9 Books I Read in 2024, Part 1

Half a year's worth of my literary diet, reviewed.

Since we’re big on multi-part series now on this newsletter, I thought it would be prudent to split the “annual” book review into two parts. Goodness knows I read enough to justify doing this twice, and this way I have a little breathing room to catch up on some other work I’ve had on the backburner. Additionally, paid subscribers will have their pick of some choice summer reading, which is really the only time of the year that normal people have to consume novels as voraciously as I do. There is something here for everyone; most of the light reads are unfortunately below the paywall, but I was lucky enough to have a good string of well-written books fall into my lap this year. There were a few DNFs, but no major duds to speak of. If you find something worth reading here, or have something to add to my observations, please feel free to leave a comment below.

The Dune series

I promised to give an update on my progress through the Dune series, whether or not I found any more classical themes. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but I think I got much too into the story to pay attention to those sorts of details for much longer. I certainly picked up on the fact that Miles Teg’s journey as a general-to-farmer-to-general is textbook Cincinnatus, but most of the Leto stuff didn’t map cleanly onto any historical figure that I could think of. Apparently not too many world leaders are brave enough to become one with the sandtrout. I joke of course, but the most discussion I’ve seen on themes from the ancient world in Dune come from the portrayal of Paul as Julius Caesar and Leto II as Augustus, but that feels much too broad to really be accurate all the way through God Emperor. Leto II does a few similar things; he accepts power more readily than his assassinated* predecessor, has a long rule, creates his own version of the Praetorian Guard, and declares himself to be a religious figure rather than having the title thrust upon him. The whole plotline with Siona is difficult to parse with these details though, because Augustus’ succession was very famously fraught with tragedy. Tiberius was his fourth or fifth choice to be heir by the time he died, whereas it’s pretty clear that Leto II has bred Siona and Siona alone to continue on his vision of the “Golden Path.” Even then, these observations are only made in retrospect. My enjoyment of this series came first and foremost beyond any responsibility I feel to this blog, and for those who know me well, that’s just about the highest praise I can give a book.

The Godfather by Mario Puzo

In the body of a yet-to-be-released article, I made an unfair assumption about Puzo’s masterwork when looking for film adaptations to compare with the success of their respective books. It had seemed to me that most of the genius came from Coppola and the big-name stars like Pacino and Caan and Marlon Brando. Instead of continuing on, I decided to probe into this assumption and give the book a fair shake. Reader, I was shocked. To put things in pithy terms, one of the more famous movie easter eggs that gets included in all the lazy clickbait articles is that people who buy oranges always end up getting murdered. Lo and behold, it’s consistent with details in the book. This is but one preconceived notion that I had believed to be a Coppola flourish. Additionally, the backstory of the wars prior to Michael’s involvement with la cosa nostra that is often alluded to in the films has much more depth than the few passing references. Even without the rest of the trilogy, Godfather I is more of a Michael-forward story. The book treats the family as more of an ensemble cast in a Tolstoy-esque Russian literature kind of way. The theme of nostos is present throughout the book, but I’m not sure whether I can tie it back to Odysseus and make it relevant to the thesis of this blog. Having read both this and Dune within six months of each other also draws some very bizarre parallels: on a surface level the connections between two sons of proud and powerful rulers learning to inherit the family business are a common enough trope, but the similarities run deeper. The old adage goes that “absolute power corrupts absolutely,” but this is not Frank Herbert’s outlook towards the matter, and I suspect that Puzo would share that sentiment. Michael Corleone begins the story as someone looking to spurn the family business, joining the army against his father’s wishes, but he allows himself to be changed by certain deaths in his family along the way. Vito claims to see some natural leadership quality in his youngest son even prior to his return from Italy, but we as outside observers are never given a finite explanation as to what this is. Certainly this is another wonderful thesis proposal for some young literature scholars with more time on their hands than I have.

The Raphael Affair and The Titian Committee by Iain Pears

This series seems to be internally listed by the publishers as the “Jonathan Argyll Mysteries,” but that doesn’t accurately describe the dynamic of the main cast. Flavia Di Stefano is arguably the protagonist, with Argyll acting as a sort of eccentric sidekick that happens to stumble ass-backwards into crime scenes in ways that make him look like a suspect. From there he has to use his deep, esoteric knowledge of art history to dig himself out of the troublesome circumstances. These books were written by the author of An Instance of the Fingerpost, which I reviewed last year. That was much more of a mystery for the reader, whereas this is more of a bog-standard suspenseful story where the reader follows the clues as they are revealed to the investigators. The central conceit of the eponymous Raphael is something simple enough for anyone who has flicked through a couple Baumgartner Restoration videos to believe to be plausible. Through the process of tedious restoration, one supposed masterpiece is discovered under a relatively nameless workman’s handiwork because Argyll traced a reference to its provenance through a set of old letters. Unfortunately, a mysterious buyer picks it up before Argyll is able to confirm his suspicions on the original piece. From there, the plot unravels into accusations of forgery and the dangers of excessive politicking. Really, politics guilds the whole novel: the department of the police that Di Stefano works for is constantly strapped for cash, and protecting an alleged Raphael takes up more of their budget than they bargained for. In the eyes of an accountant, the liability to their reputation is hardly worth the risk that has been set upon them by the Italian government, but such decisions are out of their hands. Argyll himself is a wonderful spin on the average gumshoe; he’s certainly no Holmes or Columbo. In the first book he’s still working on his Master’s degree, and shows all the deer-legged clumsiness associated with that role in our culture. One of the novels that ended up on the cutting room floor for reviews I did last year was Robin Cook’s Coma, which has a similar characteristic in the protagonist. Both Argyll and Susan Wheeler have that sophomoric apophenia that is often (correctly) brushed off by educators as something that every student goes through, but in these cases they happen to be right about their wild observations. The second book in the series is much more about the piece of art in question, whereas the eponymous (and fictional) Raphael of the first one sits as a bit of a MacGuffin, in that no part of it actually concerns the rest of the plot. Those looking for a book about art history will be much more pleased with The Titian Committee, but for reasons that would spoil the big reveal about the nature of the murder at the center of the plot. I very much enjoyed these books, and I need to remind myself to stop starting books that are part of a series because I very well could have devoured the rest if I didn’t feel obliged to provide some variety in these lists.