Fantastic Four 223 “That A Child May Live …” Writer: Doug Moench Pencils: Bill Sienkiewicz Inks: Joe Sinnott Letters: Jim Novak Colors: George Roussos Editor: Jim Salicrup Cover: Sienkiewicz and Sinnott
Synopsis
As the Fantastic Four — plus Agatha Harkness and Gabriel — race to New Salem to save Franklin from possession by Nicholas Scratch, Scratch works from the Dark Realm to free Salem’s Seven from captivity. When the FF arrive, they are defeated and captured by the Seven, and Scratch announces his intentions to use Franklin’s power to spread darkness over Earth. But Gabriel and Harkness harness the Fantastic Four’s love of Franklin into a psychic weapon that eventually drives out Scratch. The issue ends with Harkness rendering Scratch an ordinary human and pledging to remain in New Salem to keep an eye on him.
What’s going on here?
This is a pretty uninspiring issue. It resolves the immediate two-part Franklin / Scratch arc, and seems to finally end Scratch as an ongoing threat (he’ll make only a handful more appearances over the next 46 years). But as a story it’s pretty lackluster and a big chunk of the comic seems devoted to exposition. The fight with Salem’s Seven feels abbreviated and Gabriel, a potentially interesting wildcard, disappears for most of the comic. And the finale was just, well, lame. Even the art feels mailed-in, as if Joe Sinnott had to take over for a distracted Bill Sienkiewicz.
What I liked
There were a few nice moments of character development. This sequence between Sue and Johnny felt pretty authentic (and Johnny was totally right, Salem’s Seven again defeated the FF).
I also liked this interaction:
This wasn’t Sienkiewicz’s strongest effort, but a few panels stood out, like this action sequence of Brutacus:
And this one of Vertigo:
What I didn’t like
As mentioned, a lot of this comic felt overly didactic. Here’s an example of a lot of unnecessary explaining:
And this declaration of the power of love just felt cheesy, and a bit like Doug Moench discovering an easy way to wrap up his story:
Lastly, what kid talks like this?
Anything else?
Some notable ads in this issue. In honor of Norm MacDonald, I will never stop posting OJ ads when they appear. And the trademark house ad is weird: what counterfeit comics was Marvel worried about? Aside from DC, no one else was really publishing superhero comics by 1980, and the other publishers of horror, like Warren, and humor, like Harvey, were well established. Comics were just entering the direct-sales era, but was Marvel really worried about indy start-ups like Cerebus the Aardvark? Odd.
Note: If you are here solely for Fantastic Four content, you may want to skip this post. While this blog is almost all FF recaps these days, I occasionally still post things like this.
Last year was my sixth tracking the books I read. I again reached my goal of at least 24 (two a month) but the contours of my reading felt much different this year. I read more genre fiction, less non-fiction, and the total number of pages read declined to 7,908 from 8,986. There’s a few reasons for this. Probably the biggest is I had knee replacement surgery in March which meant I spent two months on serious painkillers which affected my concentration, leading me to read fewer weighty books. Also, for the first time in several years, I didn’t judge a business book contest, which meant I had less non-fiction. And I joined a fun science fiction and fantasy group on Facebook, which gave me a lot of ideas for new books and authors to read.
As is my practice, what follows are the books I read in the order I read them, with an image of the version I read (if I can find it). Apologies for any formatting wonkiness; WordPress is a frustrating platform in many ways.
1, The Tombs of Atuan, Ursula K. Le Guin (1971), 144 pages 2, The Farthest Shore, Ursula K. Le Guin (1972) 197 pages
I began the year completing The Wizard of Earthsea trilogy I began in 2024 (and hadn’t read since I was teenager). While these books are slim, they are not slight. Le Guin is wonderful writer, combining lyrical prose with measured, nuanced storytelling that belie these books’ young adult marketing. They concern the further adventures of Ged, who was introduced as an impulsive young wizard in the first book and in these volumes matures into someone both wiser and more relatably human. Unlike in the first book, in these he isn’t the sole protagonist, and in Atuan, the story really belongs to Tenar, a young woman trapped in a priesthood. I have since learned Le Guin wrote two more Earthsea books, and I look forward to eventually reading them as well.
3, The Harvest, Robert Charles Wilson (1992), 394 pages
I’ve liked most of what I’ve read by Wilson, an underrated science fiction author, but this one was a dud. Some of that is due to the plot, about most of humanity joining a unified world-mind that promises immortality while a few stragglers resist. The story felt familiar, and echoes Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End (and seems to anticipate TV’s Pluribus). But the bigger disappointment is the pacing, which drags, and Wilson’s attempts at profundity, which fall flat.
4, Nicked, M.T. Anderson (2024), 215 pages
This madcap, quasi-historical romp was a Christmas present, and a welcome one, because it’s unlikely I would have found this gem on my own. It concerns a medieval monk who gets roped into a scheme to steal the bones of St. Nicholas from Asia Minor and bring them to Bari, in present day Italy, where they will cure the plague (and bring power and prestige to the city). Along the way he encounters a dog-headed man, a gay romance and all sorts of hijinks. Anderson writes with brisk confidence and humor, making this book a short delight.
5, The Door into Summer, Robert Heinlein (1957), 291 pages
I loved Robert Heinlein’s juveniles as a kid, and his The Moon is a Harsh Mistress remains one of my favorite science fiction novels, so I’m always looking for a book of his that captures that spirit. Unfortunately, most of what I’ve read by him lately has been lacking and The Door Into Summer falls into that category. The premise is harmless — it’s basically a time-travel heist with some fun ideas. But the purported romance – between the protagonist and a woman he knew as a child and is now an adult — feels seriously inappropriate and and taints the whole book. I try not to judge books written decades ago by the standards of today but I don’t think grooming was OK in the 50s either.
6, Speaker for the Dead, Orson Scott Card (1986), 382 pages
The best science fiction book I read last year and one of the best books, period. A sequel of sorts to Ender’s Game, Card had the idea for Speaker first, then wrote Ender’s to set up the moral and philosophical questions that Speaker wrestles with. It’s an astonishingly ambitious book that takes on the nuances of Catholicism and Brazilian culture (in the form of an extra-terrestrial colony), the consequences of genocide, the ethics of cultural anthropology, and what it means to confront truly alien civilizations. There’s so much going on in this book, and it’s so elegantly written, I can’t recommend it highly enough. I know Card has written and said some deplorable things since it was published, but that doesn’t discount the power of this work.
7, Stories of Your Life and Others, Ted Chiang (2002), 304 pages
I tend not to read short story collections, but I was happy to make this exception. This is another terrific science fiction book, with stories that display Chiang’s incredible range and depth. In these stories, Chiang’s demonstrates his fluency in fields ranging from Mesopotamian engineering to Victorian alchemy to higher-order mathematics. The title story is the basis of the movie Arrival (the film is much altered, although still wonderful) but my favorite is perhaps an account of the building the Tower of Babel, from the perspective of a stone mason.
8, The Second Sleep, Robert Harris (2019), 297 pages
I started reading Robert Harris a few years ago and he’s quickly become one of my favorite genre authors. Most of his books are grounded in historical events, making this an outlier. It appears set in medieval England, but without giving too much away, the plot veers into the realm of speculative fiction and out of Harris’s typical territory. I’m not sure it’s among his best works but I admire him for trying to do something different and it certainly kept my attention.
9, Earthlight, Arthur C. Clarke (1955), 177 pages
Along with Heinlein and Isaac Asimov, Clare is regarded as one of the three grand masters of science fiction, and as with Heinlein, I feel I’m reading Clarke to chase the thrill I got after reading his books as a teenager. Unlike Heinlein, Clarke’s books tend to be more predictable in their quality, and Earthlight is a typically solid example of his early work. Basically a spy thriller set on the moon, the story is a bit of a slow boil before reaching an impressive and memorable climax. It suffers from a lot of the same dated qualities of most sci-fi from this era (everyone is white and male) but it’s not as egregious as many.
10, The Prize, Daniel Yergin (1992), 790 pages
One of two big non-fiction books I read last year, I picked it up years ago at my local library’s book sale but began it in January when I interviewed for an energy editor job (reader, I didn’t get it). It’s an exhaustive and fascinating history of the global oil industry, starting in Western Pennsylvania in the 1800s and traveling from Texas to Baku to Romania to Indonesia to Iran to Alaska. In many ways it’s a history of the 20th century (it ends with the Gulf War) and it’s startling to see the role oil played in so many major events, from Pearl Harbor to the Suez Crisis to every conflict in the Middle East. And of course, the U.S. recent adventures in Venezuela makes understanding the history of oil exploration and exploitation all the more urgent.
11, The Leopard, Tomasi di Lampedusa (1958), 230 pages
Arguably the best book I read last year, it’s another one that sat on my shelves for years before I finally picked it up. Set primarily in Sicily in the 1860s, against the backdrop of Garilabldi’s unification of Italy, it’s ostensibly the story of the Prince of Sicily (his family crest bears a Leopard) and his family. But it’s really a lyrical elegy for a vanishing way of life, as modernity creeps across Sicily and the aristocracy struggles to adapt. It’s beautifully written with a wry sympathy by an author who understand the inevitability of change but wants to take the time to remember the silly, elegant world that has vanished. The coda, set in the early 20th century, is heart breaking.
12, Bel Canto, Ann Patchett (2001), 318 pages
Another candidate for best book I read last year, and another book I picked up more-or-less at random at a library book sale. I’ve admired Ann Patchett’s writing since I encountered it in The New Yorker years ago, and this novel — probably her breakout book — is amazing. Telling the story of an American opera singer taken hostage in a South American country, it’s an ingenious exploration of the power of art and beauty within the framework of an engrossing narrative. By the end, we feel part of the community she has created.
13, The Songs of Distant Earth, Arthur C. Clarke (1986), 319 pages
My second Clarke book of the year, this was written 30 years later and while more ambitious, it was less satisfying. Set on a remote, oceanic colony of Earth, the story is set in motion when a spaceship carrying the last refugees from Earth arrive. There’s a lot going on and Clarke has interesting ideas but the characters never feel very compelling and ultimately it’s less than the sum of its parts.
14, Archangel, Robert Harris (1998), 421 pages
Another book by Robert harris, this one is more in line with the historic fiction I associate with him and represents Harris at the peak of his powers. A thriller set in Russia in the years following the collapse of the Soviet Union, it follows a dissolute English academic in Moscow who gets sucked into a revanchist plot by former Soviet officers. The book is at its best when ties the horrors of Stalinism to the evils of the present. The ending is a bit baroque but it’s a fun, engrossing read.
15, Pronto, Elmore Leonard (1993), 373 pages
I read a few Elmore Leonard crime thrillers as a teenager but didn’t really get the appeal. But a enthusiastic reappraisal of Leonard’s oeuvre by Anthony Lane in The New Yorker this summer piqued by interest and I read a few more I pulled from my father’s book shelf. In a word, they’re terrific. Leonard is a gifted stylist, writing with clipped economy while managing to convey both color and character. There’s a tone of bemusement under it all, even as he created page-turning tension. This book introduces Raylan Givens, a sneakily smart U.S. Marshall who pursues a fugitive to Italy. Givens becomes a recurring Leonard character and the basis of the TV show Justified. It’s a fun story with a satisfying payoff.
16, Unknown Man #89, Elmore Leonard (1977), 264 pages
More Leonard. This one, written a decade before Pronto, is grittier and set in in Leonard’s native Detroit. The protagonist is a street-wise process server who gets sucked into a morass of dead criminals, jovial murderers and tarnished dames. The noir oozes off the pages and stains your fingers. Anther fun read.
17, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain (1884), 325 pages
Yes, I had never read Huck Finn until this year and yes, this was a source of some embarrassment. But I decided to rectify this after reading the glowing review for James, the retelling of the book from the perspective of Jim by Percival Everett, and deciding I needed to read the source material first. Given how significant this book is in the American canon, I doubt I have much original to add, but it seems pretty clear Twain is trying to do two things at once. On the surface, the book is very much a story about a clever child on a big adventure. But beneath that surface, it’s a sly commentary on the social conventions of the American South and a stinging critique of slavery. The book is at its best when Jim takes the stage and we feel the weight of his bondage. Unfortunately, those scenes are too few, and the books is dominated by the shenanigans of Huck and the characters he encounters on the Mississippi. Those vignettes can be fun, but especially by the last few chapters — a long and painful sequence involving Tom Sawyer — they can feel very tedious.
18, Powers and Thrones, Dan Jones (2021), 639 pages
This is the big work on non-fiction I read last year. I have an amateur historian’s fascination of the early Middle Ages and this book grabbed my attention a few years ago at Dussman’s in Berlin (one of the world’s great book stores imho). Jones, the kind of English historian who hosts shows on the BBC, has written a number of popular histories and this is probably his most ambitious, spanning 1,000 years from the fall to Rome to the discovery of the New World. Jones breaks it up thematically, with each chapter focusing on a segment of medieval society, such as monks, merchants and Crusaders. Some of it felt familiar but a lot of it was new and Jones has a breezy style that make it all easily digestible. It’s so good I can forgive the nakedly transparent Games of Thrones marketing ploy
19, Shoot at The Moon, William Temple (1966), 238 pages
I took a flier on this book after seeing it at a bookstore. I never heard of the author but the British Library’s imprimatur suggested it was worth my time. Unfortunately, it fell short. While it contained some interesting ideas and a colorful scoundrel of a protagonist, it was too hard to set aside its very dated ideas about how space travel would be organized (in this book it’s something like a Victorian polar expedition) and the dynamics between men and women. I still think there are hidden gems in mid-century sci-fi but I concede they are getting harder to find.
20, City Primeval, Elmore Leonard (1980), 222 pages
My third and last Elmore Leonard book of the year. This is another fun one set in Detroit. The hero is a beleaguered cop who gets drawn into a twisty story involving corrupt judges and a violent gunman from Oklahoma. It feels like peak Leonard, and maybe for that reason serves as the basis of the TV show Justified: City Primeval, in which Raylan Givens is inserted into the plot but otherwise is pretty faithful to the book.
21, Coffin Moon, Keith Rosson (2025), 305 pages
Coffin Moon was a selection of my local book store’s book club, and a departure for me a in few ways. It’s a new release, which I almost never read, I bought it in hardback (ditto) and it’s a horror novel, a genre I generally skip past. All that said, it was a very fun book and I’m glad I took the plunge. Stephen King’s influence is clearly present, but that’s not a bad thing (if you’re going to steal, steal from the best) and Rosson injects it with his own flavor, particularly in the protagonist, a Vietnam vet suffering from PTSD who crosses paths with a nasty vampire.
22, The Nice House on the Lake, James Tynion and Alvaro Martinez Bueno (2021)
I debated whether to include this graphic novel on this list, in part because I read a digital version, but I’ve included a comic collection every year since I started this project, and of all the comics I read last year, this felt the most novelistic. Ironically, after declaring I don’t read much horror, this is also a horror story, although of a very different nature than Coffin Moon. Twelve young adults are invited to a weekend at a luxurious Wisconsin lake house by Walter, their common friend. His secret purpose was to shield them from the end of the world, and as they remain trapped at the house, it’s soon revealed he is not who they thought he was. Each of the 12 chapters (which were release as individual issues) focuses on one of the characters and their complicated relationships with Walter and each other. Much of it is told in flashback to their times in high school and college, and Tynion has a deft touch writing about young people navigating friendships, resentments and LGBTQ identities. A sequel, A Nice House by the Sea, about another 12 people in a similar circumstance, began in 2024 but to my knowledge hasn’t been completed.
23, Old Man’s War, John Scalzi (2005), 303 pages
I really wanted to like his book more than I did. Described as a modern science fiction classic in the Facebook group I joined, it felt like a deliberate homage to earlier space-military books I loved like Heinlein’s Starship Troopers or Joe Haldeman’s Forever War. The wrinkle in this book is that senior citizens are recruited to fight in space, where their consciousness is transferred into younger bodies. The premise was fun, but the characters were flat and lifeless and the big twist was telegraphed mile away. The is Scalzis first book and I may pick up something he wrote later to see if he improved with age.
24, The Namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri (2003), 291 pages
Another contender for best book I read last year. This was an achingly beautiful novel, written about an ordinary family living an ordinary live but whose stories become extraordinary in Lahiri’s telling. The focus is on Gogol, a young Indian-American named after the Russian author (hence the title), and his life as the son of immigrants who remain deeply tied to their home country. Lahiri writes with incredible empathy and you can’t help caring for all the characters, even those who are later revealed to be less than trustworthy.
25, Storm Front, Jim Butcher, (2001), 355 pages
Another Facebook group find. This is the first in a long and apparently beloved series about Harry Dresden, a wizard who works as a Chicago private investigator. Butcher is very clearly playing with the hard-boiled pulp style of Chandler, and it was fun reading this after all the Elmore Leonard. There’s nothing deep about this book, but it’s well-crafted genre fiction and a nice departure after the Lahiri.
26, The Word for World is Forest, Ursula K. Le Guin (1976) 113 pages
Technically a novella, I was able to sneak this one last book in in the last days of the year. I’m glad I did, as it’s a great story. Le Guin intended this a parable about Vietnam, set on a colony planet where blundering humans terrorize a population of natives who then rise up and fight back. But it’s much richer than just an allegory, and she infuses her imagined world and its inhabitants with vivid details that bring it all alive. It’s a masterclass in economy and simplicity of story telling, and much more memorable than many books far longer. Le Guin is rapidly becoming one of my favorite authors.
A final note: This year I tried, and failed, to readThe Vorhh by B. Catling. Hailed as a landmark book of modern fantasy, I found it impenetrable and gave up after 100 pages. Oh well.
Fantastic Four 123 “This World Enslaved!” Published March 1972 Story: Stan Lee Pencils: John Buscema Inks: Joe Sinnott Letters: Jon Costanza (credited as Jon Costa) Cover: Sal Buscema
Synopsis
After Galactus delivers his ultimatum—either the Silver Surfer becomes his herald again or he will destroy the Earth—Mr. Fantastic counters with a threat to destroy Galactus’s spaceship, stranding him on Earth. Galactus calls his bluff and Reed returns Galactus’s ship, but when the Surfer attempts to follow him into space, Reed stops him, leading the U.S. military to intervene and almost fatally wounding Reed. While the Thing and Torch battle the army, Reed, with the help of Agatha Harkness, broadcasts a message around the world that he has has tricked Galactus, rigging his spaceship to send him to the Negative Zone, where his deal with the Surfer doesn’t apply.
What’s going on here?
This issue wraps up the latest Galactus arc in a perhaps less-than-satisfying way (more on that later). As befitting a big, climactic issue, it includes a number of guest stars, like the Surfer and Agatha Harkness, and yet it feels, given all that’s at stake, that other heroes should appear. I’m not sure where the Avengers are at this point, but the potential end of the world seems like something that would interest them.
Perhaps the most intriguing guest appearance is that of Richard Nixon, who is unnamed but obviously himself, making references to John Mitchell, Henry Kissinger and his reelection.
There’s a long history of U.S. presidents appearing in comics, and I could devote an entire blog post to tracking them down. Sometimes they are generic old white men, and sometimes they seem to resemble whomever is president at the time. Few, however, are as specific as this representation of Nixon.
(One small detail of interest: in the second panel above, there’s a typo in the printed comic, and it reads “he on the open circuit” which is corrected in the digital comic, which I used here).
There are also some creators making their first contributions to the Fantastic Four. After a few years at DC, Jon Costanza joined Marvel in late 1971, and starting with this issue, becomes a semi-regular letterer of the FF. Probably more significantly, FF 123’s cover is drawn by Sal Buscema, Big John’s younger brother. Sal began working in comics in 1968, but this is first work on the Fantastic Four. He later does a few fill-in issues and will become the regular FF penciler for a brief stretch in 1986. While I’ve never loved Sal Buscema’s style, it’s hard not to admire his productivity and longevity. And I do like his extra-shiny version of the Surfer on what’s otherwise a very busy cover.
What I liked
This entire Air Walker / Galactus / Surfer arc has a fun, throw-back feel. An appearance of Galactus makes any comic feel important, and in this issue we get more insight into his psyche. He’s not just a villain intent on destruction, but a weary agent of the universe who can’t control his own destiny.
We’re also treated to some harrowing images of what Galactus’s consumption of Earth might look like.
What I didn’t like
Like a lot of Fantastic Four epics, the climax to this story feels rushed, and this one feels particularly half-baked. Reed appears to have saved the Earth with a bit of legal trickery, based on the Surfer’s pledge to follow Galactus “in this universe,” creating a loophole so Reed can send Galactus to the Negative Zone, where he’s not bound by the agreement. Left unclear, of course, is why Galactus would feel obliged to honor a deal whose spirit is so obviously violated by Reed. Did we miss the panel where contracts were signed and notarized? Will some court enforce it? I suppose Reed (and Stan) could argue that since Galactus violated his pledge to leave the Surfer alone, then he’s just getting what he deserves, but it feels weak.
And all this leaves aside the issue of how Reed altered Galactus’s ship to enter the Negative Zone, something we previously thought could only be achieved through a portal in the Baxter Building.
The comic also digresses into an off fight between the military and the Fantastic Four. It’s distracting and while it creates the opportunity for Reed to be shot by a panicky soldier, and then saved by the Surfer, none it feels very necessary or serves to advance the story.
Anything else?
I liked this house ad: More Marvel for your Bread!
(I’d never heard of Combat Kelly and his Dirty Dozen before. Apparently it was a reboot of a 1950s war comic but it only lasted nine issues in its second incarnation). Luke Cage had a bit more success.
(Note: If you frequent this blog just for Fantastic Four content, you may want to skip this post. While my personal blog has largely been devoted to my issue-by-issue recaps of the Fantastic Four, I still use it for occasional posts like this.)
As in years past, I set myself a goal of reading 24 books this year. And for the first time, I surpassed it, reading 28. There were a few reasons, but a big one is I consciously read a lot of short science fiction books between (and sometimes as I read) longer books as a change of pace. I was aided by a February trip to Powell’s in Portland (maybe the best book store in the country) where I scooped up a lot of used books. Also, like last year, I served as a judge for a business book contest, so I read a bunch of those, and like last year, I traveled overseas, which both gave me reason to read about my destination (Japan) and a lot of time on planes and trains to read.
What follows the books in the order I read them. I’ve done my best to include images of the edition of the book I actually read, but in some cases that’s not possible. On to the books:
1, 11/22/63, by Stephen King (2012), 849 pages
I’m a late convert to King, having abandoned my youthful snobbery, and what I’ve read, I’ve mostly enjoyed. He has certain identifiable tics—all his heroes seem to be under-estimated white guys in their mid-to-late 30s, for example, and the supernatural mechanisms driving the story are often irrelevant to the plot—but in this case that didn’t detract from what was a big, fun read. I’m not a big Kennedy-assassination guy, but King did an impressive amount of research into Lee Harvey Oswald and makes compelling the days, weeks and months in Dallas preceding Nov. 22. He fully immerses us in the America of the last 50s and early 60s and we feel genuine pangs of regret that we can’t stay there.
2, The Ghost, by Robert Harris (2008), 400 pages
This is the second Harris book I’ve read, after Fatherland last year, and by comparison it’s nowhere near as good. While I recall enjoying it, I have almost no recollection of the plot, unlike Fatherland, which is much more fresh in my mind despite my having read it six months earlier. This book concerns a ghost writer who gets pulled into a political conspiracy after agreeing to write the memoirs of a British prime minister. Fun but disposable.
3, The Women in the Dunes, by Kobo Abe (1956), 239 pages
This is the first of the books I read in preparation for our trip to Japan. Regarded as a classic of post-war Japanese literature, it’s a strange, highly stylized novel about a school teacher who falls into a pit on a remote beach and ends up trapped there with a woman who lives in a house surrounded by sand. It operates as an extended allegory and is compared to work by Kafka and Camus. I can’t say I loved it but it was definitely memorable and contains some provocative ideas.
4. The Puppet Masters, by Robert Heinlein (1951), 347 pages.
Heinlein is a giant of mid-century science fiction, and as a young teen I loved his “juveniles,” books written for younger readers. I’ve found his more adult-oriented books hit-or-miss—his reactionary politics and sexism can get tedious—but books like The Moon is a Harsh Mistress are amazing and I’m always tempted to find another great one. The Puppet Masters is sort of in-between, a plot with adult themes and concepts but written early enough not to be too laden with his ideological hangups.
The plot is reminiscent of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, though it was written six years earlier, and involves alien invaders who seek conquest through mind control, a very Cold War theme. It features a typically scrappy Heinlein hero and his beautiful-yet-docile female partner, who through wit and bravado save the day against all odds.
5, Tau Zero, by Poul Anderson, (1970), 208 pages
A thin book I picked up at Powell’s, Tau Zero is at its best an ambitious exploration of Einsteinian physics: What would happen to relative time if a manned space ship approached the speed of light? The story hinges on a spaceship of Earth’s best and brightest seeking to colonize a new planet before things go awry. The plot is at times breathtaking as Anderson explores huge concepts in engineering and cosmology. His grasp of writing and characterization, however, don’t match his science, and the crew of the ship often read like cardboard cut-outs of people. When I explained the book to my teenage son, he said “it sounds more like a thought experiment” and as usual he was right.
6, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Marukami (1994), 603 pages
A great deal has been written about The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, a sprawling and surreal novel set in 1990s Tokyo with significant flashbacks to wartime Manchuria, and this is hardly the format to fully explore its complexities. I found it fascinating and compelling, as well as frustrating and puzzling. I’m not sure how well it prepared me for a trip to Japan, but I’m glad I read it.
7, The Left Hand of Darkness, by Ursula K. LeGuin (1969), 330 pages
Another Powell’s pickup, this book has gotten a lot attention lately for its depiction of a gender-fluid offshoot of humanity. That’s just one of the many imaginative aspects of this book, however, which involves a human ambassador on a frozen planet involved in complicated diplomatic maneuvers. I don’t think I’ve read anything by LeGuin since the Earthsea books I read as a teen and I was very impressed. In some ways this book is the opposite of Poul Anderson’s: sophisticated writing and character building, with only a passing interest in the science.
8, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, by Herbert Bix (2000), 688 pages.
This comprehensive biography is all the more impressive considering how much material about Emperor Hirohito’s life and activities was off-limits to scholars when it was written. Despite that handicap, Bix paints a full picture of a man raised from boyhood to consider himself a god, and how the cult of the emperor led to Japan’s militaristic expansion and Pearl Harbor. Bix rejects the conventional narrative that Hirohito was a helpless bystander to his generals during World War II, and argues he had much more control over Japanese war-making than either Japanese or U.S. authorities were willing to admit.
9, Ringworld, by Larry Niven (1970), 288 pages.
Another science fiction classic, Ringworld combines extraordinary concepts with playful writing and imaginative world building. The plot deals with an expedition of humans and aliens to a solar system dominated by a vast ring that circles a sun. It’s unfortunately marred by the sexism that’s endemic of sci fi from this era, but on the whole it’s a fun adventure with some big ideas.
10, Last Year, by Robert Charles Wilson (2016), 351 pages
Robert Charles Wilson is a terrific science fiction author who doesn’t seem to get the attention he deserves. Last Year works from a fun premise about time-traveling tourists from roughly our present who visit the wild west of the 1870s, written from the perspective of a local hired to be a security guard. As in previous books of his I’ve read, Wilson pays a lot of attention to the people who populate Last Year and while the plot isn’t very memorable, his lead character very much is.
11, Path Lit By Lightning, by David Maranssis (2022), 574 pages
This biography of Jim Thorpe was a present from my wife and for that reason and others I wish I liked it more. For those unaware, Thorpe has a claim on being the greatest athlete ever—a college football legend, he won the decathlon and pentathlon at the 1912 Olympics, then played professional baseball for almost a decade—and his life story as an uprooted Native American ticks all the boxes for a compelling biography. Yet somehow this book was less than the sum of its parts.
One reason is that Thorpe wasn’t particularly introspective and left no interesting journal or letters, and Maraniss struggles to imbue him with much personality or agency. Another reason, one that may be specific to me and my interests, is that Maraniss gives very short shrift to Thorpe’s track and field exploits. While Thorpe’s football career gets chapters of attention, Maraniss breezes through Thorpe’s Olympic performance in a few pages and seems generally uninterested in the sport.
The book comes most alive when Maraniss documents the shabby treatment of Native Americans in that era, and the exploitative nature of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School where Thorpe spent most of his youth. It’s a largely forgotten and ugly chapter of US history and Maraniss deserves credit for examining it.
12, Murder Your Darlings, by Roy Peter Clark (2020), 315 pages
Roy Peter Clark is a much-respected instructor and coach of writing for journalists and I bought this copy from him at a conference for business journalists at the Poynter Institute in St. Petersburg, Florida, where he teaches. It’s full of useful advice and helpful ways to think about writing, but it probably works best as a something you dip into now and then when looking for inspiration, vs. a book you plow through start to finish, as I did. (The title refers to the need for writers to excise phrases they particularly love in the interest of improving their prose).
13, Artificial Condition, by Martha Wells (2018), 158 pages
This slim book is the second in Wells’ Murderbot series, about a sentient bodyguard robot who throws off its shackles and escapes servitude. I liked the first one better but this was still a fast and fun narrative-packed read.
14, From Doon With Death, by Ruth Rendell (1964), 181 pages
In the middle of a much longer book (see below) I was eager for something short and distracting, so I pulled this more or less at random from my parents’ bookshelf. I don’t read a lot of mysteries and this one, a police procedural set in the British countryside, wasn’t really the sort of thing I would gravitate to. Still, I was taken by Rendell’s writing, which is so spare and unadorned that it’s almost haiku-like.
15, Strange Adventures, by Tom King, Mitch Gerards and Evan Shaner (2020)
My general policy is not to include the many comics I read in this annual list, but I continue to make an exception for those written by Tom King, who masterfully reimagines established superheroes in new and often disturbing ways and whose books are novelistic in their scope and ambition. In this case, he takes Adam Strange, a pulpy DC character from the 1960s, and envelopes him in a complicated swirl of diplomacy, politics, family, war and deceit. The story, which collects 12 individual comics, doesn’t apologize for being a superhero story, yet feels alarmingly contemporary in its cynical view of the world. The amazing art by Gerards and Shaner, who alternate scenes based on where they sit in the story’s chronology, adds a dimension unique to comics. Some comic purists hate how King drags their childhood heroes into the adult world but I find it exhilarating.
16, Master of the Senate, by Robert Caro (2002), 1050 pages
I set a goal of reading one volume of Caro’s LBJ biography a year and three years in, I’m still on pace. It’s hard to say which of the three is the best—they are all extraordinary—but this book is the first to deal with Johnson as a national figure, chronicling his rapid rise from Senate freshman to majority leader and a pivotal player in first bottling up, then slowly passing, civil rights legislation. It’s also an in-depth exploration of how political power works in the Senate, and in the country more broadly, and includes rich portraits of men (and it’s mostly men) like Richard Russell and Hubert Humphrey whom Johnson climbs over on his ascent to the top. Its lessons are relevant today and it should be required reading for anyone interested in national politics.
17, Beyond the Trees, by Adam Shoalts (2019), 316 pages
I picked this up in a bookstore in Montreal and it’s the sort of book that typically appeals to me: a solo adventurer venturing across a remote landscape. Plus, I’ve actually spent time in the Canadian arctic. But it didn’t quite work for me. Shoalts, a graduate student and travel writer, attempts to hike and (mostly) paddle across Canada’s far north in the few months when the lakes and rivers are free of ice. Yet that narrow window means he has to travel almost continuously, and so there is very little time for exploration or adventure outside of his journey. Nothing much happens except his relentless paddling, and because he’s so well prepared and single minded, there’s little suspense or excitement. I hate to fault Shoalts for not being reckless or taking unnecessary chances, but it would have enlivened his book..
18, In Patagonia, by Bruce Chatwin (1977), 202 pages
By coincidence, another travel book. Decades ago, I read Chatwin’s Songlines, about his travels in the Australian outlook, and his accounts about how the aborigines thought about their world, and how utterly different it is from a Western concept, had a big impact on me. Chatwin’s trip to South America has a similar feel, as he examines the historical and natural peculiarities of this very remote place, yet it didn’t resonate in nearly the same way. In part, it’s because the Patagonians he encounters are still descendants of Europeans, and share a Western outlook. But it’s also because Chatwin’s basic schtick—a young, world-weary Englishman who coolly observes the locals before heading home—sits a lot differently now than it did when I read the Songlines in the early 1990s.
19, These are the Plunderers, by Gretchen Morgenson and Joshua Rosner (2023), 324 pages
This was the first of the four business books I read for a contest, and the worst. The subject—how private equity ruins almost everything it touches while enriching a few—is more than worthy of a book, but it deserves better than this attempt. The authors—who include former Times business columnist Gretchen Morgenson, who should know better—have assembled a grab bag of facts and anecdotes that are slapdash and unorganized. It lurches from a history of Leon Black and Apollo to separate accounts about Blackstone and KKR, full of invective about their predations but with little that feels like real insight. The while thing felt polemical and very familiar to anyone who has paid any attention to the last 30 years of the business world.
20, Mickey7, by Edward Ashton (2022), 311 pages
My son gave me this book for a birthday present and I read it while taking a break from a much more ponderous business book (see below). It was a fun, engrossing read, about a ne’er-do-well who signs up for hazardous work on a space mission with the understanding that he could be killed and restored to life as a clone (this happens seven times, hence the title). I suppose there are some big ideas here about the nature of consciousness and the self, but mostly it was a goofy lark. I recommend it.
21, Built From the Fire, by Victor Luckerson (2022), 492 pages
Nominally a business book, this is a richly reported history of Tulsa’s Greenwood District, sometimes called “Black Wall Street,” which was burned to the ground by white rioters in 1921 and slowly rebuilt. At the narrative and moral center of the story is the Goodwin family, which owned a newspaper and practiced law, and it’s as much their history as one of their neighborhood. The work that went into writing this book is impressive—there are more than 100 pages of end-notes—but the detail can feel overwhelming, particularly in the last section which is concerned with current events in Tulsa. The book probably could have ended in the 1970s, when Greenwood fell victim to misguided urban redevelopment efforts, and lost 150 pages but none of its power.
22, Unscripted, by James Stewart and Rachel Abrams (2023), 349 pages
This is classic, old-school business storytelling from Jim Stewart, whose class I took in J-School, and Rachel Abrams. Intricately reported and unsparing in its tawdry details, this book tells of the messy battle to succeed Sumner Redstone and his Viacom media empire. There is almost no one in this book who emerges looking good, and the bad behavior, particularly of Redstone’s two parasitic mistresses who turn him against his family, is vile. Unfortunately, the book never really rises above its material to make a more interesting point, and at the end it just feels voyeuristic and gossipy.
23, Yellen, by Jon Hilsenrath (2022), 324 pages
This was the fourth book I read for the contest and I thought the best (although Built from the Fire won). It’s not flashy, but a patient chronicle of the rise of Janet Yellen from nerdy Brooklyn school girl to one of the most important people on the planet. It’s also a carefully explained history of the last 50 years of macroeconomics, digestible enough for a beginner yet detailed enough to be interesting for more informed readers. Yellen and her husband, Nobel Prize-winning economist George Akerlof, had a front-row seat, and were participants, in most of the major discussions that have shaped modern economics. If you wanted to understand how the global economy got to be where it is in 2024, this book would be a good place to start.
24, Glory Road, by Robert Heinlein (1964), 277 pages
Another attempt to rediscover the Heinlein that I loved, this one was a disaster. All of Heinlein’s vices are on display in this book: the heavy-handed moralizing, the absurd sexism, the stereotypical hero. The plot concerns a former G.I. loafing around Europe who is pulled into an extra-dimensional fantasy adventure by a magical space princess with amazing breasts. Escapades ensue. I was very tempted to abandon it halfway through but pushed through out of sense of duty. One strange twist: deep into the book I encountered phrases and details that I dimly recall reading before, evidence this wasn’t the first time I read Glory Road. My subconsciousness must have suppressed the memory.
25, The Cold Millions, by Jess Walter (2021), 244 pages
Jess Walter is an old friend (we both worked for the same newspaper, though not at the same time) and I felt guilty for not reading his most recent novel until now. Luckily for me, the book is excellent which sparing me the discomfort of having to write something unkind. Set in-turn-of-the-century Spokane, when the city was awash in money from mining and timber, and in desperate men looking for work, it follows a young hobo caught in a swirl of union organizing, anarchism and plutocracy. It’s a gripping read, beautifully written and fully invested in the past it brings to vivid life.
26, The Blue World, by Jack Vance (1966), 180 pages
Another work of mid-century science fiction, this one is fortunately much better than the last. Both a fun adventure and sophisticated allegory, The Blue Planet takes place on a watery world, inhabited by descendants of a crashed space ship who have reverted to a pre-modern civilization. The hero takes issue with his society’s obeisance to a destructive sea monster, setting in motion a series of events with profound consequences. Vance is an under-recognized master and the Blue World is enlivened by his colorful style and anachronistic wordplay, as well his clever world building. I really enjoyed this book.
27, Golden Hill, by Francis Spufford (2016), 344 pages
Maybe the best book I read this year, Golden Hill was smart, funny, tragic and deeply moving. Set in 1749 New York, still English but not quite England, it follows a young man recently arrived with a mysterious past and more mysterious future. There’s adventure, suspense, romance, and lust, and it all moves along briskly. The book’s language and mores feel authentic to the age, but its themes are very modern, and it includes some genuine surprises. Highly recommended.
28, The Age of Grief, by Jane Smiley (1980), 180 pages
One of my reading goals every year is to tackle some of the books I’ve owned for years, sometimes decades. This book was, I believe, was the last one assigned in a college class on American literature (we read stuff like Theodore Dreiser and Frank Norris) and for whatever reason I never read it but have dutifully kept it with me for 30 years. I suspect one reason I avoided it is the title and cover image (they don’t exactly promise a fun read), as well as my aversion to short story collections. But it was short enough to fit into the last week of the year, and I was glad I finally took the plunge. The stories are sharply realized glimpses into modern life, populated by flawed but sympathetic middle-class Americans full of feelings but often unable to express them. The title novella, about married dentists, doesn’t have much actual grief, but lots of sadness, and the best story, about a rural Christmas with overbearing relatives, felt painfully true.
That’s it. That’s the list.
For completeness sake, I’ll note here I started two other books but didn’t finish them. One, Six Four, a Japanese detective novel by Hideo Yokahama, got lost between Tokyo and New York while I was halfway through it. The other, Too Like the Lightning, a newish science fiction novel by Ada Palmer, I found pretentious and dull, and gave up after about 100 pages
Uncanny X-Men 251 “Fever Dream” Publisher: Marvel Published: July 1989 Story: Chris Claremont Pencils: Marc Silvestri Inks: Dan Green Letters: Tom Orzechowski Colors: Glynis Oliver Cover: Silvestri and Green
Synopsis
Wolverine is captured by the cyborg Donald Pierce’s Reavers in the Australian Outback, and attached to a cross, hallucinates about his past and possible future.
What’s going on here?
This comic falls in the X-Men’s “Outback Era,” when, following the events of the Fall of the Mutants, they abandoned Xavier’s school in Westchester and went off the grid in Australia. It was an odd period, when Dazzler and Longshot were members, and they traveled via teleportation provided by Gateway, an aboriginal Australian.
This issue, which features an iconic cover by Marc Silvestri and Dan Green, open with Wolverine essentially crucified, and only through confusing flashbacks do we learn that he was captured by the Reavers. The group features the return of a number of Wolverine’s past enemies, including Lady Deathstrike and the Hellfire thugs he ripped apart way back in issue 133 and who have been reassembled into cyborgs. Most of the issue is a series of flashbacks and / or hallucinations as past friends and foes of Wolverine parade past to taunt or console him. The issue ends as he frees himself and joins forces with Jubilee, in one of her earliest appearances.
(Edited to add: Upon reading some other bloggers reviews of this issue, it seems that the appearances of the X-Men, who travel through the Siege Perilous, is not in fact a hallucination but actually happened. As I’ve said, this stuff is confusing as f@ck).
What I liked
This issue features both the best and worst of Chris Claremont’s X-Men writing. On the positive side, he creates a fantastically gripping scenario for his (and most of the readers’) favorite character, and he launches into the story right away. Putting Wolverine in impossible situations and having him (literally) claw his way out is a Claremont specialty and this is a prime example. Silvestri isn’t my favorite X-artist, but he does a great job here. Oliver’s colors are noticeably atmospheric and moody, too.
What I didn’t like
The flip side of Claremont deep immersion into his characters is his relentless plumbing of their psyches, and his unraveling of their reality through mental manipulation, sorcery or in this case, hallucinations. It’s almost always confusing, over-the-top and tedious. It’s such a part of his legendary, 15-year run that it’s hard to imagine his X-Men without all the psychodrama, and yet as a reader it felt like it was the price we had to endure to get to all the cool stuff.
Another Claremont tic that appears in abundance in UXM 251 is his weird dialogue, where characters seem to be acting in a play instead of , you know, talking to each other. Here’s a classic example of Claremont-ese (featuring a pre-Asian-ninja Psylocke, and Havok):
Overall
A good reminder of what I loved, and couldn’t stand, about the late ’80s X-Men.
(Note: If you frequent this blog for Fantastic Four content, feel free to skip this post. While my personal blog has largely been devoted to my issue-by-issue recaps of the Fantastic Four, I still use it for occasional posts like this.)
For the first time since I started setting annual reading goals, I reached my target of 24, or two a month. That was possible for a few reasons: A, My wife and I took a trip to Germany, which meant lots of time on airplanes, trains and in an Airbnb with no television. B, I was a judge in a business book contest, which meant I had to power through four books in five weeks and C, Somewhat sheepishly, I deliberately chose some short books to balance out some of the longer ones.
As always, the books I read this year were chosen for a variety of reasons. Some I read for work, some have been on my list for years, and some I picked up almost at random. As ever, I aimed for a mix of non-fiction, literary fiction and genre fiction, and I tried to improve the diversity of the authors I read. One regret is that I didn’t read what I would consider a classic. Next year!
Here, in order, are the books I read this year (for illustrations, I do my best to show the version I read, which isn’t always possible):
1,Hyperion, by Dan Simmons (1989)
Hyperion frequently shows up on lists of the greatest works of science fiction and accordingly it had been on my list for a while. It did not disappoint. Hugely ambitious, it borrows the structure of the Canterbury Tales to tell the story of interstellar pilgrims on the planet Hyperion, all with their own complicated stories, and it wrestles with themes of faith, fate, loyalty and duty. There are also many references to the poetry of Keats. The only frustration is that it ends with a cliff-hanger, basically demanding you read the sequel (see below).
2,How Rome Fell,by Adrian Goldworthy (2010)
I don’t recall exactly how I ended up with this book, but it’s possible I grabbed it from the stack of review copies they gave away at Bloomberg, which means I’ve had it for nearly a decade. This is a big, traditional history that marches readers through the second half of the Roman Empire, from about 200 AD to the fall of Rome. Goldsworthy goes emperor by emperor, and 12 months after reading it, they mostly are a blur. What remans is a sense of the precarious nature of power—some emperors lasted only a few years, or months—and the importance of institutions in establishing legitimacy. Rome didn’t fall because of invasion, but from internal decay.
3, Educated, by Tara Westover (2018)
I’d been interested in reading this since it came out, but I decided to wait until it was in paperback. Unfortunately, it was such a big bestseller that took a very long time, but I finally bought it in a LAX bookshop and read it in one sitting on a flight to Hawaii. It wasn’t quite what I expected—I took the title too literally and thought it would be about Westover’s actual education once she reached college after her horrible home schooling. There was some of that, but it’s mostly about her escape from her family’s possessive, abusive clutches. It’s an incredibly vivid portrait of rural poverty, dysfunction and the poison of religious orthodoxy.
4, The Fall of Hyperion, by Dan Simmons (1991)
Instead of neatly wrapping up the events of Hyperion, it’s sequel unravels things further, giving us more backstory about the pilgrims, more world-building that explains the events that led them there, more time travel, and (much) more Keats. The events do reach a conclusion, but Simmons has written several more books that continue the story that I doubt I will read. This was enough.
5, The Anomaly, by Hervé le Tellier (2020)
Another work of science fiction, but so different from Hyperion that it proves how silly these genre classifications can be. Told through seemingly unrelated vignettes, all about different passengers on a flight from Paris to New York, this French novel takes on some big questions about the nature of reality and the purpose of existence. This was a Christmas present from my mother, I think.
6, The Voltage Effect, by John List (2022)
I read this in preparation for an interview with its author, John List, a University of Chicago economist I have been writing about since around 2010. In this book, List attempts to use some basic economic principles to explain why some businesses succeed and scale (achieving the voltage of the title) and why other whither and die. List has worked with a who’s who of companies, from Uber to Walmart, and the book is enlivened by anecdotes from his consulting work.
7, The Years of Lyndon Johnson: The Means of Ascent, by Robert Caro (1990)
Last year I set the goal of reading one of Caro’s LBJ biographies a year until (hopefully) he finishes the fifth and final one. This is the second, and while it’s not as comprehensive as his first, it might be better. It deals with seven momentous years of Johnson’s life as a Congressman, including his (incredibly dodgy) wartime service and his (even dodgier) campaign and election to the Senate in 1948, which takes up most of the book. Caro clearly has a soft spot for Johnson’s opponent, former Texas Governor Coke Robertson, and goes into painstaking detail to show all the tricks, legal and otherwise, LBJ employed to beat him. I have referred to these books the Sistine Chapel of journalism, and I meant it.
8,The Night Ocean, by Paul LaFarge (2018)
I read a New York Times review of this book when it first came out and was intrigued because it concerns the life of controversial horror writer H.P. Lovecraft, whose work I am not quite a fan of but more vaguely fascinated with. When I saw The Night Ocean at our local library sale, I grabbed it. The novel isn’t really about Lovecraft but about story telling, and story tellers, reliable and otherwise. There are many overlapping narratives about various disciples and admirers of Lovecraft, and it all felt a bit more post-modern than I really wanted.
9,Fatherland, by Robert Harris (1992)
This is the first of a series of Berlin-related books I read during my trip their this summer, and it might be the best. Harris takes up a familiar question—what it Hitler had won?—and spins a very compelling police procedural about a reluctant Nazi detective who sets out to solve a murder and gets caught up in a plot with much bigger stakes. It’s not as ambitious as The Man in the High Castle, Phillip K. Dick’s classic of this genre, but it’s more fun to read.
10,The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, by John Le Carré (1963)
LeCarré seems like the quintessential Cold-War spy novelists and this book seemed like the quintessential Cold-War spy novel, so it made sense to read it in Berlin. It’s engrossing, bleak and incredibly intricate. There are plots within plots within plots, and every time you think you understand what’s going on, another layer is revealed. It’s not my favorite genre, but I can understand the appeal. I bought it at Dussmann’s, a great bookstore in downtown Berlin, whose English-language section is better than most U.S. bookstores.
11, The File, by Timothy Garton Ash (1997)
Another purchase from Dussmann’s. Ash, now a high-powered author and historian in the U.K., was a student in East Berlin in the late 1970s. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, he requested the file on him collected by the Stasi, the East German secret police, and he interviewed the various Germans who informed and spied on him. It’s a pretty fascinating book, made much more so because our visit to the Stasi Museum while in Berlin.
12, Between the Woods and the Water, by Patrick Leigh Fermor (1986)
This is the second of three books by Fermor describing the overland trip (mostly by foot) he took from Holland to Turkey as a teenager in 1933 and ’34, but written decades later with an adult’s wisdom and perspective. The first book, which I read maybe 10 years ago, was dazzling, described the first part of his voyage, through Germany and Austria and in retrospect, I probably should have re-read that one in conjunction with our trip, since it was more relevant to our travels.
This second volume, which I mostly read on the flight home, takes Fermor through Hungary and Romania, is equally dazzling. Unlike the first volume, which seems more attuned to the political moment, the second one feels more carefree, as Fermor falls into with successive isolated aristocratic families who are happy to entertain this exotic British schoolboy as he makes his way across Eastern Europe. It’s a poignant picture of a world lost to World War II and communism; in some cases literally, as he visits an island in the Danube which was later covered under 100 feet of water by a Romanian dam.
One side note: The version I took to Germany didn’t have a map, so I amused myself by trying to figure out his itinerary by using the digital Delta airlines map on the seat back in front of me (mostly unsuccessfully). When I got home, I realized that I had two versions the book (one must have been a gift), and the version I didn’t bring had excellent maps of his voyage. Oh well.
13, The Man in the Bunker, by Rory Clements (2022)
Another Dussmann’s purchase, the last of the Germany books I read this year, and maybe the least satisfying book overall. It’s another alternate history, and in retrospect, I think I was looking to capture something as fun as Fatherland. Instead it’s a pretty listless thriller about a British academic and Dutch soldier investigating whether Hitler was really killed in 1945.
14, A Visit From the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan (2011)
I picked this up after reading a review of Egan’s most recent book, The Candy House, which is a sort of sequel to Goon Squad. This is the type of book I don’t read much of— its concerns are relationships and individual development and maturity, and it’s set in the ordinary, quotidian world, more or less. Additionally, there’s no real narrative—it’s a set of interlocking vignettes in which the same characters appear over decades. But I really enjoyed it. Egan writes with verve, and the characters and scenes are richly realized.
15, Big Planet, by Jack Vance (1952
I first heard about Jack Vance in a New York Times Magazine article that argued he was an unrecognized giant of science fiction. I’ve read a handful of his books since then and I think it’s a pretty accurate description. This is a short adventure story, but written in Vance’s typically elegant, clever style. It’s not nearly ambitious as Hyperion, but it doesn’t need to be to succeed as a great book.
16, Flying Blind, by Peter Robison (2021)
This was the first of the business books I read as a contest judge and—spoiler alert—by far the best (it won our first prize). Robison, Bloomberg’s Boeing beat reporter, painstakingly explains the chain of failures that led to the Boeing 737 MAX disaster, and spends time with the victims and their families, putting a human face on the tragedy. But he goes much further, situating Boeing’s disregard of safety and its regulatory capture of the FAA, as part of a deeper rot in capitalism, whose origins can be traced to Jack Welch’s rapacious stint as CEO of General Electric. If you only ever read one business book, this is a pretty good one to read.
17, Trillion Dollar Triage, by Nick Timiraos (2021)
Another contest book, and maybe my least favorite of the four. It’s about the Federal Reserve’s response to the economy shutting down for Covid-19, and it’s really a love letter to Jerome Powell, the Fed chair. The book is really a series of committee meetings and the very limited action rarely takes place outside DC. It’s very well reported but felt rushed and after a while all its details become numbing. It’s really a book for hardcore Fed groupies.
18, The Founders, by Jimmy Soni (2021)
The third contest book. This is basically an oral history of the founding of PayPal, which is interesting in that the founders were, among others, Peter Thiel and Elon Musk (heard of him?). It’s well written and very thorough, but the author, Jimmy Soni, seems a little too star-struck and uncritical of what he’s describing. The biggest flaw is there is almost no followup about what all these various characters did after PayPal, and that, ultimately, is why anyone cares about this story.
19, A Shot to Save the World, by Gregory Zuckerman (2021)
The last of the contest books. Ostensibly about the race to develop a vaccine for Covid-19, it’s really a history of mRNA vaccines and the companies invested in them. As a result, it starts decades before anyone has heard of Covid, and walks through the science in great, and often confusing, detail. To his credit, Zuckerman, a Wall Street Journal reporter, does a good job involving us in the many characters he introduces, but the book often felt like a slog.
20, All Systems Red, by Martha Wells (2017)
After grinding through those business books I wanted something short and breezy, and this was perfect. This very slim book is the first installment in the “Murderbot Diaries” a science fiction series that tells the first-person adventures of an android built to be a security system and who develops freewill. It was fast and fun, and I look forward to reading the rest of the series.
21, The Omega Men: The End is Here, by Tom King and Barnaby Bagenda (2016)
I read a lot of comic books, but I’m too much of a snob to consider most of them literature. This Omega Men series, which I read for the second time this year, is different. The 12-issue series collected here tells the story of the rebellious Omega Men and their fight to free their star system from the oppressive Citadel. But unlike other similar stories, the Omega Men aren’t all virtuous, and their methods aren’t all heroic. The series asks hard questions about ends justifying means, the cost of freedom, and the value of fanaticism. Prior knowledge of these DC comic characters isn’t strictly necessary but author Tom King, who wrote the amazing Mr. Miracle, does enjoy playing with that universe’s second-tier heroes and pulls in a Green Lantern to act as our witness to the horror that unfold.
22, The Invention of Nature,by Andrea Wulf (2015)
This was recommended to me by my father, because like its subject, Alexander Von Humboldt, I, too, attempted to climb Chimborazo, the highest mountain in Ecuador (But unlike Humboldt, I made it to the top. Ha!).
Wulf’s book is a long argument for the importance of Humboldt in the history of science and the study of the environment, and she makes a persuasive case. Humboldt (1769-1859) was a dashing, charismatic figure who was friends with everyone from Goethe to Bolivar, and whose travels to South America and subsequent writings more or less invented the concept of ecology, the idea that natural systems are tied together. Wulf shows how he was centuries ahead of his time in seeing the costs of deforestation, and she devotes chapters to his huge influence on figures including Darwin, Thoreau and Muir. While she’s honest about his flaws—he was a boor who loved the sound if his own voice—she’s clearly enamored with her subject and wants him restored to his proper place in the pantheon of greats.
23, The River, by Peter Heller (2019)
A few people recommended The River to me, and once I realized it was written by the same author as The Dog Stars, which I read last year, I thought I would give it a shot. A brisk, page-turning thriller suffused with vivid descriptions of the natural world, it’s the story of two college kids on a (very) ill-fated canoe trip in the Canadian wilderness. I enjoyed it, but it felt like neither fish nor fowl: The story and its impossibly competent, heroic protagonists was too improbable to take seriously as a novel, but it was too introspective and meditative to read like the sort of Louis L’Amour-western adventure the author clearly admires. Ultimately, I was left with the same dissatisfaction I felt after reading The Dog Stars, which is that the Heller wants to be a respected nature writer, but writes books he hopes will be made into a movies.
24,The King in Yellow, by Robert Chambers (1895)
This was a gift from my teenage son, who knows of my interest in Lovecraft. Lovecraft read this collection of short stories, published in 1895, and seems to have taken some inspiration from some of them. The first four stories all reference “The King in Yellow,” a book-within-a-book that contains horrible secrets that drive men mad (a very Lovecraftian idea), and a few of the stories are genuinely creepy and unsettling. The other stories in the collection vary enormously in style and quality, and the last four or so involve the lives of Bohemian American artists in Paris, which seem autobiographical and are unfortunately pretty dull.
Welcome to a very belated round up of the 15 books I read in 2021 (honestly, I meant to do this in January). I fell way short of my goal of reading 24 books, or two a month, but as will be clear, I read some monstrously long books that put 24 out of reach. As I do every year, I try to mix up my reading, between fiction and non-fiction, sci-fi and literary fiction, classics and lesser known stuff. And as in years past, my reading was divided between books I have had on my list for years and books I chanced upon, many at our local library’s book sale. Over the last few years I have tried to be more deliberate about the diversity of the authors I read, with mixed success.
1, Money: The True Story of a Made Up Thing, by Jason Goldstein (2020)
This is a fun and fast tour through the history of money and finance by a guy I’ve know for years. Jake finds a lot of quirky details and anecdotes to enliven the subject, and goes deep into some corners of the financial world —the invention of money market funds, for example—that are often overlooked in discussions about the history of capitalism. Given the rise of crytocurrencies, Jake’s essential question—why do we believe in money?—seems extremely relevant
2, The Moth and the Mountain, by Ed Caesar (2020)
This was a Christmas present, and would appear to be just the sort of book I would go for, combining history, mountaineering and adventure. But the story, about Maurice Wilson, a World War I veteran fixated on flying to Nepal and climbing Everest, never is more than the sum of the parts. In part, it’s because Caesar struggles to pin down Wilson, an apparent flimflam man whose motivations always seem murky. And in part, because the most dramatic aspect of the story, the actual attempt to climb Everest, is basically undocumented, and so feels like a footnote to his story.
3, The Powerful and the Damned, by Lionel Barber (2020)
I realize now this is the third recent nonfiction release I read in a row, which is highly unusual for me. Usually there’s more variety in my choices, but I read this one for work, in preparation for an interview with Barber, which I wrote about for Quartz. It’s an engaging book, written by a professional name dropper who met and interviewed everyone from Donald Trump to Vladimir Putin and is happy to share his personal and sometimes snarky views about them all. Barber ran the Financial Times during the financial crisis and Brexit, but for media insiders, his accounts of the newspaper’s sale to Japan’s Nikkei might be of the most interest.
4, The Stand, by Stephen King (1978)
Reason one I didn’t reach 24 books last year was this 1,300 page monster. I am a late convert to King, and since I am more of a sci-fi guy then a horror fan, this was always high on my list to read. It didn’t disappoint, although it did ramble at times, and the King heroic archetype—the underestimated working-class white guy—feels a bit cliched at this point. Still, the rich character development, and the ambition and size of it all, made it an engrossing read.
5, Marvel Comics: The Untold Story, by Sean Howe (2013)
As a lifelong comic book collector, it was a only a matter of time before I read this. There weren’t a lot of surprises in it for me, but it did fill in a lot of gaps in my understanding. Interestingly, this book is a business history more than a cultural history, and the big takeaway is the consistent shortsightedness of Marvel’s management. Whatever were triumphs of its artists and writers, they were despite, not because, of their bosses.
6, Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishigiro (2006)
After the previous year’s disappointment reading Ishigiro’s The Buried Giant, I wasn’t quite ready to write him off. It was a good call, because this is a powerful, heartbreaking story. A slow burn, it begins as a deep dive into the lives of children at an English boarding school before revealing itself as a dystopian parable. It’s sad, thought-provoking and one of the best books I read last year.
7, Beyond the 100th Meridian, by Wallace Stegner (1953)
I bought this in Flagstaff on a family vacation to the Grand Canyon, in part because it’s about the Colorado river and the western landscape, and because I’ve never read anything about Stegner and always wanted to. It’s a biography of 19th century explore and scientist John Wesley Powell, and it’s really two books on one. The first half is about Powell’s expedition to float the length of the Colorado, which no one had done previously. The second is about his later career as a a government official with the US Geologic Survey, and the politics and policies that shaped the settling of the American west. The first part of the book was thrilling, the second was a bit wonky but deeply interesting as it explains a lot about why the US west looks the way it does today.
8, The Fifth Season, by N.K. Jeminson (2015)
“World building” is a bit of a science fiction cliché but there sure is a lot of it in this book. Jemison’s trilogy got a lot of attention, and most of it is deserved, as she describes a world where geologic events play a central role, and the mutants that can shape them are shunned and feared. There are some obvious metaphors about race, and a plot twist that wasn’t that hard to see coming, but in all a pretty satisfying read. I didn’t, however, feel compelled to read the rest of the trilogy. Maybe some day.
9, Project Hail Mary, by Andy Weir (2021)
My teenage son and I listened to this as a book on tape (yes, I am counting audio books) during a long road trip across the midwest and it felt like a great choice. Like in Weir’s The Martian, there’s a lot of hard science, but it’s offered in such a palatable way that it’s never a struggle and instead makes the outlandish plot almost convincing. The story, about a scientist battling an alien menace, is told as a series of digressions, which seemed like an unnecessarily complicated structure but on the whole the book is fast-paced fun and by the time we reach the end, surprisingly moving.
10, Crazy Horse, by Larry McMurtry (1999)
I picked this up at Mt. Rushmore, near the Crazy Horse monument. Not a lot is known about Crazy Horse, the Sioux warrior and mystic, and McMurtry, author of massive books like Lonesome Dove, wisely doesn’t try to pad out the story. Instead, we have a slim, spare, well-told account of Crazy Horse’s life at the end of a Native culture and the beginning of a genocide.
11, The Path to Power, by Robert Caro (1982)
The other monster I read in 2021, and probably by proudest reading accomplishment of the year, was the first volume in Caro’s biography of Lyndon Johnson. At some point, maybe after reading excerpts of Caro’s most recent book in the New Yorker, I vowed to read his LBJ series, one a year, until I was done (I’m currently reading the second). This first volume, which takes us up to LBJ’s first senate campaign in 1941, when he was about 30, is an amazing achievement of reporting and writing. Caro not only carefully unfolds every detail of LBJ’s early years, but spends whole chapters explaining the geology, economy and history of the Texas Hill Country from whence he came. Calling it the Sistine Chapel of journalism doesn’t seem like an exaggeration. It can be hard to read at times, not out of any fault of Caro’s, but because LBJ is so vile, amoral and unlikeable.
12, The Magician’s Assistant, by Ann Patchett (1997)
Ann Patchett wrote an amazing essay in the New Yorker about her three fathers (two are step-fathers) and after that I thought I would try her fiction. This books is unlike most books I read—it’s a quiet, contemporary story about a woman processing grief, in which most of the main characters are female—but I thoroughly enjoyed it. It took a little while to build up speed but the second half flies by.
13, A Memory Called Empire, by Arkady Martine (2019)
More science fiction. If I recall, I picked this up as a free review copy that made its way to Quartz. It’s structured like an old-fashioned space opera with an intriguing premise, about a civilization that takes on the memories of their predecessors, and where verse and poetry have enormous cultural capital. Unfortunately, Martine (a nom de plume for Anna Linden Weller, a US historian) never really achieves escape velocity, and the plot, about an out-of-her-depth provincial ambassador in the empire’s capital solving a murder, seems to be mostly series of meetings and conferences before an obligatory action sequence ending.
14, The Good Earth, by Pearl Buck (1931)
I picked this up at our local library’s book sale, mostly out of curiosity. It’s a book I knew mostly by reputation, but had never encountered it or had to read it in school (apparently that’s where many people encounter it). I thought it was fascinating. Written by the daughter of missionaries who grew up in rural China, it’s the story of a peasant who endures hardships and famine as he builds wealth and raises a family in an almost medieval society. Buck is sympathetic to Wang Lung but doesn’t romanticize him or his callous treatment of his wife and children. While dated in parts, the book still feels like a valuable window on an element of Chinese history and culture that seems relevant today.
15, The Dog Stars, by Peter Heller (2012)
Another library-sale pick up. I would categorize this book as literary post-apocalyptic fiction, and include Station Eleven in the same category. This isn’t as good as Station Eleven, but it’s still pretty good, blending action and adventure with some beautiful nature writing and philosophizing about what it means to be alive. The plot concerns an amateur pilot who lost his wife and most everything else to a superflu, and now lives in a Colorado airport with his dog and a slightly terrifying survivalist. The story veers into cliches at times, and some plot developments are just too convenient, and at times the book made me wonder if I wasn’t really reading the treatment for a movie.
Fantastic Four 25 “The Hulk vs. The Thing” Published: January 1964 Story: Stan Lee and Jack Kirby Pencils: Kirby Script: Lee Inks: George Roussos Letters: Sam Rosen Cover: Kirby & Roussos
Synopsis
In a lab in the Baxter Building, Mr. Fantastic tries to persuade a reluctant Thing to try a formula that will revert Ben back to his human form. Just then, Alicia Masters walks in with news that the Hulk has left the Avengers and been replaced by Captain America.
Meanwhile, in New Mexico, the Hulk returns to the lab of Bruce Banner (called Bob Banner here) and, discovering a newspaper article about Captain America replacing him, vows to destroy the Avengers. Leaping across the US, he arrives in New York as Reed falls ill from the experimental microbes he used to make the formula for the Thing.
As the Hulk rampages through the city, first the Human Torch, then the Thing try to subdue him while Sue tends to the ailing Reed. After a lengthy battle, the Hulk escapes Ben, who vows to stop him or die trying.
What’s going on here?
Fantastic Four 25 is probably most notable for the scale of the fight between Ben and the Hulk. At about 12 pages, it takes up nearly half the comic, and is significantly more dramatic than their first fight, in FF 12. Here, we have a sense there are real stakes involved: With Reed out of commission, only Ben can stop the Hulk from destroying Manhattan as he pursues the Avengers. It’s another example of Ben rising above his wise-cracking, goof-ball persona and showing the heart of a true warrior.
FF 25 is also the first real cliffhanger in the comic’s short history. While a few stories have carried over from one issue to the next, in all previous cases the main story was resolved. But after more than two years of publishing the FF, Stan and Jack must have had enough confidence in their readers to trust them to come back for the second half of a story. In other words, they knew their readers were no longer causal buyers but fans invested in the FF for the long haul.
In another first, FF 25 marks the Avengers’ debut in the Fantastic Four, although it’s only for a brief few panel and they don’t interact with the FF (I assume we’ll see more of then in FF 26). As with the previous guest appearances of the Hulk, Ant-Man, and Nick Fury, the Avengers appear here shortly after the launch of their own comic (Avengers 3 was published the same month as FF 25), and it seems clear Stan was hoping the leverage the FF’s popularity to juice sales of a new comic.
Lastly, FF 25 introduces the gag credits that became a signature Marvel feature. We’re not yet at the nickname state, but those are coming.
Ben and Alicia
Ben makes it pretty explicit here that he doesn’t want to revert back to his human form because he fears Alicia is only attracted to him as the Thing
That makes the big reveal in FF 245—in which John Byrne discloses why Ben can’t return to human form (as discussed here) — a bit less surprising. It is, however, further evidence of how deeply Byrne mined these early FFs for plot points.
FF 245, art by Byrne
Who’s Bob?
Throughout FF 25, the Hulk’s alter ego is referred to as “Bob Banner,” years after he was introduced as Bruce Banner. As Brian Cronin helpfully explains, Stan simply forgot his name and retroactively changed his name to “Robert Bruce Banner” to cover his goof.
A new ‘do
Sue Storm reveals yet a new hairstyle in FF 25, in what appears to be a bee-hive or bouffant.
Sue’s hair in the first few years of the FF is like a catalog of women’s hair styles from the 1960s. Here are some other looks:
FF 2, a “flick up”
FF 18, “the artichoke”
FF 21, a “bouffant”
FF 24, a “bouffant flip”
FF Annual 1 “bouffant
Dig that Kirby Krackle
We get lots of examples of Jack’s Hulk in FF 25. Maybe because we’re used to a different, more stylized Hulk as drawn by artists like Herb Trimpe and Sal Buscema, but there’s something particularly monstrous about this more human-like Hulk of Kirby.
We also get a lot of cool action sequences as Ben and the Hulk tussle.
For sale
FF 25 in mint (9.8) condition will cost you about $66,000, a lot more than FF 24 but not unexpected given Hulk-Thing battles are always popular.
Fantastic Four 5 “Prisoners of Doctor Doom” Published: April 1962 Plot: Stan Lee and Jack Kirby Pencils: Kirby Script: Lee Inks: Joe Sinnott (uncredited) Cover: Kirby and Sinnott
Synopsis
The Baxter Building is enveloped by a net that resists the Fantastic Four’s powers. Mr. Fantastic recognizes the voice of the villain responsible as that of Victor Von Doom, a college classmate who dabbled in sorcery and was expelled for reckless experiments. Doom demands Sue Storm as a hostage, then transports the team to his castle, where he sends the three male members of the FF back in time to recover the treasure chest of Blackbeard the Pirate. The team successfully disguises themselves, and joins a pirate crew to steal the treasure. The team return, but presents Doom with just the chest, without its treasure. A battle commences, Doom traps the three, and Sue rescues them before Doom escapes.
What’s going on here
This issue introduced Dr. Doom, not just the Fantastic Four’s nemesis, but arguably the greatest villain in comics (I would put him in a small group with Magneto, Lex Luthor, Darkseid, and the Joker). Doom’s significance in the Marvel universe is hard to overstate. He was the primary antagonist in Marvel’s first big crossover event, Secret Wars in 1984, and was again when Marvel revisited the concept in 2015. He is one of the few villains to headline his own comic, and has played the bad guy to heroes from Iron Man to Luke Cage to the X-Men.
Doctor Doom 4, 2019
It’s in the Fantastic Four, of course, where he is most prominent, so much so that he’s been called the fifth member of the team. As we’ll see, it’s rare for him not to appear at least annually, and in some issues he, not the FF, is the star. In recent years his depictions have become more nuanced since he is the unofficial uncle to Valeria Richards, the daughter of Reed and Sue he mid-wifed (it’s complicated), and he spent a time trying to be a hero (it didn’t stick).
Of course, none of that could have been predicted in 1962, where Doom is the engineer of a silly time-travel plot in Fantastic Four 5, but Stan and Jack clearly intended Doom to have some staying power. In the comic, Reed quickly lays out Doom’s origin, and while many details have changed over the years, the salient points are there: Doom and Reed knew each other in college, Doom has scarred in an explosion, and Doom has fused science and sorcery.
Tying his origin to Reed—that early connection between the two becomes more explicit in future issues—helped ensure he’s not a one-note villain. In later tellings, Doom blames Reed for the explosion, and it’s reminiscent of Luthor’s origin story (at least the first version), where Superboy, trying to extinguish a lab accident with his super breath, costs Luthor his hair.
Doom’s first appearance also introduces a number of elements that become familiar aspects of his character, including his robot doubles:
His castle (although this would appear to be is castle in the Adirondack mountains of New York State, give that it is minutes away, and not his kingdom of Latveria, which has yet to be introduced):
And his time machine:
About that time machine
While used in the service of a particularly goofy plot in this issue, Doom’s time machine becomes a durable part of the Marvel universe, and when characters need to travel through time, it’s often their go-to device. It’s unclear if Doom leases it out, or if it’s more of a franchise business model.
I couldn’t possibly track down every instance where it was used but here’s a few memorable ones.
In the West Coast Avengers, a villain uses it to send the team back in time:
WCA 17 (1985), Story by Steve Englehart, art by Al Milgrom and Joe Sinnott
John Byrne used Doom’s time machine during his run, and I always thought this sequence was a particularly cool way to illustrate it:
FF 272 (1984)
Decades later, it served an important role in the Age of Ultron crossover event:
Age of Ultron 5 (2013)
Who’s the new guy?
This is the first Fantastic Four issue inked by Joe Sinnott, who had a nearly 60-year career in comics, and has more FF credits than any single creator. He didn’t return to the FF until issue 44, but then inked almost every issue from there through issue 231, a 15 year run, and his inks created a consistency to the FF’s look that extended well beyond Kirby’s tenure. One could argue he overpowered the pencils of artists like Byrne and George Perez early in their careers, but there’s no denying his impact on the title. He died last year at age 93. Here’s a nice obituary from The Comics Journal.
They’re fighting again
Of course they are
The torment of the Thing
Ben gets carried away with his new identity as Blackbeard, and in a very uncharacteristic development, turns against his teammates:
He later is ashamed of his betrayal:
The paradox of time travel
Time travel is a perennial trope of science fiction, and in comics, the Fantastic Four are involved in as many time travel stories as any characters. The plots becomes more intricate over the years, but the revelation that Ben is the actual historic Blackbeard is a fun touch and an early indication of the story-telling possibilities.
This weird footnote is revisited a few times, including on the cover of 2018’s Exiles (I have no idea what this comic is about):
The sexist sixties
Doom demands a hostage, and of course it’s the team’s female member. Why he didn’t think the hero who’s power is to turn invisible might be useful in his treasure heist is not explained.
Stan and Jack later redeem themselves a bit by having Sue rescue the rest of the team:
Dig that Kirby Krackle
Love this sequence of Ben waking up from too much grog
For sale:
A mint (9.8) copy of FF 5 will cost you around $300,000 (and probably a lot more after Doom appears in the Marvel Cinematic Universe)
Let’s talk about us
Johnny is seen reading an issue of the Incredible Hulk
Percival Henry: The Fantastic Four and more 