The Influencing Machine by Brooke Gladstone, illustrated by Josh Neufeld

  Years ago, I was teaching a Grade 10 English course and had some students reading The Influencing Machine by Brooke Gladstone, which was adapted into its graphic novel form by Josh Neufeld. Parts of it stuck with me for a long time. I remembered it as being an illuminating exploration of media and I was hoping to use it, at least in part, for my media studies course. I remembered the book as talking about the funding structure for media and how that impacts the kinds of messages we get to see (think: Noam Chomsky). 

There is some of that, but it isn’t exactly how I remembered. Essentially, The Influencing Machine is a history of journalism. Gladstone hops between different time periods and watershed moments in reporting and discusses the impact of the media in relation to peoples’ everyday experiences. She quotes from a range of primary sources, noting the reactions that people had to news when it became widely available in print—and then widely available on television—and then widely available on the internet. Perhaps it’s because Gladstone is a journalist that she’s able to tell it all as a story. She draws some clear parallels between different historical points in time, the most notable of which (for me) being the way journalism shifted during the Vietnam War and beyond.

There’s a lot to talk about in terms of media evolution: the changing relationship between journalists and the military, the way polls sway us or not (posting this on election day feels serendipitous…), the way that we have come to trust and distrust information. The vignettes Gladstone choose are effectively representative and the balance between her own narratorial voice and the accounts of others is nicely achieved to reflect the times and the commentary on the times. If there’s a downside to Gladstone’s historico-anthropological approach, it is that it is doomed to the marching on of time: even since the book’s publication in 2011, we have seen immense changes to journalism and reportage. While Gladstone references Stephen Colbert’s idea of “truthiness”, the book isn’t so current as to address “fake news” or living in a post-truth AI-content-generated world.

In a book like this (namely: a long-form essay turned into a graphic novel), it runs the risk of being bland, but Josh Neufeld’s illustrations add a liveliness and expressiveness to the work as a whole. The depictions of Gladstone herself are often amusingly cartoonish, transplanting her into different historical eras complete with period-appropriate garb. For a book that is intent on telling the “truth” (while “objectivity” is problematized), Neufeld does not shy away from some creative embellishment. The pages have a liveliness to them that captures the spirit of the time, if not the letter of the time (although there are specific speeches and letters that have been illustrated here).

Gladstone’s book gives us a lot of food for thought, especially as we progress into a world increasingly unchecked for factuality and manipulated into sensationalized stories. Granted, these tactics are nothing new—ever since the conception of news, there has been mis– and dis–information, but the book needs an update, a revised text that explores how the media industry is being influenced by big tech’s privatization of information and its subsequent manipulation over us. The debate of privately / publicly funded news is given an engaging voice with uncertain answers here—and it’s time to take action. Like the book itself, I’ll end this review with a reminder: we get the media we deserve. It’s time to claim it.

Seven Fallen Feathers: Racism, Death, and Hard Truths in a Northern City by Tanya Talaga

  I often think about the role of statistics in inciting people to feel sympathy and take action. The anonymity of numbers, unfortunately, disguises the profoundly horror of some aspects of human existence. It often feels like hundreds or thousands of people die and are absorbed into their status as a statistic. If we know someone, though, how can we quantify the loss of them? Such sorrow is impossible to fathom.

I also think about a line from the poem “Dreamwood” by Adrienne Rich that reads, in part, “she would recognize that poetry / isn’t revolution but a way of knowing / why it must come.” I wonder about that, too. Do words actually incite change? It feels increasingly unlikely as we see unquantifiable amounts of ink spilled to fight against politicians that daily make the world a worse place and seem undeterred by the looming ridicule on their epitaphs.

Tanya Talaga’s Seven Fallen Feathers is the same kind of knowing: a humanizing knowing. For years, this book was required reading for teenagers and teachers studying Indigenous issues—with good reason. It’s informative with respect to issues that came up in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, including the horrors of residential schools, the dismantling of families through biased adoption practices, the failures of law enforcement and legal proceedings, and so forth. The book is specifically focused, though, on telling the stories of real people. Talaga offers a thorough account of the tragic deaths of Indigenous students in Thunder Bay. The victims, though, are actually humanized in a way rare to nonfiction. Beyond just telling us their names, means of death, culprits responsible, and so forth, we get a sense of their interests, their friendships, their passions.

In turn, Seven Fallen Feathers is the kind of book that inspires us to see things differently, to see abstract issues as tangible. It’s the kind of book that inspires a revolution in thinking and proves instructive in empathy. There are moments of such profound devastation that the idea of blindly accepting injustices becomes beyond ludicrous. The deaths of the children feel personal, and Talaga’s account of the suicide attempts of an adult who cared for these students and lost everything else wring the heart at every level.

Talaga’s gifts as a writer carry the stories to a new level of resonance. She is journalistic in nature, but offers a narrative spin. Seven Fallen Feathers reads almost novelistically. The pacing of the events feels carefully crafted around story beats and the characterization of real people is wrought in fine detail. The language of the book is given such care and it reads beautifully. It has the engaging tone of a true crime podcast, but deals with systemic issues and maintains a deep focus on the people most deeply affected.

The book is compelling in every regard. It shows compassion for the community, offers a critical eye to systems that reinforce injustice, and provides the young people who lost their lives with the dignity and respect that they deserve. From a narrative standpoint, the book works. From a nonfiction informative standpoint, the book works. As a political act, the book works.

Now let’s do the work. Happy reading.

The Age of Surveillance Capitalism by Shoshana Zuboff

  The irony of posting this online and advertising it via Facebook is already a significant problem—and I’m concerned that I’m succumbing to the “inevitabilism” of simply accepting exploitation at the hands of corporations, recognizing that they’ll use my information as they see fit. In The Age of Surveillance Capitalism by Shoshana Zuboff, she explores how corporate interests have established a system to exploit us for information. There’s the phrase that “if you’re not paying for it, you’re the product,” but Zuboff suggests that surveillance capitalism goes even further: not only does it render us and our information products, but it uses our information to modify our behaviours and enact corporate interests on the world.

The three guiding questions of The Age of Surveillance Capitalism are: who knows? Who decides? Who decides who decides? Those three questions are a mantra that repeats throughout the book. In every situation, we need to think about what information is out there, who decides how that information is collected and distributed, and who decides who decides to entrust with our data. It’s surveillance, data-driven capitalism all the way to the top and Zuboff outlines the different layers of how we are consistently categorized.

In the book, there is a broad overview of data surveillance and, I’d say, it reads as a little repetitive. The big picture is not exactly revolutionary: we all know that we’re being spied on constantly. What I would like to hear more about is how to resist. What are the precedents we have to look to for how to prevent exploitation by corporations and resist their manipulation.

Where The Age of Surveillance Capitalism shines is in the examination of specific egregious actions by corporations. If you ever needed a reason to hate Google, one of the most resonant anecdotes from the book is about Google Earth. When Google Earth and Street View were taking off, there were a number of controversies, including them being blamed for aiding in a deadly terrorist attack in Mumbai. The Google representative “cleverly equated any resistance to Google’s incursions with the anti-freedom of expression interests of authoritarian governments and their closed information societies.” Resistance, though, persisted. The citizens of Broughton, a small village in England, blocked a street view car that tried to breach the village perimeter. It was an “unwelcome intrusion. Privacy International then submitted a complaint to the U.K. authority, “citing more than 200 reports from people who were identifiable on street view images and demanded that the service be suspended.” The Google rep defended the use of Google’s street view and said that their information was good for the economy and good for people as individuals. He voiced the classic defence that “it’s about giving people about powerful information so that they can make better choices.” 

Zuboff offers the counterpoint: “the firm wants to enable people to make better choices, but not if those choices impede Google’s own imperatives.” She continues, “Google’s ideal society is a population of distant users, not a citizenry. It idealizes people who are informed, but only in the ways that the corporation chooses. It means for us to be docile, harmonious, and, above all, grateful.” It’s a poignant phrase that returns to the questions: who knows? who decides? who decides who decides? Essentially, it’s all about what information corporations want us to have—and we see that all across politics. Which platforms offer which information? How do TikTok, Facebook, Twitter, and so on, decide what to show you? It’s the classic problem of the subaltern speaking: can we ever actually hear the voice of others? There always seems to be a barrier there.

Zuboff continues on to discuss the idea of Google’s street view as a camouflaged and covert datasweep. The street view cars were secretly collecting personal data from private WiFi networks. Despite Google denying the charges, “insisting that it was gathering only publicly broadcast WiFi network names and the identifying addresses of WiFi routers, not not personal information sent over the network.” However, an independent analysis by German security experts “proved decisively that streetview’s cars were extracting unencrypted personal information from homes” They intercepted and stored payload data: personal information, entire e-mails, URLs, passwords, names, telephone numbers, credit information, chat transcripts, records of online dating, pornography, browsing information, medical data, photos, videos, and audio files. The information could all be stitched together for “an identifiable profile of a person.”

We’ve all had the experience of having a personal conversation and then all of a sudden you start getting ads on your phone for the very thing you were talking about. It’s so difficult to parse how much of those ads are the result of companies spying on us vs. how much of what we talk about is already influenced by the profiles companies have on us. The cycle is such a challenge to unencrypt, as it were.

Overall, The Age of Surveillance Capitalism is a reasonably good overview of the problem of data collection on consumers. While it’s a bit too broad to feel impactful, the specific moments are worth examining. I’d like to learn more about how to resist, especially because surveillance capitalism is such a rapidly accelerating beast to contend with.

After opening this you’ll probably get all kinds of new ads about books to buy and whatever. You’re welcome.

Happy reading; unhappy Googling!

The Gaming Mind: A New Psychology of Videogames and the Power of Play by Alexander Kriss

  In 2023, I read Getting Gamers by Jamie Madigan, which uses psychological principles and experiments to explain why people who play video games play the way they do and how they engage with one another. I found it a really illuminating text and I’ve been looking for other texts that delve into analysis of video games, their impacts on player behaviour, and so on. To that end, I decided to read The Gaming Mind by Alexander Kriss. Kriss is a clinical psychology with an interest in video games, but his approach is largely the inverse of how Madigan approaches interpretations of gamer behaviour.

Rather than taking a look at how games influence our behaviour, Alexander Kriss holds up the mirror: how do our gaming behaviours reflect our other habits of mind? For instance, how does a woman’s obsession with Candy Crush speak to the lack of control she feels over her life? How does our relationship with violence impact how we engage with games?

The best part of the book—or at least the part I found most engaging—was the opening chapter: “Me, You, and Silent Hill 2.” The opening chapter establishes Kriss’ experience as a psychoanalyst and how he is made responsible for the “gamer kid” who needed help, and whose therapist-group-assigned moniker required deconstruction. Running parallel, Kriss establishes his own coming to terms with the “gamer” label for himself, beginning with his experience of playing Mist with his father, his coming into the Tomb Raider series and Ape Escape. While playing games, Kriss developed a friendship with another boy—one less interested in gaming—who later took his own life.

From there, the chapter discusses Silent Hill 2, which I already find deeply engrossing and rife with possibility for analysis. Kriss provides a beautiful account of the game’s haunting premise and analysis of the characters. What is really most compelling is Kriss’ discussion of the eight multiple endings of the game. To unlock different endings, there are different conditions, including inconsequential actions like how many times you inspect the photo of your deceased wife in your inventory. One of the endings is James, the main character, killing himself. To unlock that ending, you have to play the majority of the game at low health. Kriss explains how he could never play the game that way and never cope with the prospect of the central character killing himself at the end. It’s a stunning and sincere discussion of our relationship to depression and mental illness and the way our game behaviours can give a window into the player.

That first chapter wowed me. From there, the rest of the book was good but didn’t quite hit the same highs for me. Perhaps because the case studies are more focused on the patient rather than critique of games, or perhaps because the games referenced haven’t been part of my gaming repertoire. The chapters deal with violence, addiction, health, treatment of others in multiplayer games, and so on. There’s a lot to work with, but your enjoyment of the book will probably depend on what resonates with you at the personal level.

Either way: happy reading. Happy gaming!

All About Love by Kemmerick 'Bing Bong' Harrison

     

        Sometimes a book isn’t so much about the book as it is about the context of that book. All About Love is a book of poems by Kemmerick ‘Bing Bong’ Harrison, a Barbadian poet and joke writer. While on vacation, I met Harrison on the resort hawking his books. I passed him by one night and he caught me peeking at his books but we were running late for dinner, so I said I’d take a look later. The next afternoon, he was setting up his booth and he has quite the memory because he recognized me and beckoned me over.

Bing Bong told me to pick a number and then recited, from memory, the poem written on the page of the number I said. He has his books memorized and gave very dramatic readings of his poems and jokes. When I read his poems, I can hear his voice and remember his delivery. He’s a really charismatic guy, even though I don’t really share his humour.

I think the same is true for his poems. All About Love is a collection about love of different kinds: romantic, familial, religious, lustful, and so on. The collection is tonally disparate; there’s some comedically intended poems about unfaithful partners or gold-digging women presented alongside pleas for the government to against incest and for people to protect themselves from AIDS. There’s a sincerity to the collection that gives it a certain charm, but the poems have the sing-songy rhyme scheme of a budding high school poet. The rhyme scheme sometimes forces him into awkward line constructions. 

The target audience is almost definitely not me. The collection gives Chicken Soup for the Lover’s Soul vibes, but I have a soft spot for Harrison because he’s such a charming guy. 

There’s one thing that I think is really interesting about the collection and that I’ll ask Bing Bong about next time I see him is that there are two poems that reference wrong number phone calls that ended in long-term love. “Blind Date” establishes a dialogue between Frederick and not-Juliette. Frederick calls the wrong number and then really hits it off with the woman. The poem “Reflections” reprises the idea: someone meets someone new, get their number, calls, and then dialed the number wrong and the poem ends: “Now I’m old, beginning to gray / I often reflect upon that day / ‘Twas because of that phone call / I have you, my kids and all” (40). I really wonder if those poems are rooted in truth.

Well, Bing Bong, if I ever run into you again, I’ll ask. In the meantime, happy reading!

The Practice: Shipping Creative Work by Seth Godin

  I’m convinced that every person is creative and wants to do creative work. Unfortunately, that’s often harder said than done. Enter: books like The Practice by Seth Godin, which was recommended to me from an artist friend of mine and is comprised of a list of about two hundred pieces of advice on how to create and publish artwork.

Throughout the book, Godin challenges people to actually do the creative work they want to do and to toss excuses to the wind. He has a knack for identifying, with great precision, specific flaws in our logic that prevent us from moving forward in the work—and often I found myself “called out” in my fear of actually doing the creative things I want to do. One piece that stood out to me in particular is how we’re not really “doing the work” if we stay safe and fail to push ourselves, but we also stop doing the work if we feel like we don’t have the skills to actually achieve the vision. If we stay lazy, our work sucks. If we stop ourselves because we feel we’re incapable of living up to the idea of what we want, our work doesn’t happen at all.That has me written all over it.

One of the other parts I really like about The Practice is when Godin talks about decisions and outcomes—especially as it relates to the the idea of process versus product. Godin writes that “There is a huge gap between a good decision and a good outcome.” He continues that “a good decision is based on what we know of the options and the odds. A good outcome happens or doesn’t. It is a consequence of the odds, not the hidden answer.” I appreciate his commitment to actually doing something, even if it’s not perfect. In a pretty extreme example, Godin talks about how “a good process doesn’t guarantee the outcome you were hoping for, [and] a good outcome is separate for what happens next.” He continues with the idea of someone choosing whether to fly or drive. Flying is statistically safer. You might know someone who dies in a plane crash, but “they didn’t make a bad decision when they chose to fly. There was certainly a bad outcome, though.” We can make the right decision and it still might not pan out, or, in Godin’s words: “Decisions are good, even if outcomes aren’t.” He makes the explicit connection to valuing the process, “even if the particular work doesn’t resonate, even if the art doesn’t sell, even if you aren’t happy with the reaction from the critics.”

All of this also relates to the idea of getting reassurance from others. The process is itself the thing, the work is secondary. If you’re hoping for a particular result (i.e. in terms of response), “reassurance is futile and focusing on outcomes at the expense of process is a shortcut that will destroy your work.”

I also appreciate the way Godin characterizes art. It feels like so often there’s a clear difference between “art” and “content” akin to the difference between “music” and “muzak.” In part, art serves as a gift. It is an act of generosity, similar to how Anne Lamont characterizes writing as a gift in Bird by Bird. However, the gift is not a comfortable gift. When characterizing what artists do, Godin suggests that “artists actively work to create a sense of discomfort in their audience,” which certainly rings true for the artists that have spoken most to me. Godin continues, “Discomfort engages people, keeps them on their toes, makes them curious. Discomfort is the feeling we all get just before change happens.” When combining the idea of discomfort and generosity, Godin suggests that “this new form of hospitality, of helping people change by taking them somewhere new, can make us personally uncomfortable as well.” As an artist, Godin suggests in a really beautiful passage:

It might feel easier to simply ask people what they want and do that instead. Choosing to offer only comfort undermines the work of the artist and the leader. Ultimately, it creates less impact and less hospitality as well. Your discomfort is no excuse for being inhospitable. Our practice is to bring a practical empathy to the work, to realize that in our journey to create change, we’re also creating discomfort for our audience and for ourselves. And that’s okay.

This is one of those things where it is hard to address in yourself (err….myself). I have a particular “style” that has developed in my poetry, for example, that I adhere to. I’m nervous about branching out, but who am I challenging in doing the same thing over and over? The sense of risk needs to be there in order to make it exciting again.

Another excuse that Godin points out that resonates with me is the idea of building domain knowledge and getting credentials as a way of avoiding doing the work. Here I am reading nearly a book or two a week while I’m not writing even one or two pages of my own work. There’s this compulsion to know everything before starting anything. It’s an outgrowth of that need for approval of your product. Godin writes, “Desire for external approval undermines your desire to trust yourself; you hand it over to an institution instead. Institutions have no magical powers.” But, Godin continues, “You don’t need a permit to speak up, to solve an interesting problem; or to lead. [...] The system established credentials to maintain the consistency of our industrial output, but over time they’ve been expanded to create a roadblock, a way to slow down those who would seek to make change happen.” I appreciate the way that creative work is linked to the idea of capitalism and the systems that force us into productivity and consumption rather than exploration. The idea that we all need credentials is “a form of signalling, a stalling device, an also a way to keep diversity down.” He notes how “famous colleges need to enforce the regime of compliance and scarcity, so they seek our cooperation and belief to build their reputation. [...] That desire is about credentialing, the magic power a famous institution has to bless us with status and authority.” Systems are established to deselect, fail to mould, and refuse to amplify the people that want to make change happen, and I recognize in myself the desire to be credentialed despite its obvious shortcomings.

There’s a comfort in Godin’s work. Despite my need to feel mastery over the artistic process before beginning, I also resonate with Godin’s idea that “domain knowledge opened the door to understanding what might work.” When creating work, “the point is not to copy, but to avoid copying” and even “our best commercial work reminds people of what they’ve seen before.” Take that, Harold Bloom and your “anxiety of influence.” There’s a beautiful phrase that I think encapsulates so many things about the kind of art work we do: “Creativity doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes.”

So, it’s time to rhyme. It’s time to create. Happy reading!

Sympathy by Olivia Sudjic

         Editors often give writers the advice to “kill your darlings”, meaning that all excess, no matter how much you like it, should be cut from the final version of the book. Privately, I’ve also always thought of it as being unsparing in your treatment of characters. You might love your characters, so you don’t want them to experience pain, but for the sake of the story, your characters need to experience conflict and suffer. Sympathy by Olivia Sudjic has a lot of positives, but stops short of sticking the landing, taking an otherwise very good book and ending on a “mid” note.

The premise of Sympathy is actually really compelling. Alice, an adopted Black girl with an absentee adoptive father, gets obsessed with a woman via social media: Mizuko Himuro, a woman about ten years her senior who is a successful writer and instructor at Columbia University. It’s one of those books where the characters are all frustrating and unlikable, though compelling. Alice is largely irredeemable, but Mizuko is also flawed, thoughtless, and self-serving with a kink for other peoples’ tears.

To focus on Alice first, she is far more outwardly egregious in her behaviour. She has some wonderful moments, like when she recounts a tutor that she loved and how the tutor told her “to ‘go have fun, go wild,’ and [she’d] burst out crying” (37). At the same time, she moves into her grandmother’s house and is meant to take care of her but is essentially useless. Meanwhile, she infiltrates Mizuko’s life, engineering situations for them to meet and spend time together. One night, Alice spends the evening with Mizuko while Mizuko is in conflict with her boyfriend, Rupert. Alice, also in a relationship, manipulates the situation to put distance between Mizuko and Rupert to insert herself and make Mizuko reliant on her. As she latches on, she is able to share a charged kiss with Mizuko and then share her bed—a high that she continues to strive for afterward. Meanwhile, she snoops through Mizuko’s phone, finding nude photographs and videos of her and Rupert and other partners, to which she self-satisfies. She lies about her intentions and lies about her life to keep Mizuko around, perpetually omitting the fact that she has stalked Mizuko on social media for ages.

The obsessiveness of the book is pretty compelling and there are a ton of wonderful features in the text. There are lots of great parallels and patterns. The motif of opposite atoms and the Higgs Boson speaks to Alice’s obsession. The aftereffects of a Japanese tsunami feature prominently, especially the detritus that remains afterward. The themes are developed with a great deal of clarity. 

One of the other layers to the text is the disruption of time. It’s a little bit difficult to follow the timeline of events; there were times that I was unclear which happens first, who is dating who when, and so forth. Alice reflects on this disruption to time a few times throughout the text. Mizuko writes a story about visiting Japan with her grandmother after the flood, which she also video recorded in full: “Mizuko wonders if the GPS is still monitoring their progress. She has the distinct feeling of being watched by something in the darkness. This makes watching the footage and reading the story at the same time a strange experience, as if she can sense me, a menace from the future, following them along the dark road” (217). Alice is that dark force from the future rewriting Mizuko’s history, which also makes sense given what happens to Mizuko a little later on…

Towards the end of the book, Alice becomes increasingly disassociated from herself. She describes writing as follows: “Writing in short bursts usually made me feel ordered and together, as if I had just taken a shower. If I did it for too long, it started to feel like I was having a nightmare. I would start to feel like it wasn’t even me writing it, like watching someone access your desktop remotely, or the drawing of the hands that are drawing each other” (405). Sudjic uses tech-based similes to explore the idea of not feeling in control of your own reality, but Alice also reflects on the idea of how actual experience becomes derealized through technological intermediaries. The passage continues as follows:

My reflections amount to a love story that is mostly made up, from memories that are mostly false, between people who were mainly not there. The things for which she was not there have her in them now more deeply because of her absence, and her affect on my way of seeing them. Anytime I note her absence from a thing, she arrives at once, as if summoned, entrenching herself more deeply than she exists in my memories of times when she was there, so that time, the sequence of what really happened, seems to curve around her (405). 

The notion that time becomes totally derailed through her experience of this real-unreal person is a compelling way to reconceptualize the core of the story (and also justify why I found the timeline so confusing). While Alice is derealized and while Mizuko is derealized, Alice still seems to demonstrate some insight into her own ethical slippage: “I found it hard to write the bits where the things that were at first surprising or even shocking became normal incrementally until I couldn’t see that they were anything but normal, because everything else had shifted just one centimetre here and one centimetre there, moving at the speed fingernails grow, until finally everything just clicked into exactly the wrong place” (405). There’s a little echo of the earthquake and tsunami loom under the surface.

In the end, though, the book reads as a message to someone who might not even read it. The book opens with Alice “unfriending” Mizuko in a fraught moment of uncertainty and the ending of the book is somewhat about getting her back, or at least giving her back to herself: “The purpose is no longer just to possess Mizuko but to give back what I took from her. The law of opposites says don’t send a message to your intended recipient if you want her to read it. So I am making it public. This rule has also been at work on me while writing. At first I thought I was writing to her, for her, about her. It is still all those things on the surface, but now it is deeper, wider” (405). It’s an effective closing statement for the book. 

For me, the book grows reasonably organically and builds its tension only to get derailed three quarters of the way through. Alice, through a series of bizarre coincidences, ends up going to stay in the Hamptons with Robin and Ingrid and various other friends and family. Robin and Ingrid are an older couple (60 and 40?). After doing a DNA test, Alice learns that Robin is Mizuko’s biological father, who she has never known. But, because Alice is a weird creep, she keeps the knowledge to herself. Incidentally, one day she takes a nap by the pool and awakes to find Robin touching her between her legs and they never address that ever again. Meanwhile, Alice’s boyfriend Dwight is a tech developer and works on an app called TriMe, which is a Tinder-like app designed for people seeking threesomes. At one point, Alice brings Mizuko to a masquerade play with Robin and Ingrid. Following the play, they go to dinner. In the washroom, Mizuko shows Alice that she has just matched with Robin and Ingrid on the TriMe app. Remember: Robin is Mizuko’s father. From there, Mizuko and Alice get separated. Alice ends up on drugs at an orgy where she is aggressively raped while she’s insensible (and consequently loses a fetus she had intended to abort the following day). It’s a bit excessive there. You might be thinking: Jeff, you told us people should be harsher to their characters. Well, here’s what happens next.

Alice gets increasingly obsessed about Mizuko, trying to track her down. Fearing she’s been ghosted, Alice sends increasingly desperate texts: WHERE ARE YOU WHERE ARE YOU WHERE ARE YOU I NEED YOU and so on. Then, Alice goes on an ADHD med bender and gets hyper-focused, writing a lengthy confession letter to Mizuko. She explains all the ways she infiltrated Mizuko’s life, the betrayals she has hidden, and the secret she has kept about Mizuko’s parentage. The whole letter is a scorched earth letter and the tension is high for when Mizuko receives it. After not hearing from Mizuko for some time, it turns out that she had a brain parasite that made her have a public seizure and then she needed surgery. Alice arrives at Mizuko’s apartment and has found the letter has been opened (!) by Mizuko’s estranged mother, who has come to nurse her back to health.

At this point, I had two different endings in mind that I thought would be excellent extensions of the tension. In my first idea, Mizuko’s mother is primed to expose Alice. I could easily see it being a direct conflict or something more like blackmailing her out of Mizuko’s life. That doesn’t happen. Instead, Alice catches a break where, following her surgery, Mizuko is essentially “soft reset” and does not remember anything (time collapses inward again). Alice once again is able to nurse her back to health and keep her isolated from the world. She prevents her from contacting her ex, using her cell phone, or any other contact with the outside world. Alice encourages Mizuko to write a book in isolation. The second ending I had in mind is that, knowing that Mizuko is self-serving, it would have been excellent to see that Mizuko is the one that has actually engineered the situation to see how far Alice would go and to write a book about her. How desperate is this younger woman to care for her Misery-style? How pathetic is she? Instead of Alice being the one manipulating Mizuko, having a reversal at the end would have been a beautiful touch.

But none of that happens.

Instead, after thirty days in isolation, Mizuko’s ex shows up at the door. He bangs on the door and Mizuko wants to see him, but has to get ready first. Alice then sneaks out the window and runs away. She keeps pausing, hoping that Mizuko will follow her, but she never does. So instead Alice runs away, finds that her grandmother has died (she was supposed to take care of her), and then goes back to England and cries to her no-longer-estranged mother, starting a gardening business and then still creeping a now no-longer-available online Mizuko. It just felt that there were so many opportunities for the conflict to come to a boil but we missed every one.

We do get a revelation at the end that adds a dark twist to the book. As it turns out, Alice found out that Mizuko’s estranged mother had left a letter. Himuro reveals that she had never wanted Mizuko because she was a child produced by rape. Himuro gives the story of how Robin raped her in university, how she got pregnant, and never wanted to find him again because she was never believed and he claimed it was consentual. After writing the letter, Himuro walked into the river and drowned herself, leaving also Mizuko’s grandmother to care for herself (and die alone and unfound for some time back in Japan). It’s unclear whether Mizuko knows this information. So, there is another turn at the end but the central conflict is not the one that is most effectively developed.

One other thing that I liked about the book is the characterization of New York. Alice moves to New York from the UK to be with her grandmother and Sudjic gives a great description of walking in New York:

You don’t have to have any idea where you are going; you can advance without being aware of anything but the vague progress into time stretching out before you. In this way I discovered moments of light-headedness, which led to a feeling that my body was somehow becoming less and less material. The exact opposite of what had happened to me at home in England, when everything had become gloopy and masklike. I felt, after a time, like I could float upwards, into the air, as well as down. At its most intense, I felt like I was only a heartbeat inside my brain.
You can also cope better with strange things when you are slightly tripping out like this. It is certainly easier to fall in love with a stranger. You can answer the question “How you doing today, senorita?” in a way you never would in England, if you were asked, which you wouldn’t be. You can get talking to a woman who is wearing a smart grey suit but sitting on the sidewalk, begging. There will likely be a snappy dachshund parked beside her in a pram when you realise you have no coins in your purse, only dollar bills. This will not embarrass you; you’ll just give the bills.

You can wonder with detached amusement what a Philly cheese steak is and make your mistaken judgment based on the smell of spicy sausage in the air, which in fact comes from an adjacent cart you should have gone to instead. People will make comments about how slowly you count the change. Doesn’t matter. It’s novelty. It might as well be another language. You can pass a man holding something strange and highly personal in the street and look away because it feels like he is doing it on purpose to make people look. You can sit in a cafe downtown whilst a family holds in prayer and gives thanks because somebody graduated today, and you can watch them unselfconsciously because they are so deep into it. On the Lower East Side, you can count the ornamental cockatoos within dusty windows. In midtown you can buy something for allergy season when you see a warning about it outside a juice shop. You can do whatever you like—you can go completely mental—and no one gives a shit. (50-51)

I include that passage just as a taste of the flare in Sudjic’s novel. There are some details that really linger and standout, connected to a larger thematic framework. On the topic of New York, there’s a tense moment where Alice has to take her grandmother to the hospital but there’s confusion of where is where. In the cab, her grandmother gives the name of the hospital she is meant to go to, and Alice thought it was a different one. Her grandmother “sweating, eyes bulging” asks if that’s where she’s supposed to go. Alice narrates, “I thought Griffin wanted us to go to a different place—a hospital—but I didn’t know where it was, so I hoped I’d misremembered the address of the surgery the previous night and we were going to the hospital, because after a while the numbers and avenues all blurred into one. I hoped that Silvia was right, because otherwise it would be my fault that Silvia was right, because otherwise it would be my fault for not intervening. I hadn’t because I didn’t want to be wrong. If I was wrong, I didn’t want to be culpable for what might happen to her as a result of wasting time” (145). This ambiguity and tension and her resistance to taking definitive action reads as so relatable but also raises the stakes for the scene.

I also appreciate how Sympathy is deeply rooted in reality but at the same time exists in unreality. In one part, Alice discusses a plastic storage box that used to house memorabilia of her lost father, which she then fills with artefacts of her time with Mizuko. She describes it as a “mini-museum” and the heaviest thing in it is Mizuko’s copy of The Golden Bowl. Alice describes how Mizulo “often said that novels were dead because we have the Internet everywhere we go now and we can find out anything we want to know straightaway, which tends to kill a plot. That was why she wrote just about real life. It feels true in some ways. In other ways, I reassured her, stories must be more like chess, a game of perfect information in which all the moves that can be made are right there in front of you, but the problem is knowing what your opponent knows and what she plans to do” (79). In that way, I appreciate that Sudjic is trying to write a novel that incorporates technology as a device while also retaining the uncertainty and dramatic tension at the core of human existence, especially when it comes to love and obsession.

Overall, I would say that Sudjic has a good book here. There was a lot to like and the thematic and psychological exploration in the book is really worth the experience. It’s only slightly marred by the fact that the ending falls flat after such a build-up. If only the climax paid off more powerfully, I think the book would be one of the best I’d read this year—and yes, I leave the verb tense ambiguity in place intentionally.

Happy reading!