Difficult to rate this one because it's really cleverly written but I was so utterly repulsed by parts of it that I really don't even like thinking abDifficult to rate this one because it's really cleverly written but I was so utterly repulsed by parts of it that I really don't even like thinking about it. Interweaving stories in four timelines the novel plays artfully with its prose, switching tones and writing styles almost effortlessly. Each tale is told by its own narrator, each unreliable in his own way, each slowly building the atmosphere of strange, horrible weirdness. Millenarianism, religion, death, angels and madness - it's all in here, it's all quite clever but its also all pretty horrible. It's the first book where I really want to give trigger warnings. Don't get me wrong I can deal with some blood and guts, some nasty horror stories, but this book left me shaking and freaked out.
Jack the Ripper stars as one of our four narrators, writing letters addressed to police, Queen Victoria, and to each of the women he kills. The letters to his victims describe his thoughts about the women and how killed them, what he did described in horrifying detail. Something about that, the way it's addressed to *you* as reader made me shudder. The attitudes toward women in some of the other sections were also often unpleasant or difficult and only made more so by this feeling of horror left by the Ripper sections. I know other people have enjoyed this book and found the Ripper chapters to be particularly fascinating but for me I just didn't need to hear the thoughts of a psychopathic misogynist toward the women he killed. There are other ways to write about him that aren't so disgustingly centred on his subject being fascinating and the women being objects. Same goes for the other sections and women tbh. No. No. Don't need it. No. And now my brain is sad. Stupid evil pretty book....more
In those moments of life when the grim figures of anxiety, stress, or panic grip meThis review was originally published on the books and pieces blog.
In those moments of life when the grim figures of anxiety, stress, or panic grip me tight and threaten to never let go, I have learned that the one thing sure to scare them off is a nice little face-off with the end of the universe.
That’s my super casual way of saying I’ve been having a bit of a hard time with anxiety recently. Anxiety is a fucker because it messes with my ability to concentrate which is something very necessary for actually reading and enjoying books rather than continually picking them up and putting them down and wandering around the house worrying about the fact that you haven’t read any damn books to talk about on your book-related social media and feeling like you should be doing something productive instead but not actually being able to do it and then worrying about that as well. BASTARD.
But back to the subject at hand: science books!
When none of my fictional favourites can hold my attention I find that often a little non-fiction does the job. And so on my latest foray to the book shops I spotted SEVEN BRIEF LESSONS ON PHYSICS by Carlo Rovelli and snapped it up. It’s such a wee little thing and yet so intriguing with its evocative title that it seemed perfect. 78 pages of basic science, what could possibly be more innocuous. Little did I know.
The tiny size of SEVEN BRIEF LESSONS ON PHYSICS belies the size of the utter mind-fuck that is held within.
Allow me to explain. It starts amicably enough:
"These lessons were written for those who know little or nothing about modern science."
That’s me, right there. Little to nothing; me and Jon Snow are with you. The principle of the book is to give a tiny “overview” of the revolutions in the understanding of physics that have happened in the past century or so. It begins with lesson one – Einstein that fluffy haired moppet, who changed the world by suggesting that space isn’t, well, space. It’s not an empty area populated by waves and forces and things – it literally IS those forces. There was some visualising of rubber sheets which left me a little cross-eyed but essentially getting the gist of it. But then Rovelli happily hopped onwards to lesson two where he calmly announced that quantum mechanics means that reality only sometimes exists.
OKAY THEN, RIGHT, THAT’S FINE. YOU CARRY ON. I’LL LEAVE MY BRAIN IN THIS PUDDLE.
By lesson five time itself had gone out the window and the entirety of the universe followed shortly thereafter. Physics, it seems, does not fuck around. But it was the seventh chapter that really leaves you staring into the void.
Rovelli uses this final lesson to grapple with the relevance of physics to our lives. Or, more accurately, of the relevance of our lives in the vast and uncaring strangeness of the cosmos. With the same sparse simplicity of words that he used to set out the mind-bending reality that is revealed by physics, he touches on the concepts of thought, learning, philosophy, ethics, and, of course, of death. Like many of the books where science meets philosophy, the wording gets close to religious in its solemn beauty.
"We are born and die as the stars are born and die, both individually and collectively. This is our reality…."
That’s dark stuff, man. COLD. But actually I found myself weirdly comforted. Rovelli takes pains to explain that however dark and weird the universe may seem, we are not alien to it, but part of it. We are at home in its weird unreality. It’s quite a moment when you can look into the void and the only thing that comes to mind is that old song by Simon and Garfunkel…
It reminded me of The Good Book: A Humanist Bible, that strange and lovely conglomeration of scientific ideas, literature and philosophy compiled and presented by A.C. Grayling as a secular bible. Like a religious person seeking succour in a religious text I find my calm in the place where science meets philosophy.
"Here, on the edge of what we know, in contact with the ocean of the unknown, shines the mystery and the beauty of the world. And it’s breathtaking."
The concepts set out in this book are mind-bendingly weird. I’m not sure I really comprehended the full meaning of it all (which is probably the point, temptations to learn more and all that) but it was completely and utterly engaging. My only criticism was, really, its brevity. For some of the more complex concepts just a little more time spent trying to give me a better mental grasp of these slippery thoughts would have been perfect. A page, maybe two. No more.
The writing style is excellent – elegant, flowing, and measured. And a translated text I can only suppose that this is a sign of both an excellent author and some damn fine translators. It balances the need for simple explanations of complex ideas with evocative, beautiful prose – it’s a science book written for readers, not scientists after all.
It’s worth reading for the madness of the physics alone but for my anxious brain it was the strange, warm bath in the restaurant at the end of the universe that it needed. And for that, Carlo Rovelli, I thank you.