Final books read in 2023

I know there are still two days left in the year, but I don't like to leave things unfinished, and I think it's unlikely that I'll finish any more books in the remaining time. Therefore, I'll wrap up my book logging with the three final books I read over my holiday. (I'm not counting rereads, which I've discussed already in previous posts; my opinion of those reread books remains the same.) The new-to-me books that I read over the past week are:

The Iliad, translated by Emily Wilson. I mentioned before that this was my third attempt at reading Homer's epic poem, and that I had hopes this time would be the charm, due to having read and enjoyed Wilson's Odyssey translation a few years ago, and I'm glad to say this was the case. I can't say a huge amount about her actual translation choices as I don't read Greek, but from a storytelling perspective the whole thing flowed along well. She elected to use quite plain language — not jarring contemporary slang, but words from everyday spoken English, rather than an elevated, flowery tone — and iambic pentameter (as this mimics as closely as possible the rhythm of spoken English). This was due to Wilson's emphasis on the original text as a piece of mass entertainment, not something for a scholarly elite. I mentioned before that whenever I tried to read the poem, I'd get bogged down in the endless lists of names, descriptions of weapons, and battlefield heroics that blurred into one indeterminate mass. All this was of course still there, but now I was able to appreciate it as something akin to a memoir of life in the trenches of WWI (or, more recently, accounts from current Ukrainian soldiers, in which progress across blasted, muddy fields is measured in metres): the grinding, endless misery of war, and the physical and psychological toll it takes on people. The alien morality remains as alienating as I found it the first time I read it, but that didn't seem to matter this time around — although as always, I much preferred the moments the narrative spent with the women, and their fears of the horrors war always visits on the lives and bodies of noncombatants.

The Bookseller of Inverness, a mystery novel set in 1752 Inverness. The protagonist — Iain MacGillivray, the titular bookseller — comes from the third generation of participants in failed Jacobite uprisings, and is nursing his resentments about this while living with his interfering grandmother, and a lot of complicated, messy family history. This careful balancing act — holding on to political allegiances while taking care not to get on the wrong side of the garrison of British soldiers in nominal control of the town — collapses when a man is murdered, seemingly in connection with a book in Iain's shop, and it quickly becomes apparant that a conspiracy is at work, with a killer hunting down traitors to the Jacobite cause whose betrayals cost them the success of the most recent uprising. This is pretty standard historical mystery fare, but it's an enjoyable mix of political intrigue, complicated family relationships, fun secondary characters, and a great portrait of eighteenth-century Inverness: in other words, the perfect book to read during a relaxing holiday.

Burn It Down, journalist and critic Maureen Ryan's take on the various abuses of power that have made so many Hollywood (and Vancouver, and New York) film and TV sets such ghastly places to work. If you've read her Vanity Fair article on Lost (which is reproduced in full in the book), you'll have a good idea of what you're getting in for: insiders' takes on the specific toxicity of particular shows or studios, which together paint a broader picture of Hollywood misogyny, racism, nepotism, and a culture which rewards abusive behaviour and treats it as a necessary component of the creative process. Some of the specifics were new to me, although the overall context was not; possibly the biggest shock was the description of the working environment on the set of Sleepy Hollow. Most of what Ryan reveals (through interviews with cast and crew, including extensive comments from Orlando Jones) chimes with what fans of the show always suspected: showrunner racism ruined what would otherwise have been televisual gold, one of the show's two stars was treated appallingly (again due to racism), and then written out and painted as the problem. However, what was news to me was that apparently, Nicole Beharie and Tom Mison strongly disliked each other almost from the beginning of the show, to the extent that they couldn't bear to touch each other (Ichabod's habit of bowing in a courtly way to Abbie was apparently written into the script so that the two actors wouldn't have to hug), and for this reason, there was absolutely no way on Earth that the two characters would end up in a romantic relationship. Obviously the poor treatment of Beharie and mishandling of Abbie as a character goes beyond shipping debates (it's clear that whatever the circumstances leading to Mison's and her mutual dislike, she was solely blamed for the situation and treated poorly as a result), but it was mindblowing to me that element of the show so consistently praised as its strongest asset — the on-screen chemistry between Beharie and Mison — was entirely simulated. I guess that's acting talent! In any case, Ryan's book is good for what it is — a lot of insider gossip stitched together into a wider tapestry that makes plain the damage done by various types of abuse of power in Hollywood — and although she offers solutions, I sadly can't see any of them being implemented any time soon.