Book Review: Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight: An African Childhood by Alexandra Fuller

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


This hauntingly beautiful and often humorous memoir about the author's Rhodesian childhood perfectly embodies that age-old mantra of our writing teachers, show, don't tell! Fuller's prose "shows" us a clear, unsentimental picture of Africa in the latter half of the twentieth century. It shows us everything: the striking beauty of the terrain, the landmines, the poverty, the violence, the vestiges of colonial life. She shows us the eccentricities of her parents, farmers whose combination of ethnocentrism and heartfelt humanitarianism are sure to befuddle we 21st century American readers with our predilection for putting people into distinct categories. She shows us this with stunning, evocative prose. And she doesn't tell us things. She doesn't politicize in either direction. She doesn't allow her narrative to be perforated with a million post-colonial caveats, admonitions and qualifications. She tells us neither that her parents were racist nor that they were saints. She doesn't editorialize about the legitimacy of her parents' love for Africa, or the fact that they considered it their rightful home. She simply shows us what her life was like in a way that makes a girl from a suburb of Los Angeles feel as though she were really there.

The fact that Alexandra Fuller chooses "showing" over "telling" has led some readers to call this book "Anti-African" and others to call it "detached." Readers will take from it what they will, but I found it to be neither of these things. I found a memoir that renders a unique life in a unique time and place, with pathos, humor and eloquence.



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Book Review: Reedeeming Love

Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


The biblical story of Hosea and his self-sacrificial and utterly incomprehensible pursuit of the harlot Gomer is dramatically retold in this romance novel, set in the California gold rush era. The wonderful things I’ve heard about this book, paired with the fact that I’m currently attempting a personal study through the Old Testament book of Hosea, led me to pick this one up and experience it myself. The book of Hosea is a favorite of mine; I love how it speaks volumes of God’s all-consuming and regenerating love for an undeserving people, I love how it preaches the Gospel, and I love the effect that its compelling and frightening poetry has on me. It’s hard for a 21st century novel marketed as “Christian romance” to live up to that.



I picked this book up while on vacation at the beach – it seemed like a perfect beach read – but it didn’t end up water-logged and sunscreen-stained like other beach reads I’ve read and enjoyed in the past. I finished it several weeks after my vacation came to a close, and it remains in pretty good condition. That’s not a good sign.



While I deeply appreciate the author’s mission in writing the novel and found that there were some compelling moments, the novel as a whole left me desiring more. The California gold rush setting held such potential, but from beginning to end, it remained a static elementary-school-production backdrop to the plot–not a living, breathing component of the story. The characters’ dialogue was equally stilted, like you plucked some youngsters from MTV’s “Teen Mom,” and dropped them right into the 19th century – very jarring. Overall, the novel doesn’t score very high in the verisimilitude department.



I realize I have yet to publish a novel that sells over a million copies, so take these comments with a grain of salt. The novel’s two leading characters are Michael Hosea, a recreation of the Old Testament prophet Hosea, and Angel/Sarah/Mara/Amanda/Tirzah, who is supposed to be Gomer. I felt like the parallel between the newly minted characters and the Old Testament ones is too direct, thus producing characterization that is very awkward. Rivers casts Angel as a prostitute, which makes sense, given Gomer’s actions in the Bible, but Michael Hosea is cast as a literal prophet in the same way that Old Testament Hosea was – someone who is uniquely ordained to hear direct, spoken communications from God. Throughout the novel, Michael Hosea hears God’s voice audibly, like it’s just no big deal, and his prophethood is never really addressed or fleshed-out in the novel. Readers are just supposed to accept that this random dude from the 19th century is amazingly singled out in this way. While I would never want put restrictions on what God can do, that trait just didn’t translate well from the Old Testament world to the time and place of Francine Rivers’ novel. That, combined with the fact that Michael Hosea pretty much coerces young Angel to be his bride, makes him much more reminiscent of Warren Jeffs than the gracious and loving triune God of the Bible. A good deal was lost in translation.



If the goal of this novel is to communicate to 21st century readers the nature of God’s tenacious and unmerited love for undeserving sinners, then Rivers’ decision to make Angel (Gomer) the protagonist of the novel and the one whose thought processes are most transparent to the reader is also somewhat problematic. From the time she was an innocent child, Angel is subjected to various forms of neglect and sexual abuse by the men in her life. She is much more of a victim of sin than a perpetrator of sin. Even her most egregious violations are made somewhat understandable, due to the horrific abuses she has suffered. Given that her past and her emotions are on display, only a cold-hearted reader could not sympathize with her throughout the novel, even when she repeatedly does what she ought not do. This is a very different picture from the one we get of Gomer, and God’s people by extension, in the book of Hosea. God’s love for his people is so amazing because they have no good reason to reject it. They have forgotten the ways in which God has mercifully delivered them in the past. Unlike Angel, they have known and savored the goodness of God, they have enjoyed the benefits of a gracious and loving father. Their rebellion, our rebellion, against God is so irrational, so unjustified. I don’t think we’re meant to look at Gomer and say, “Boy, she’s had it rough. No wonder she’s an unfaithful harlot!” When we look at Gomer, we see sin for the ugly mess that it is, and that serves to emphasize, by contrast, the amazing love of God, that he would pursue her in spite of that. In Redeeming Love, Michael’s faithfulness takes a backseat to Angel’s victimhood. The more the latter is emphasized, the more the former is diminished. And that seemed to undermine the whole point of the biblical story, thus lessening the power of the novel for me.







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Book Review: This Beautiful Life

This Beautiful Life by Helen Schulman

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


Hundreds, maybe thousands, of years from now, when futuristic anthropologists are in search of the long gone 21st century American man, this book may be of service. For better or for worse, This Beautiful Life by Helen Schulman offers a crystalline glimpse of the postmodern American family and its tragic struggle to stay afloat amid a sea of moral ambiguities, fractured family dynamics and compromising technologies.



The story centers on Liz and Richard Bergamot and their two children, fifteen-year-old Jake and six-year-old Coco. Having recently moved from Ithaca to New York City, following Richard’s promotion to an executive position at prestigious university, the Bergamots soon find that their new life in the city is a bit more complicated than the peaceful existence they enjoyed in sleepy Ithaca.



Shortly after ingratiating himself to a group of teens at his new private high school, Jake Bergamot attends a party hosted by the very wealthy, and grossly under-supervised, Daisy. Jake encounters thirteen-year-old Daisy at the party, and, following a brief “hook up,” rebuffs her eager advances in front of their friends, claiming she is “too young.” Later that night, the hurt and publicly humiliated Daisy, seeking vindication and starved for affection, sends Jake an obscene and sexually explicit video of herself via email, which he then impulsively forwards to a friend.



That momentary action is the catalyst for all the thorny events that follow. The video spreads like a vindictive cancer through the teens’ school, then across the country, then the world, and before Jake knows it, Daisy is infamous and he is both condemned as a misogynist and heralded as a hero, depending on whom he encounters. What ensues is a shameful media frenzy, threats of litigation, and the undoing of a once-stable, once-happy family. (There may be spoilers ahead).



My reaction to the novel is almost as complex as the moral questions the book raises. The book induced a range of emotions in me, from sadness to disgust, empathy to anger. In the midst of the myriad concerns I have about this book and its execution, I have to first acknowledge Helen Schulman’s literary talent, as well as her astuteness when it comes to capturing the 21st century, postmodern American family. Whether she is describing current teenage colloquialisms, recent parenting trends, secondary school culture, or the effect of emerging technologies on our social interactions, everything about this novel accurately reflects secular society today.



Concerns I have about the novel include the graphic way it depicts the sexual escapades of children (which, despite any noble intentions on the part of the author, I see as modified form of exploitation) as well as the novel’s suggestion that motherhood, given time, will inevitably whittle a sophisticated female mind down to a pad of useless putty. And, as a Christian, I didn’t much agree with what I perceived to be atheistic presuppositions on the part of the author, although, I did find those presuppositions interesting to contemplate, and I appreciated the transparency with which they were presented.



I say that this is a postmodern book because it reflects postmodern values and problems. The characters are largely autonomous beings, grasping in vain for meaning, beauty and morality in an otherwise cold and indifferent universe. God is absent – his name reduced to a mere turn of phrase - and in his absence the characters are charged with the responsibility to independently sort through the moral ambiguities with which they are confronted. With only their emotions and a vague notion of the relativistic nature of things to aid them in this task, these characters erratically bounce like pinballs between self-loathing and righteous condemnation of others.



Schulman’s characters live in a world where everyone is basically good-hearted - just mistake-prone -and it’s nearly impossible to distinguish what is right from what is wrong, what is acceptable from what is inappropriate, what is edifying from what is degrading, what is empowering from what is exploitative. One such example is Richard Bergamot’s schizophrenic reaction to Daisy’s explicit video. Following his son’s egregious cyber-mistake, Richard steals a private moment to reflect on how he might have prevented this viral nightmare as Jake’s father. While watching the video – never pausing to consider whether this is something he ought not watch in the first place - he makes an attempt to evaluate Daisy’s audacious and sexually precocious behavior, and ultimately fails miserably. He begins by noting the video’s “dismal raunch, its tawdriness…its sexual immaturity and unknowingness,” and, within moments, considers it “brave,” “powerful,” “potent,” and “self-immolating.” He’s saddened and dismayed by what he sees, and yet, “it speaks to him,” and “he feels touched by it.” He pities Daisy’s loneliness and her desperation, and then at once wonders why he, unlike Daisy, is incapable of being so completely naked and vulnerable with even those closest to him. Was Daisy wasting herself on Jake, he wonders, or was there something admirable about her craving for “this kind of union, an erasure of boundaries, a blending of souls, so much so that she was willing to risk all? Richard does not even genuinely know himself.” And, after much mental gymnastics, he doesn’t figure it out. Is the video ugly or beautiful, is it reprehensible or admirable?



Richard is not unaware of his inability to come to any kind of moral conclusion about Daisy’s video. In a moment of longing, he picks up the phone to call his father, a man whom Richard considers much wiser than himself, a man whose credo regarding the opposite sex was redolent of simpler times: “You always treat girls honorably, and with respect.” The phone rings and no one answers. Richard’s father has been dead for some years, and, yet, Richard waits expectantly for a moment before hanging up. To the postmodern man, God is dead and man is on his own. But we sure do wish he were there sometimes.



Liz Bergamot also gets stuck in the mire of moral ambiguity. As a result of Daisy’s startling video, Liz, perhaps in the hope of better understanding Daisy’s motivations and the 21st century’s sex culture in general, allows herself to become swallowed up by the world of internet pornography,. Even as she confronts sexuality that she calls “tireless, addictive, violent,” “another beast all together,” “frightening,” and “not so legal,” she is still unable to decidedly condemn it as morally wrong. The closest she comes to a conclusion is, “this is not what people who love each other do together.” But then she amends her earlier estimation with, “Although maybe it was,” and that’s the end of that.



In a similar moment of moral confusion, Liz asks her husband if shame is simply a social construct that adapts to evolving societal norms. When pondering people with rare sexual fetishes, she muses, “…is what they do shameful, or just weird? If there’s a lot of them, maybe it’s not so weird at all.” Her son, Jake, has a similar conversation with his friends after the internet dissemination of Daisy’s lewd video. The boys wonder if the internet, and its ability unite those with even the most bizarre and abhorrent sexual proclivities, is erasing the boundary between the shameful and the acceptable. Noting the fact that Daisy’s sex video is just one of many on the internet, they ask, “What’s the shame in that? If everyone suddenly goes public?”

“If everyone does it, will anyone care?”

“A couple weeks later, do we even care?”

And finally, “If you take away the disgrace factor, won’t all girls be Daisies?” In unison, they flippantly express a desire for this to be the case, and laugh. According to this view, nothing is inherently shameful. Rather, it’s our subjective and ever-evolving perceptions that make it so. The internet and its Pandora’s box of private desires made public gets to decide. That’s a frightening world to live in.



Perhaps the most depressing moment in the entire novel comes during a conversation between Liz and her six-year-old daughter, Coco. Following a disturbing incident that reveals the ways in which the innocent Coco has been negatively influenced by the family’s involvement in Jake and Daisy’s internet debacle, Liz tries to explain to Coco why the kind of dancing that Daisy does in the video is not something Coco should want to emulate. When Coco asks if “ladies dance like that all the time,” Liz replies, “I guess they do, but they shouldn’t have to. There’s more to ladies than that. More than their, I don’t know what to call it, their sexual attractiveness to men, men they don’t know.”

When Coco says she doesn’t understand, Liz replies, “I don’t understand either.”

Coco ventures, “It’s inappropriate,” to which Liz responds, “Yes, it is. The girl, she didn’t respect herself. We women, we always have to respect ourselves, do you know what I’m saying?”



And that is the summation of Liz’s maternal advice when it comes to navigating the murky waters of human sexuality: it’s all about respecting ourselves. That’s the closest she comes to any kind of moral conclusion about the explicit and illegal video that has torn her family to shreds. Forget any objective and transcendent moral standard of sexual ethics that may exist. Forget respecting the other person. Forget the difficulty that comes with defining what it even means to “respect ourselves” in our relativistic age. Daisy never once said she felt disrespected; in fact, she seemed to glory in the attention the video garnered. And she turns out all right in the end. Does that, then, make it all okay? The characters are ultimately silent. Helen Schulman remains silent. Is postmodern culture able to offer a satisfying answer? Somehow I doubt it.



We pay the price for our inability to offer a satisfying answer. In what I found to be the most poignant and heart wrenching moment in the novel, Liz turns to her husband in the midst of an argument and cries out desperately, “This beautiful life, I can’t manage it.” The family’s happiness prior to moving to New York City proved to be a fragile structure built on a faulty foundation; it revealed its crushing vulnerability in the midst of trials. It’s no surprise that the book’s cover features an image of a perfectly constructed house of cards, just waiting to be blown over at the slightest provocation. Is Helen Schulman critiquing postmodernism’s irrational faith in Love, Beauty and Goodness, even though it has nothing transcendent to stand on and its illusion could crumble at any moment, or is she simply describing the way so many Americans live today, in the shadows of moral relativism?



This Beautiful Life raises many questions, and yet offers no definitive answers. I shouldn’t be surprised as that, too, is a mark of Postmodernism. And, while I find myself at odds with the novel’s view of motherhood and human sexuality, I must concede that it offers a fascinating and poignant meditation on the state of secular society. Atheists’ messages boards are flooded with people wondering why some of us are so desperate to believe that an immanent God exists. This book and its angst-filled, morally confused characters, should give them a clue.



His oath, His covenant, His blood, support me in the whelming flood.

When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my Hope and Stay.

On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand.

All other ground is sinking sand.





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Book Review: Inside Scientology

Inside Scientology: The Story of America's Most Secretive Religion by Janet Reitman

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


This is a fascinating, well-written and meticulously researched book on Scientology, a religion that, before reading this, I knew absolutely nothing about. Somewhat reminiscent of Jon Krakauer's Under the Banner of Heaven, the author weaves together the history of the religion, the life of founder L. Ron Hubbard, and the mostly tragic stories of past and present Scientologists. I think Under the Banner of Heaven is a superior work, not because the history of Scientology lacks strange and compelling things to discuss, but just because I think Krakauer is a more gripping story-teller than Reitman.

While this book presents many interesting things to ponder, I was most facinated by how Scientology gets away with calling itself a religion, thus enjoying all the tax benefits and privacy rights that a religion can claim, when, in reality, it functions much more like McDonald's than First Baptist Church of Churchtown. It's hard to imagine how a reasonable person could not be cynical about a faith that charges exorbitant amounts of money in exchange for promised inner peace and future salvation. And yet, Scientology still manages to lure people in. This book helped me understand why that is the case.



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Book Review: Three Cups of Deceit

Three Cups of Deceit: How Greg Mortenson, Humanitarian Hero, Lost His Way by Jon Krakauer

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


Forget Alanis! Want to teach your students about irony? Have them read Jon Krakauer's latest book, Three Cups of Deceit: How Greg Mortenson, Humanitarian Hero, Lost His Way. Ironies abound in this slim, whistle-blowing volume, dedicated to stripping Mortenson of his Indiana-Jones-Meets-Mother-Theresa facade. For a man who portrays himself as a crusader against anti-Muslim sentiments, he sure does spread a lot of fear-mongering with his fabricated tales of run-ins with the Taliban. And, for a man who presents himself as dedicated to the cause of alleviating the sufferings of others, he sure does fly on a lot of chartered jets, at the expense of his fundraising organization, the CAI. And, for a man who exhorts kids in the U.S. to give up their lunch money in order to provide educational opportunities for children in the Middle East, he sure has left a lot of empty school buildings languishing without supplies and staff in Pakistan and Afghanistan. It's about time someone exposed this guy for the fraud that he seems to be.

I found myself having two reactions while reading this book. On the one hand, there was something very satisfying about watching Jon Krakauer bring this over-inflated guy down. There's a certain justice in it, mixed with a bit of reality-TV-like entertainment. On the other hand, I felt very humbled by this morality tale. If we're being honest with ourselves, we all have a tendency to self-aggrandize to some degree. The only difference between normal people and guys like Greg Mortenson (or Ergun Caner, for those of you who followed that fiasco) is a little bit of audacity and luck. Greg Mortenson's story served to remind me yet again of the fallibility of human nature.




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Book Review: A Meal with Jesus

A Meal with Jesus: Discovering Grace, Community, and Mission around the Table by Tim Chester

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


People will often say that Gandhi and Jesus had a lot in common. While I'm sure some similarities exist, I think such a view betrays a superficial understanding of both men. Take one example: their diverging attitudes about food. Gandhi appeared to have a rather strained and fickle relationship with food. He held the view that one's taste for food was inextricably linked with one's sexual appetite – and both were inherently vulgar, debased, impure – desires to be squelched. In his mind, the disciplined man lives in a state of perpetual "partial fasting," relying only on scant portions in his "grim fight against the inherited and acquired habit of eating for pleasure" (Gandhi quoted in Joseph Lelyveld's book Great Soul).

"The Son of Man," rather, "came eating and drinking..." (Luke 7:34). This astonishing truth about Christ, along with the Bible's repeated use of food and feast related imagery, is the subject of Tim Chester's fantastic book, A Meal with Jesus: Discovering Grace, Community & Mission around the Table. Chester's main burdens in this book are as follows: to explain the startling significance of Christ's desire to eat with sinners and Pharisees alike; to reveal the deeper spiritual realities that these shared meals with Christ point to; and to encourage us as Christians to make the sharing of meals an integral part of our fellowship with others, so as to regularly enact and reflect upon the grace that Christ so freely gave to us.

This is a neat book because it addresses some of the concerns commonly raised by the emergent church – our lack of connectedness, our desire for authentic community, the need for social justice and equality, the call for the church to reflect people from every tribe, tongue and nation. And yet, it does all this in a completely gospel-centered way, a way that does not depart from historic Protestantism. This is a book about food and fellowship, yes, but, ultimately, this book is unabashedly about the gospel. It's about substitutionary atonement. So, how does Chester connect the topics of food and fellowship with the cross?

Chester demonstrates that hospitality is a recurring theme in God's story. From the forbidden fruit of Genesis to the banquet imagery of Revelation, food and feasting – or lack thereof – is symbolic of our standing before a holy God. In the Old Testament, when Israel enjoyed peace with God, food was abundant. And, conversely, in times of judgment, the reality was famine. But, though we deserve the famine, God demonstrates his faithful love to undeserving people through abundant feasting, made possible only by the free distribution of his grace. Chester cites a rich and beautiful passage in Isaiah that embodies this gospel reality:

"On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wine, of rich food full of marrow, of aged wine well refined…"

But, how can that be, when our sin separates us from God? Here’s the best part!

"…And [the Lord] will swallow up on this mountain the covering that is cast over all peoples, the veil that is spread over all nations. He will swallow up death forever; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces, and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth…" (Isa. 25: 6-8)

Chester explains: "No one need ever leave this feast. In Isaiah 25 death itself is on the menu – God himself will swallow it up. So this is a perpetual feast" (59).

How beautiful and coherent the Bible is, that we see substitutionary atonement in the Old Testament, God taking the sin of his people onto himself, so that they can be reconciled to him. We eat good food; God eats death. And all of this points to the cross. Throughout his book, Chester just relishes this fact.

It should, then, come as no surprise to us that Jesus is the host of and a participant in many shared meals, as he prepares a way for us to have fellowship with God. "Jesus is the Passover lamb. His blood is daubed over our lives; the Lord passes over us, and we’re redeemed…so we can come to the mountain of God, and eat and drink with God" (113).

Chester, then, charges us to live in light of this gospel reality, inviting others, particularly those we are in the habit of rejecting, to join us around the table. I loved this book. I’ve been resisting this cheesy cliché, but, what the heck; it truly was “food for the soul.”

So, while I appreciate Gandhi’s aversion to gluttony and his desire to see hungry people fed, I have to disagree with his assertion that a full meal is "a crime against God and man." For people who put their faith in Christ, a full meal – especially one shared with others – is symbolic of our reconciled relationship with God through Christ, and a pointer to the feast to come.




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Book Review: Modern Times

Modern Times: The World from the Twenties to the Nineties by Paul Johnson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


While working at a public high school in New Jersey I observed a rather interesting pedagogical practice. It looked a little something like this: a band of students acting as undercover ambassadors of their history class would approach an unsuspecting non-history teacher with a historical or geographical trivia question. If the stunned teacher could not, say, identify a particular world destination on a blank map, or name a particular African dictator responsible for such and such event, the students would then report this failure back to their history class, sneering all the way at the ignorance of that unfortunate teacher, who was then labeled by the history class as being representative of a larger pattern of ignorance within our culture.

I'm not here to debate the merits of this type of assignment (although, someone should point out to the annoyingly arrogant students that the only reason why they know the answer is because their history teacher just talked about it last period...). I simply wish to share that the knowledge that, at any time, these students could be on the prowl struck a chord of fear in my heart. Commanding proper attention and authority as a young, female teacher is hard enough as it is; the last thing I need is to not be able to point out the Republic of Djibouti on a blank map in front of my entire class.

I've always been a bit insecure about my flimsy knowledge of historical and world happenings. The last time I took a proper world history class, I was a sophomore in high school. And, it was taught by the high school football coach, whose favorite technique was to distribute pastel colored worksheets, which we were then told to complete on our own. Needless to say, not a whole lot stuck. I can't blame all my ignorance on Coach Small, though. If I had spent my college summer vacations reading about history instead of playing countless hours of Tropico, I would be a much better person today.

Reading Modern Times by Paul Johnson constituted an attempt to better my historically-challenged self. This is not a people’s history, nor does it focus in depth on any one particular person or event. Rather, it's the story of the 20th's century's world leaders, the various ideologies they represented and the bloodshed that resulted when utopian visions inevitably imploded. Johnson seems to be particularly fascinated by the 20th century's unique propensity for producing charismatic revolutionaries, visionaries and messiahs whose often whimsical and ill-conceived decisions tragically influenced the lives of millions of people. The law of unintended consequences is a key theme in this book.

One characteristic of Modern Times that I appreciated is that Johnson doesn’t claim he’s done the impossible task of presenting the cold facts of history in an objective manner, completely free from bias. Rather, he unabashedly analyzes history, massaging the landscape of the 20th century into a narrative arc, replete with characters, themes and tragedies. His basic premise, which drives his analysis, is that Nietzsche’s prediction for the 20th came true, that at the dawn of modern times “the belief in the Christian God [was] no longer be tenable.” The vacuum left behind by God’s absence inevitably needed to be filled. Johnson goes on to argue, “Nietzsche rightly perceived that the most likely candidate would be what he called the 'Will to Power,' which offered a more comprehensive and in the end more plausible explanation of human behavior than either Marx or Freud. In place of religious belief there would be secular ideology. Those who had once filled the ranks of the totalitarian clergy would become totalitarian politicians. And, above all, the Will to Power would produce a new kind of messiah, uninhibited by any religious sanctions whatever, and with an unappeasable appetite for controlling mankind. The end of the old order, with an unguided world adrift in a relativistic universe, was a summons to such gangster statesmen to emerge. They were not slow to make their appearance” (48).

The fact that a traditional Judeo-Christian worldview undergirds Johnson’s argument might not sit well with some readers who disagree with his presuppositions (namely, that a moral fabric is woven into the universe and that man, despite his best efforts and often good intentions, is inherently weak and easily corruptible, which is why attempts at social engineering are doomed to fail). But to those who are open to Johnson’s particular angle, Modern Times will prove to be an informative and enlightening read. If I had to take a multiple choice test on it right now, I would likely score no better than a 9%, and I probably still can’t find the Republic of Djibouti on a map. So, you might be wondering why I devoted four months of my life to reading this long, boring book. What I can say is that the impoverished picture of the 20th century that I had in my mind prior reading this book has now been edified and enriched, and most importantly, it gave me a solid foundation onto which I will hopefully build.




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