institutions central to many communities. Although it recounts a very bleak incident, this book is ultimately hopeful in describing the resiliency of libraries and books because people’s desire for them keep them alive: “The Library is a gathering pool of narratives and of the people who come to find them. It is where we can glimpse immortality; in the library, we can live forever.”

Some of my favourite sections of the book are her descriptions of the endearingly quirky people who have organized and run the library system in Los Angeles since its inception in 1872 and the diverse librarians who run it today. It’s bracing discovering how the management of the library was at times wrestled out of the hands of more capable female librarians because the library board believed it was a job for men. There were also bizarrely prescriptive rules in place early on for patrons who were discouraged from reading too many novels or they were labelled as “fiction fiends.” Naturally, as society became more progressive, so did the rules of the library and the ways in which it served the community from the city’s homeless to being more accessible to children, immigrants and the disabled. It was also compelling reading about how libraries have embraced the arrival of the information age and the challenges of updating how information is stored and disseminated to the public. It made me feel for librarians who get asked some of the most bizarre questions imaginable by the public every day.

Orlean spent a lot of time conversing with people who work in many different functions within the library: not just librarians who check books in and out, but people who organize the stock, transport books, guard the library and run community programmes. In this way reading this book felt like getting a tour of the institution itself. Seeing so many levels to its running and management felt similar to watching Frederick Wiseman’s 2017 documentary Ex Libris: The New York Public Library. Orlean’s book is also a great conversation starter about what libraries mean to us personally. In this way, it’d be a wonderful companion to reading Ali Smith’s “Public Library” which is a book of short stories as well as a series of testimonies by authors and publishers who’ve found libraries springboards in fostering their passion for literature.

I also found it fascinating reading about some of the LA Central Library’s most famous patrons including Ray Bradbury who frequented the library in his youth. It’s ironic that the institution which fostered a love of reading for the author of “Fahrenheit 451” would eventually lose so many of its books due to fire decades after this classic novel’s publication. While the mystery surrounding the cause and reason for the destructive fire of 1986 is at the centre of this book, its heart is a celebration of libraries and the people who are devoted to them. “The Library Book” feels like the most wonderfully intimate conversation for book lovers. But it also meaningfully grapples with the struggles that libraries face. Like many places in the world, libraries in the UK are facing increasing budget cuts despite the number of patrons increasing (according to a recent BBC report). I loved using and borrowing from my local library when I first moved to the UK. In recent years I’ve frequented places like The British Library and the London Library for special exhibits like a celebration of Jean Rhys or book prizes such as The Young Writer of the Year Award. But I’d like to return to libraries more frequently for the objects they’re founded upon: books!

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson
CategoriesSusan Orlean

Joyce Carol Oates is such a prolific writer that it may surprise some of her readers to discover that she is also a committed and voracious reader. It’s easy to imagine the perennial question which Oates is asked “How do you write so much?” being quickly followed by “How do you read so much?” Soul at the White Heat is a sustained and fascinating collection of nonfiction chronicling not only her reflections as a writer, but her engagement with a wide range of books by authors —some of whom are “classics” and others “contemporaries.” Every analysis or review Oates gives of a single book is scattered with mentions of that author’s other publications as well as a wide variety of other writers and books which provide enlightening points of reference. The collection is filled primarily with book reviews, so the subtitle “Inspiration, Obsession, and the Writing Life” clues the reader into how the compulsion to write is inextricably linked to the desire to read widely and rigorously. Because this collection comes from a writer of such productivity and stature, it can be read in two ways. The first is as an astute survey of writing from some of the greatest past and present practitioners of the craft. The second is as a supplement to Oates’s own fiction, providing fascinating insights into how her perspective on other writing might relate to her past publications. However, underlying this entire anthology is the question of why writers feel inspired to write and what compels us to keep reading.

For some writers, Oates gives an informative overview of that author’s complete output. There is the “weird” writing of H.P. Lovecraft or the “bold and intriguing” detective fiction of Derek Raymond both of which lead Oates to make intriguing observations about the nature of genre. Another section gives a broad look at the life and work of famously prolific author Georges Simenon with a special consideration for the memoirist nature of one of his pivotal novels. In one of the most personal pieces Oates recounts a visit and interview she conducted with Doris Lessing in 1972 where she considers Lessing’s psychologically realist fiction alongside her audacious science fiction. Oates nobly raises the stature of some lesser known writers such as Lucia Berlin by drawing comparisons between her “zestfully written, seemingly artless” short stories and the firmly established writing of Charles Bukowski, Grace Paley, and Raymond Carver.

Oates has taught literature and writing for most of her life and in several pieces it’s possible to gauge her academic nature to inspire and provoke more nuanced thinking. Such is the case in one of the opening essays where she meticulously dissects the “anatomy of a story.” In “Two American Prose Masters” she makes a sharply analytical critique of how tense is used in a short story by John Updike and contrasts this with a heartrending story by Ralph Ellison. At other times she questions how style and form are related to subject matter. For instance, when considering Martin Amis’s The Zone of Interest she asks if a postmodernist use of irony excludes emotion no matter how devastating or “mighty” the subject matter. In considering the “detached and ironic tone” of much of Margaret Drabble’s fiction she prompts the reader to ask how this reflects contemporary English culture and feminism. As much as making judgements throughout these numerous essays and reviews, Oates draws readers to more attentively question how they read fiction.

As a critic, Oates shows a great deal of empathy towards the artfulness employed by the vast array of writers she discusses in this book. If negative points are made they are often balanced by something positive. However, she certainly doesn't shy away from pointing out severe failings in either authors or their books. Such is the case with H.P. Lovecraft who for all the wonder of his gothic imagination was “an antiSemite . . . racist, and all-purpose Aryan bigot” and she observes how “For all his intelligence and aesthetic theorizing, Lovecraft was, like Poe, a remarkably uneven writer.” When reviewing the novel The Beginner's Goodbye by Anne Tyler and Tyler's parochial portrait of the diverse city of Baltimore she surmises that “the fiction is determinedly old-fashioned, 'traditional' and conservative; it takes no risks, and confirms the wisdom of risklessness.” In the case of Karen Joy Fowler whose novel We Are Completely Beside Ourselves Oates admires as “boldly exploratory” she nonetheless considers it a misjudgement to limit the novel's point of view to the first person. She circumvents even mentioning Fowler's novel for the first five pages of the review by embarking on a fascinating consideration of Darwin and animal rights.

Oates doesn’t strictly limit herself to the realm of fiction in her criticism. She also reviews nonfiction and autobiography. These range from what might be the new definitive biography of Charles Dickens by Claire Tomalin to Margaret Atwood’s overview of science fiction In Other Worlds (where Oates cites the notable absence of Doris Lessing) to Jeanette Winterson’s memoir about her attempted suicide. When considering an “unauthorized” biography of Joan Didion titled The Last Love Song by Tracy Daugherty, Oates considers the evolution of Didion’s writing and how in her journalism she finds “a perfect conjunction of reportorial and memoirist urges.” Sometimes Oates asks how real-life relationships between writers and artists influence their output. When surveying the published letters between Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz she wonders if it weren’t for Stieglitz’s influence whether O’Keeffe would still have achieved her deserved legacy as an American icon of the art world. There is also an essay which contemplates the difficult later years of Mike Tyson in the book Undisputed Truth as well as a review of the film The Fighter where Oates draws upon her considerable knowledge of boxing to critique the way the film misses out on the athletic art form of the sport. It’s easy to see why Oates was motivated to write about these last two examples because of the sustained interest in the sport she’s shown throughout her career in both her fiction such as her most recent novel A Book of American Martyrs and her slim nonfiction book On Boxing.

The title is taken from a Dickinson poem "Dare You See a Soul At The White Heat?" In this photo Oates is dressed as Emily Dickinson.

There are many pieces in Soul at the White Heat which will intrigue the avid reader of Oates’s oeuvre for how the subjects and writing styles she discusses relate to her own work. For example, Oates is highly sympathetic with Derek Raymond’s “existential pilgrim as detective, the object of his inquiry nothing less than the meaning of life itself.” This is both a mode of writing and character type she also used in her exemplary post-modernist detective novel Mysteries of Winterthurn. There is also a very considered review of Larry McMurtry’s novel The Last Kind Words Saloon where he realistically renders the now mythic figures of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday just as Oates sought to reimagine the girl behind the legend of Marilyn Monroe in her monumental novel Blonde. Oates admires the different slant on Dickinson’s life Jerome Charyn takes in his novel The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson which is interesting to consider alongside Oates’s extremely imaginative short story “EDickinsonRepliLuxe” where she gives the classic American poet a second life as a computerized mannequin. When writing about Lorrie Moore's distinctive short stories Oates pays particular attention to two stories which rewrite particular tales by Vladimir Nabokov and Henry James (writers whose stories Oates has also previously created her own versions of). Despite there being many parallels in themes between her own work and these other writers, Oates tactfully never references her own fiction.

Soul at the White Heat opens with four somewhat candid pieces about the writing process and her own “credo” as an artist. It's possible to see how she holds to her “several overlapping ideals” when looking back at both her fiction and the way she critiques other writer's books. In Oates's writing room she reflects how her younger self would feel “stunned” that she would produce so many books when “each hour's work feels so anxiously wrought and hard-won.” From the confined space of the study this anthology ends by moving out into “real life” with a touching, vividly detailed essay about a visit Oates undertook to San Quentin prison where she admits her idealistic urge “To learn more about the world. To be less sheltered. To be less naïve. To know.” Although this is not mentioned in the piece, Oates was subsequently inspired to help bring the stories of prisoners to the public consciousness by editing the extremely engaging anthology Prison Noir. For an author who writes so infrequently about her own life (recent memoirs A Widow’s Story and The Lost Landscape being notable exceptions) it’s refreshing to meet Oates’s voice when unmediated by the guise of fiction. Here is someone so “inspired” and “obsessed” with the boundless excitement and vertiginous joy to be found in great literature that she is motivated to devote so much time to the activity of reading when she’s not writing her own fiction. Perhaps this is the real answer to that oft-asked question of how Oates has produced over one hundred books of fiction. It’s not about how it’s done; it’s about why she does it.

This review also appeared on Bearing Witness: Joyce Carol Oates Studies

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AuthorEric Karl Anderson