Picked this book up at the giftshop of the cathedral of Saint Albans when I visited, since papal history is a particular soft spot of mine. This is a pretty good book, and the author (not a trained historian) does an admirable job of cobbling together a biography from broad historical sources when specific, primary information is unavailable. The last third devolves into a bit too much of a 'dots on maps' military history for my taste; I would have personally preferred more context into the broader state of affairs in the Catholic Church at the time, as well as goings-on in England, which were curiously consistently brushed over. A decent pop-history book nonetheless.

A bittersweet read, because this is the last Robbins' novel I had to read; I will never get the chance to read one of his novels for the first time again. That being said, this was my favourite of all of his books, and so I am glad that this was my final experience. Full of his usual ecclectic, worldy raunchiness and vivacious prose, Fierce Invalids applies Robbins' characteristic flair to all of my favourite topics: Shamanism, syncretism, universal religious themes, fate and destiny, overcoming or embracing the unmutable aspects of our personality, criticism of the government, discussion of the unchanging miserable state of the world—the list goes on and on.

That all being said, I do not think this is a beginner Robbins book. He is a man who undeniably adores women, and loves having sex with them, and this is a theme that comes up time and time again in his books. Upon first encounter it can be a trifle shocking; even after reading eight of them I still always feel like the books take off without me, and I have to race to catch up in the first 50 pages.
If you are curious about Robbins' work, start with Jitterbug Perfume (about a perfume that makes you immortal), and then work your way through the rest of his catalogue from there.

Reflexively I always finish a book and want to write about the way it made me feel, the feelings it evoked, rather than review it. If I wax too poetically it doesn't really serve to benefit myself or others, so I'll keep that to a minimum here.

This is a beautiful book about memory, legacy, time, and grief; it is no wonder it won the Nobel prize. The narrative is playful, and while it follows the classic structure of a mystery, you are encouraged not only by the story but by the characters themselves, breaking the fourth wall and directly addressing you, to mull over what is going on and attempt to solve the mystery. Masterfully, like a magician, Pamuk performs a classic sleight-of-hand misdirection. I became so preoccupied with untangling one reliable narrator after another that I hardly noticed the profound messages being relayed until the very end of the story. Many authors cannot play different songs on two different pianos, one with each hand, and I guess that's why they don't win the Nobel prize.

So that I don't give away anything, I won't say anything else except that I implore you to read this. After completing it I felt frenetic, jarred, and unsettled. I had to run so that my body might keep up with the racing in my mind. As often seems the case , this was the perfect book to fall into my hands after a long and paralyzing depression that rendered me more or less catatonic for August, that most catatonic month. As My Name is Red so beautifully put it, "time does not flow if you do not dream."

Given this book from my father on recommendation. I am feeling tenderly about my past and my parents as I approach a big life change, so it 'cut the line' and I read it. Dunstan Ramsey, character that you are.... I've never been faced with a character I share so many biographical details with, especially one so specific as experiencing a life-changing, spiritual, 'miracle' which leads someone to develop a fascination with the folklore and mystery of the saints in an attempt to understand it. That there was (sleight of hand) magic involved, in addition to being a historical novel (my favourite kind), added to my enjoyment of this book.

It reminded me in a way of a Tom Robbins novel, though Davies' characters take themselves and their story more seriously than Robbins does. I liked that the central theme of the trilogy is a 'mystery' that does not take place until the very end of the first book (spoilers?), I'm looking forward to seeing how it progresses in the next two books.

One of my favourite pop. history books which I revisted because Imprimatur brushed up against the Affair of the Poisons. If you are unfamiliar with this particular historical scandal, this is a great book to become acquainted. Genuinely one of the most bonkers larger-than-life events in the history of France (and Europe at large), and one of many reasons I think the 1600s are a super overlooked and underappreciated century. Tucker has an equally awesome book about the events surrounding the first human-to-human blood transfusion, which is just as interesting and engaging!

If I imagined, Make-A-Wish style, my ideal manifestation of the perfect book, I think I would come around to describing Imprimatur. Should the titles ‘The Name of the Rose’ and ‘Instance of the Fingerpost’ mean anything to you, I beseech you to now imagine them combined, and bask in the subsequent glory of this novel. If, like me, you find yourself inordinately fascinated by the endless significant historical minutiae of the 17th century, I beg that you read this book. Should you be inclined to locked-door mysteries, or at all familiar with the political dealings of Europe in the 1600s, give Imprimatur a try.

While I make a point of avoiding books I know I’ll outright dislike, it is somewhat rare for a book to immediately soar to a place in my hall of fame. I am pleased to admit that Imprimatur clawed its way to personal infamy very quickly: containing meticulous historical detail, 17th century magic, medicine, plague, superstition, and more, it is almost a miraculous manifestation of my favorite things. In a self-indulgent fantasy I can recall saying I wished there existed a “book like The Name of the Rose, but taking place in the 1600s’, and lo and behold such a thing does exist! I am delighted to hear that there are several other books in the series, but having not yet read them I cannot attest to their comparative quality.

For now, Monaldi and Sorti may enjoy the highly esteemed company of Eco, Clarke, McCann, Pears, Stoker, Bulgakov and Robbins in my pantheon of favourite novel(ists)s, and I look forward to reading the rest of their series. If I can find copies, I would love to read them in Italian. Though even in English, at least Imprimatur is worth a read, if the historical detail mentioned throughout this review is at all tantalizing for you. Besides, there's something so thrilling about research for a historical novel blowing open a centuries old Papal cover-up that it practically begs for a book about that in itself ;)

Let me start by saying I did enjoy this book. I read it as part of a 'book club' with my father (something I will never agree to do again) and it was, at the very least, an interesting experience to discuss a book like this with someone else reading along.

Ultimately I think that House of Leave's esoteric reputation is not fully deserved. At the risk of potentially spoiling something, this book is a masterclass in exegesis. While it is easy to get wrapped up in the physical format, the bobbing and weaving of chronology, the hodge-podge scavenger hunt of footnotes, it was the layering of the narrative that was most interesting: three nested stories all about the agonizing and terrifying idea of working through what haunts you. There is no way to re-write or change the past and attempting to do so can only ever lead to one of two roads: madness or death.

At the core is the Navidson myth, a myth because it is an impossible story that explains the actions of the rest of the characters, and because it takes place in mythic time and space—outside of our own. Then there is the scholarly, academic analysis of the myth (the Zampano layer). After that is the main story, a story about a man who finds the myth, the book, and it changes his life. Lastly there is me, reading it, scrying through the mess what psychic instructions the other is trying to convey: let a book change your life. Have you ever had a book change your life? Its scary, isn't it, when it feels like the floor falls out from underneath you?

Its a nice book. Unfortunately I think that at a certain point I’ve gotten everything I can from Campbell (which has been a lot) and his catalogue becomes a bit repetitive especially with the earlier works before he really solidified his thesis and ideas. I think if you have limited exposure to Campbell this book could have a big impact. The Power of Myth really rocked my world a few years ago, so now this just feels too familiar.

Immaculate, engaging, touching. This is exactly the kind of matieral that drew me into this field in the first place: the passion, the vivacity of language, the depth of the descriptions of Plotkin's experience, his friends, the jungle, the villages, the many plants. I spent a lot of time contemplating the nature of such a well-written "technical" book, yes, even one written for mass consumption, and wrote about it further at length here.

I really wanted to like this book, and unfortunately I didn't. Von Franz is actually kind of grating; constantly making snide and derisive comments at the expense of anthropologists, ethnographers, and folklorists in a way that actually detracts from the potency of her argument. This tone pretty quickly came off as close-minded stubbornness, frequently contradicting herself by complaining that certain mystic elements were excluded from modern folkloristic analysis, while at the same time dismissing every supernatural/paranormal encounter as "mass-hallucinations" experienced by "peasants" or "primitive people". As psychologists and psychoanalysts are wont to do, the framework of interpretation offered within this book is so painfully individualistic that it becomes useless. By insisting that fairytales must come only from the realm of dreams or subconscious psychological archetypes, the complex cultural webs that develop and allow for these archetypes are completely cut out. The "collective" of the so-called "collective unconscious" is ignored, rendering the strength of the whole theory quite pathetic. I usually really enjoy Jungian perspectives, but the biting defensiveness of this work overshadowed anything of value Von Franz might have been able to write about, had she let her theory speak for itself.

Written by an anonymous ascetic in the 14th century, the Cloud of Unknowing is the earliest known work of mystic contemplation written in English (though not modern). Obviously coming from a time and place in which Christianity was not only dominant, but ubiquitous, it not only provides an interesting glimpse into the worldview of late-medieval working Christian mystics, but also a lot of information on meditation and mystic contemplation that would not be out of place in a modern book on the same topics. I think the worth of books like these come not in the specific religion they use as their foundational framework, but rather from the skills and tools they advocate for. Less than 150 pages if you exclude the Book of Privy Council, and I think definitely worth a read.

Wow this book is so gorgeous but it made me so emotional...it reminds me of home, it reminds me of why I do the things I do and love the things I love, it reminds me of my place on this earth and my connection to physical space and the passage of time. I recieved it as a gift from a family friend for winter holidays a year or two ago, and never got around to opening it until now. Maybe I need to stop doing that.

I haven't read the Iliad since high school, and after prowling around Greece a year ago returning to the poem I discovered it transformed. Perhaps it was the theatre of memory, of physical place, or perhaps it was the glory of Wilson's translation. This book is brutal; the descriptions of violence actually made me grimace, and the horror of the battlefield in all its frantic, noisy, bloody, terrible power was electric to read (even where I usually get bored by "dots-on-maps" battle sagas). I read this right on the hills of finishing Herbert Mason's translation of the Gilgamesh, and I was struck by how similar these stories are in their themes of male grief and homoerotic love. Where the Gilgamesh is tender and tragic, agonizingly painful, the Iliad is violent, its raging, its the kind of sadness that makes you want to rip your hair out. And yet, I think, the most powerful statement of the poem is how much of it is dedicated to the countless horrible deaths suffered at the hands of an ultimately petty and useless conflict.