None's Updates en-US Fri, 04 Jul 2025 06:07:50 -0700 60 None's Updates 144 41 /images/layout/goodreads_logo_144.jpg Rating874061431 Fri, 04 Jul 2025 06:07:50 -0700 <![CDATA[None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked a review]]> /
None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked Yun's review of Atmosphere:
Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid
"Well, fuck me. This was about the most lackluster astronaut book I've ever read.

You have to understand, I'm a huge space nerd. I've read countless books on NASA, space exploration, astronauts, the shuttle program; you name it, I've read it. In fact, if we were to stack rank random topics, all my top spots would be taken up by everything space. So when I heard one of my favorite authors was writing a book about one of my favorite topics, I about fainted.

But right off the bat, I could tell something was off. We open with the most climatic, pivotal scene of the story. It should've grabbed me with the force of a thousand suns, but it didn't. It somehow was both too detailed and also not enough, throwing what seemed like twenty new characters at me in the span of two pages while lacking the technical details that would've convinced me we really were in the midst of a space mission. It left me feeling more confused than anything else.

Since this is a dual timeline, we then proceed to alternate between this climatic scene and the seven years leading up to it as Joan becomes a full-fledged astronaut. And while I did enjoy Joan's journey of finding herself and growing through her relationships, I can't help but feel that something was lacking here too. There was so little time spent on her actual astronaut training and so much time spent on her personal life, that it felt like I was reading generic women's lit instead of the singular, exciting story I was promised.

I zoned out constantly. There were so many characters (all introduced around the same time and none of whom stood out) that I had trouble keeping everyone straight in my head. And what should've been the exciting, technical, space portions of the book were replaced by seemingly endless discussions about constellations (my love for space does not extend to star configurations, it would seem) and pseudo-philosophical chitchats about the meaning of life. I was worn down.

But even the lack of an astronaut story aside, this still had the feeling of being aggressively bland while also being overly emotional. Every scene in this book—from the contents of the pivotal scene, to the intercutting of it throughout the book, to Joan's relationships with Vanessa and Frances, to all the meaning of life chats—felt like it was set up for maximum emotional hit, almost superficially so. And while I'm not opposed to being emotionally manipulated, this book did it so openly and so obviously that I can't help but cry foul.

Looking back, I should've known my expectations were too high and I was bound for disappointment. It says right there on the cover that this is "a love story" after all. But the heart wants what it wants, and mine wanted an astronaut story, damn it.

In my defense though, what was I supposed to think? Andy Weir blurbed for this book, for crying out loud! And after Carrie Soto, in which TJR managed to take the complex, technical game of tennis and make it absolutely mesmerizing to us plebs who know nothing about the game, I thought she could write anything. After all, Carrie Soto was amazing because TJR didn't shy away from including all of its technical intricacies, not in spite of it.

So of course I thought lightning would strike twice, and TJR would do so again here. I thought I would get the perfect symbiosis of astronaut and woman, technical and emotional, science and love. But instead, the astronaut part of the story was so watered down that it felt almost like an afterthought and we'd have pretty much the same story if Joan had chosen some other career.

Clearly, I wasn't the right audience for this book. My thoughts are decidedly in the minority, and I'm pretty sure my issues here are exactly why so many other readers loved it. So don't let me dissuade you. But do set your expectations correctly before going in—this is a love story, not an astronaut story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
See also, my thoughts on:
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo
Carrie Soto Is Back
Daisy Jones & The Six
Malibu Rising
After I Do
~~~~~~~~~~~~

✧ Connect with me ✧ ✧
"
]]> Rating873999094 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 23:53:57 -0700 <![CDATA[None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked a review]]> /
None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked Helga's review of The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems:
The Great Enigma by Tomas Tranströmer
"and I wake to that unshakable PERHAPS that carries me through the wavering world.
And each abstract picture of the world is as impossible as the blueprint of a storm.

Dreamlike and tender, this collection of poems revolves around the themes of nature, solitude and memories.

No one decides where I go, least of all myself, though each step is where it must be.

The poems, sometimes short and often long, read as fragments of one’s life written in a diary; moments remembered, dreams one wishes were real.

An angel with no face embraced me and whispered through my whole body: “Don’t be ashamed of being human, be proud! Inside you vault opens behind vault endlessly. You will never be complete, that’s how it’s meant to be.”

"
]]> Rating873977357 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 21:40:02 -0700 <![CDATA[None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked a review]]> /
None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked Hungry Rye's review of I Who Have Never Known Men:
I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman
"Do you ever read a book and realize it’s going to be so difficult to rate because it’s going to force you to reevaluate how you rate other books? That’s what this was for me. I’m about to go on a deep dive of theory and analysis of this book and probably become incredibly annoying. This felt very similar to the way that Kafka, Zweig, and Le Guin write but also so uniquely its own style. God why can’t all books be like this. "
]]> Review7689272811 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 16:02:23 -0700 <![CDATA[None added 'The Tenant']]> /review/show/7689272811 The Tenant by Freida McFadden None gave 4 stars to The Tenant (Paperback) by Freida McFadden
Krista and Blake share a brownstone, a pet fish, and the illusion of domestic solvency. He’s newly jobless. She’s freshly anxious. Their brownstone is expensive and funds are low. Their solution arrives with a wide smile, no furniture, and suspiciously few questions: Whitney Cross, who fills the spare room and gradually begins to rearrange the rest of the house, too.

She’s courteous. She compliments the dishwasher. She loves Frosted Flakes. But then there’s the psychic who flees the apartment interview in tears, the bags that smell of rot in closets nobody uses, the scalding guilt Blake carries in his gym bag, and the small fact that someone, somewhere, might be watching everything through the vents.

“When I want something,” Whitney says, “I never let anything get in my way.” Whether she means breakfast cereal or something rather less edible becomes a central concern.

The story moves like a cracked metronome: steady at first, then too fast, then eerily still. McFadden draws her drama from slow erosion of boundaries, trust, and that quiet agreement we make with strangers who share our walls. The kitchen becomes a theater of silent duels. The bathroom mirror never reflects quite what’s expected. Past mistakes press fingerprints onto present doorknobs.

In place of expository flashbacks, we get glimpses: a clipped conversation with an old high school classmate; a therapist who may or may not have disappeared; a goldfish bowl that becomes a petri dish of moral decay.

Throughout, the text insists that being polite is often more dangerous than being cruel. “You’re a good guy,” Whitney says. But she’s a waitress. She’s practiced at lying nicely.

McFadden, trained in medicine and misdirection, never shouts, never explains when she can let the reader slip quietly into the wrong assumption. Her sentences are tidy, even cheerful, which makes the dread grow like mold behind a wallpapered wall.

The emotional residue is unease, laced with sour amusement. Every choice in the book feels like a dare: trust the wrong person, laugh at the wrong line, assume the knife stays in the kitchen drawer.

The Tenant teaches that nothing is simple. It reminds us that security deposits never cover what matters, and that the worst kind of damage comes from those who move in slowly, unpack neatly, and smile like they’ve always lived there.

I came in expecting airport fare with a side of social media hysteria, but what I found was a tight, slyly structured psychological drama that earns every beat of its tension.

The hype undersells it, if anything. It’s sharper, funnier, and far more unnerving than the glossy blurbs suggest. McFadden plots like someone who assumes you're paying attention and writes like someone who knows you’ll regret it if you aren’t. I opened it with one eyebrow raised and finished it wishing I had read it with the lights on. ]]> ReadStatus9623200281 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 16:02:19 -0700 <![CDATA[None is currently reading 'Women Talking']]> /review/show/7707517084 Women Talking by Miriam Toews None is currently reading Women Talking by Miriam Toews
]]> Review7689272811 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 16:01:12 -0700 <![CDATA[None added 'The Tenant']]> /review/show/7689272811 The Tenant by Freida McFadden None gave 4 stars to The Tenant (Paperback) by Freida McFadden
Krista and Blake share a brownstone, a pet fish, and the illusion of domestic solvency. He’s newly jobless. She’s freshly anxious. Their brownstone is expensive and funds are low. Their solution arrives with a wide smile, no furniture, and suspiciously few questions: Whitney Cross, who fills the spare room and gradually begins to rearrange the rest of the house, too.

She’s courteous. She compliments the dishwasher. She loves Frosted Flakes. But then there’s the psychic who flees the apartment interview in tears, the bags that smell of rot in closets nobody uses, the scalding guilt Blake carries in his gym bag, and the small fact that someone, somewhere, might be watching everything through the vents.

“When I want something,” Whitney says, “I never let anything get in my way.” Whether she means breakfast cereal or something rather less edible becomes a central concern.

The story moves like a cracked metronome: steady at first, then too fast, then eerily still. McFadden draws her drama from slow erosion of boundaries, trust, and that quiet agreement we make with strangers who share our walls. The kitchen becomes a theater of silent duels. The bathroom mirror never reflects quite what’s expected. Past mistakes press fingerprints onto present doorknobs.

In place of expository flashbacks, we get glimpses: a clipped conversation with an old high school classmate; a therapist who may or may not have disappeared; a goldfish bowl that becomes a petri dish of moral decay.

Throughout, the text insists that being polite is often more dangerous than being cruel. “You’re a good guy,” Whitney says. But she’s a waitress. She’s practiced at lying nicely.

McFadden, trained in medicine and misdirection, never shouts, never explains when she can let the reader slip quietly into the wrong assumption. Her sentences are tidy, even cheerful, which makes the dread grow like mold behind a wallpapered wall.

The emotional residue is unease, laced with sour amusement. Every choice in the book feels like a dare: trust the wrong person, laugh at the wrong line, assume the knife stays in the kitchen drawer.

The Tenant teaches that nothing is simple. It reminds us that security deposits never cover what matters, and that the worst kind of damage comes from those who move in slowly, unpack neatly, and smile like they’ve always lived there.

I came in expecting airport fare with a side of social media hysteria, but what I found was a tight, slyly structured psychological drama that earns every beat of its tension.

The hype undersells it, if anything. It’s sharper, funnier, and far more unnerving than the glossy blurbs suggest. McFadden plots like someone who assumes you're paying attention and writes like someone who knows you’ll regret it if you aren’t. I opened it with one eyebrow raised and finished it wishing I had read it with the lights on. ]]> Rating873904693 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 15:44:52 -0700 <![CDATA[None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked a review]]> /
None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel liked Jack's review of Notes from Underground:
Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky
"I am lying because I know myself that it is not underground that is better, but something different, quite different, for which I am thirsting, but I cannot find. Damn underground!

Does this book read well? No.
Does this book make you want to continue? No.
Will I ever read this book again? No.
Will I recommend this book to others living underground? Yes.

The inner turmoil that steers us through life. We never truly understand what drives us to make our choices. Does free will exist?

I was, of course, myself the chief sufferer, because I was fully conscious of the disgusting meanness of my spiteful stupidity, and yet at the same time I could not restrain myself."
]]> Review7370006031 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 14:46:10 -0700 <![CDATA[None added 'One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This']]> /review/show/7370006031 One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Omar El Akkad None gave 1 star to One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This (Hardcover) by Omar El Akkad
Omar El Akkad’s latest is a tour de force of grievance tourism, a literary Rorschach test where every Israeli action is a genocide, every Palestinian civilian a saint, and every Western journalist a weeping martyr to the 'cause'.

With prose so melodramatic it makes Les Misérables read like a Twitter thread, El Akkad spins a narrative so one-dimensional it could double as a propaganda pamphlet for Hamas recruitment drives.

A tiresome, ideologically rigid screed masquerading as a legitimate exploration of conflict. The whole thing hinges on the book-cover-artwork depicting an intersection of a “palestinian” "journalist" and an Israeli drone, a contrivance so strained it borders on parody.

El Akkad, an Egyptian-Canadian author whose earlier work American War showed glimmers of promise, here delivers a text so burdened by its own moralizing that it collapses under the weight of its pretensions. The journalist’s reflection, “We are all complicit in the silence that screams louder than bombs,” is emblematic of the book’s hollow grandstanding—a line that sounds profound but is utterly devoid of substance, much like the rest of the book. If anything, the silence is for the lack of condemnation of the heinous act of barbarity that started the misery which was wholly orchestrated, celebrated and perpetrated by Gazans.

The book’s historical inaccuracies are not merely errors; they are deliberate distortions designed to manipulate the reader. El Akkad falsely asserts that Israeli settlements in Gaza persisted, even though they were totally dismantled – synagogues, cemeteries, and all – two decades before the Hamas pogrom, a claim so blatantly false it undermines any pretense of credibility.

The depiction of Gaza as a prelapsarian paradise before Israeli intervention is not just ahistorical; it is a grotesque oversimplification that ignores the region’s complex socio-political realities.

One particularly egregious scene fabricates an Israeli airstrike on a Gaza hospital in 2010, an event that never occurred but is rendered with such graphic detail that it feels less like proper reporting and more like vapid propaganda.

The book’s antisemitic slant is impossible to overlook, with Israeli characters uniformly painted as malevolent oppressors while “palestinian” figures are sanctified to the point of absurdity. This one-sidedness is not just intellectually dishonest; it is a betrayal of the very principles of storytelling.

As a reader, I found the book’s audacity not bold but grating. El Akkad’s ambition is undercut by his inability to craft characters with any depth or nuance, reducing them to mere mouthpieces for his ideological agenda. The "down with the West" chants are predictable, relying on tired tropes of victimhood and villainy that offer no insight, only cliché.

The book’s “plot” is less a story than a feverish collage of cherry-picked tragedies—amputated legs, screaming children, severed heads—dripping with the emotional depth of a TikTok sob story. El Akkad’s genius lies in his ability to ignore context entirely, as if Israel’s existential battles with Hamas (a terrorist organization that deliberately uses civilians as human shields) are just “another round of shelling” in a cosmic game of “who’s more oppressed.” The Palestinians, of course, are perpetual victims, while Israelis are uniformly depicted as bloodthirsty maniacs who “blockade aid” because… "because they’re evil", apparently.

El Akkad’s writing is full of self-indulgence gems. Sentences like “the ground beneath me coming apart” and “the only thing that seems paramount is to spoil my kids” drip with the profundity of a barstool philosopher. His “analysis” of media bias? A predictable litany of “The Guardian called it ‘food aid–related deaths’” — as if any mention of Hamas’s role in provoking conflict is too much to ask.

Thankfully, El Akkad’s anti-Semitic rage against “Western complicity” in Israel’s “genocide” is so unhinged it inadvertently highlights the absurdity of blaming democracies for defending themselves against Hamas’s rockets. Who could forget his “brilliant” comparison of Israel’s security measures to South African apartheid? A stroke of genius, really, since Israel’s flawed but functioning democracy is nothing like the racist regime that imprisoned Nelson Mandela.

El Akkad’s wet dream moment comes when he gushes over the International Court of Justice’s politicized ruling against Israel. Never mind that the ICJ’s “evidence” includes Netanyahu quoting the Bible — a move so desperate it makes Hamas’s fake hospital complexes look legitimate. The book’s climax? A toddler’s finger painting titled “Palestinian statehood,” which El Akkad calls “a brief respite from duplicity.” Because nothing says “justice” like a toddler’s finger painting.

This book is a triumph of style over substance, a $25 cry for attention that mistakes outrage for analysis. El Akkad’s real talent? Writing himself into the role of a woke prophet, scolding the West for not caring enough about Palestinian suffering while ignoring Hamas’s role in perpetuating it. If you’re looking for an honest read, skip this and pick up a history textbook. Or better yet, a dictionary — El Akkad’s grasp of nuance is vocabulary-challenged.

A self-indulgent, one-sided tantrum that mistakes Hamas’s terrorism for “resistance” and Israel’s self-defense for “genocide.”

The book’s audience appears to be those already entrenched in its ideological camp, as it provides no challenge or complexity to provoke genuine thought.This is not just a bad book; it is a dangerous one, a cautionary tale of how literature can be weaponized to distort history and perpetuate division. One day everyone will see the genocidal antisemitic and colonial lies of HamAss. ]]> UserFollowing329691686 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 06:28:00 -0700 <![CDATA[None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel is now following Gabrielle (Reading Rampage)]]> /user/show/6753400-gabrielle-reading-rampage None Ofyourbusiness Loves Israel is now following Gabrielle (Reading Rampage) ]]> Review7370006031 Thu, 03 Jul 2025 04:01:03 -0700 <![CDATA[None added 'One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This']]> /review/show/7370006031 One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Omar El Akkad None gave 1 star to One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This (Hardcover) by Omar El Akkad
Omar El Akkad’s latest is a tour de force of grievance tourism, a literary Rorschach test where every Israeli action is a genocide, every Palestinian civilian a saint, and every Western journalist a weeping martyr to the 'cause'.

With prose so melodramatic it makes Les Misérables read like a Twitter thread, El Akkad spins a narrative so one-dimensional it could double as a propaganda pamphlet for Hamas recruitment drives.

A tiresome, ideologically rigid screed masquerading as a legitimate exploration of conflict. The whole thing hinges on the book-cover-artwork depicting an intersection of a “palestinian” "journalist" and an Israeli drone, a contrivance so strained it borders on parody.

El Akkad, an Egyptian-Canadian author whose earlier work American War showed glimmers of promise, here delivers a text so burdened by its own moralizing that it collapses under the weight of its pretensions. The journalist’s reflection, “We are all complicit in the silence that screams louder than bombs,” is emblematic of the book’s hollow grandstanding—a line that sounds profound but is utterly devoid of substance, much like the rest of the book. If anything, the silence is for the lack of condemnation of the heinous act of barbarity that started the misery which was wholly orchestrated, celebrated and perpetrated by Gazans.

The book’s historical inaccuracies are not merely errors; they are deliberate distortions designed to manipulate the reader. El Akkad falsely asserts that Israeli settlements in Gaza persisted, even though they were totally dismantled – synagogues, cemeteries, and all – two decades before the Hamas pogrom, a claim so blatantly false it undermines any pretense of credibility.

The depiction of Gaza as a prelapsarian paradise before Israeli intervention is not just ahistorical; it is a grotesque oversimplification that ignores the region’s complex socio-political realities.

One particularly egregious scene fabricates an Israeli airstrike on a Gaza hospital in 2010, an event that never occurred but is rendered with such graphic detail that it feels less like proper reporting and more like vapid propaganda.

The book’s antisemitic slant is impossible to overlook, with Israeli characters uniformly painted as malevolent oppressors while “palestinian” figures are sanctified to the point of absurdity. This one-sidedness is not just intellectually dishonest; it is a betrayal of the very principles of storytelling.

As a reader, I found the book’s audacity not bold but grating. El Akkad’s ambition is undercut by his inability to craft characters with any depth or nuance, reducing them to mere mouthpieces for his ideological agenda. The "down with the West" chants are predictable, relying on tired tropes of victimhood and villainy that offer no insight, only cliché.

The book’s “plot” is less a story than a feverish collage of cherry-picked tragedies—amputated legs, screaming children, severed heads—dripping with the emotional depth of a TikTok sob story. El Akkad’s genius lies in his ability to ignore context entirely, as if Israel’s existential battles with Hamas (a terrorist organization that deliberately uses civilians as human shields) are just “another round of shelling” in a cosmic game of “who’s more oppressed.” The Palestinians, of course, are perpetual victims, while Israelis are uniformly depicted as bloodthirsty maniacs who “blockade aid” because… "because they’re evil", apparently.

El Akkad’s writing is full of self-indulgence gems. Sentences like “the ground beneath me coming apart” and “the only thing that seems paramount is to spoil my kids” drip with the profundity of a barstool philosopher. His “analysis” of media bias? A predictable litany of “The Guardian called it ‘food aid–related deaths’” — as if any mention of Hamas’s role in provoking conflict is too much to ask.

Thankfully, El Akkad’s anti-Semitic rage against “Western complicity” in Israel’s “genocide” is so unhinged it inadvertently highlights the absurdity of blaming democracies for defending themselves against Hamas’s rockets. Who could forget his “brilliant” comparison of Israel’s security measures to South African apartheid? A stroke of genius, really, since Israel’s flawed but functioning democracy is nothing like the racist regime that imprisoned Nelson Mandela.

El Akkad’s wet dream moment comes when he gushes over the International Court of Justice’s politicized ruling against Israel. Never mind that the ICJ’s “evidence” includes Netanyahu quoting the Bible — a move so desperate it makes Hamas’s fake hospital complexes look legitimate. The book’s climax? A toddler’s finger painting titled “Palestinian statehood,” which El Akkad calls “a brief respite from duplicity.” Because nothing says “justice” like a toddler’s finger painting.

This book is a triumph of style over substance, a $25 cry for attention that mistakes outrage for analysis. El Akkad’s real talent? Writing himself into the role of a woke prophet, scolding the West for not caring enough about Palestinian suffering while ignoring Hamas’s role in perpetuating it. If you’re looking for an honest read, skip this and pick up a history textbook. Or better yet, a dictionary — El Akkad’s grasp of nuance is vocabulary-challenged.

A self-indulgent, one-sided tantrum that mistakes Hamas’s terrorism for “resistance” and Israel’s self-defense for “genocide.”

The book’s audience appears to be those already entrenched in its ideological camp, as it provides no challenge or complexity to provoke genuine thought.This is not just a bad book; it is a dangerous one, a cautionary tale of how literature can be weaponized to distort history and perpetuate division. One day everyone will see the genocidal antisemitic and colonial lies of HamAss. ]]>