Book Review: The Hidden Oracle

Book Review: The Hidden Oracle by Rick Riordan 

Goodreads Description: How do you punish an immortal?

By making him human.

After angering his father Zeus, the god Apollo is cast down from Olympus. Weak and disorientated, he lands in New York City as a regular teenage boy. Now, without his godly powers, the four-thousand-year-old deity must learn to survive in the modern world until he can somehow find a way to regain Zeus's favour.

But Apollo has many enemies—gods, monsters and mortals who would love to see the former Olympian permanently destroyed. Apollo needs help, and he can think of only one place to go... an enclave of modern demigods known as Camp Half-Blood.

My Review: Spoilers ahead for the book's main twist. Proceed with caution. 

Here we are again, back with another Riordan book. I was expecting the usual delightful romp through the Percy Jackson universe, but was surprised to find The Hidden Oracle has a completely different vibe than previous installments, both in good and bad ways. 

As punishment for indirectly aiding Gaea and the giants in their war against the Gods in the previous series, Apollo is cast down to Earth in mortal form and must reclaim the five Oracles that have gone mysteriously silent. Due to his circumstances, Apollo is not the jovial or wide-eyed protagonist that usually appears in the Riordanverse: he's irritable, arrogant, cowardly, and most importantly, an adult. While his memories are hazy enough that "Lester" is able to embody a somewhat juvenile perspective on the world, Apollo's characterization still feels like a bored adult being forced to endure this magical childlike adventure, and his cynicism at times brought me out of the fun of the story. It's hard to say if it's me, or Riordan, or his choice of protagonist (perhaps all of the above), but this book felt like it was bored of its own formula. It constantly tries to buck against its universe's well-cemented formula with differing levels of effectiveness, with Apollo's characterization being the most difficult change to climatize to. He does transform over the book, as well as the series, and his more grating traits are sanded down as he learns and grows. I have read the third book in this series (you can find my review for it here) and Apollo's arrogance, cowardice, and his negative attitude towards the quest are toned down to a much more tolerable degree by that point in the series. In this book, though, it can be a bit much. However, there's still a lot to like about this protagonist. Apollo, as a lover-not-a-fighter God, often tries to avoid solving conflicts with force, like previous demigod protagonists, and is often using music to overwhelm his enemies or advance his quest. As much as Apollo's attitude can be somewhat grating, it was refreshing to follow a pacifist character who will wander off in hilarious directions to avoid a fist fight, and whose creative approach to problem solving breathes new life into a series that has largely solved problems through finding different flavours of how to hit someone. 

Apollo's characterization is far from the biggest formula shake-up. Historically, Riordanverse villains have been large, mythical beasts and creatures, and while The Trials of Apollo still features the existentialist monsters we know and love from Greek myth, the new series features a host of "god-emperors" to join the cast of baddies - real historical figures that have ascended to legend status due to their stories being told again and again. While previous Riordan books have featured humans or demigods working alongside the primordial baddies, the god-emperors from this series are "bosses" while previous humans and even demigods like Luke were treated and behaved more like disposable "peons" or "soldiers." These god-emperors are not only part of the problem, they are leading the problem, and this creates room to question the goodness of humans, the evil within monsters, and everything in between. 

The book raises questions about the capacity of good and evil not only in its villains, but also in its protagonists. Meg, daughter of Demeter, is presented like no other demigod up until this point. Her story doesn't follow the typical pipeline of discovering powers-traveling to Camp Half-Blood-being claimed-establish self at camp-define oneself through questing. When Apollo meets her early on in the book, she already knows how to fight of monsters, has some conception of her powers and origin, and is content to survive in the urban jungles on her own than journey to a camp to be trained like a traditional hero. Meg presents as neurodivergent throughout the novel, from her antisocial tendencies, her lack of concern for hygiene, poor social skills, and odd behaviour, including behaviours that could be considered "stimming." Because she isn't a high-functioning charismatic attractive teenager, Apollo clearly doesn't like her and is even grossed out by her, but as time passes he grows to see past her presentation and comes to care for her compassion, tenacity, and resilience. Because she presents so differently than most other characters, Meg gives readers who may be neurodivergent themselves, or who may feel like the 'weird outcast,' a character they can really connect to. Many of Riordan's character, like Percy himself, are larger than life - a little too charismatic, a little too friendly and patient, a little too eloquent, a little too perfect. While these characters can be excellent aspiration models, it can be intimidating to compare your messy human self to a character so perfect. Meg's imperfections felt like a release of tension in comparison. It also creates a bit of mystery, as Meg doesn't always communicate her thoughts with Apollo or the reader, opening space to question her motivations by the time she comes to betray Apollo to Nero, one of the god-emperors. It's revealed that Meg was actually working alongside Nero throughout the entire book and her betrayal leaves the ending uncertain, a sort of cliff hanger that allows readers to wonder in what capacity Meg will return -- as a villain, as someone who needs rescuing, or as someone who need redemption? Only time, and pages, will tell. 

All in all, I enjoyed The Hidden Oracle for what it was. I enjoyed the change-ups to the formula, and the honest attempt to scratch at good and evil while staying within the bounds of a middle grade formulaic novel, but these change ups both helped and hurt in many ways. Ultimately, it was Apollo's negativity and bitterness that dragged the vibe down and made it hard to enjoy the mythical romp. 

TL;DR: 3/5 stars. A solid Riordan romp that changes up the formula to open up conversations on villains and heroes, good and evil. 

Book Review: Book of Rhymes

Book Review: Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop by Adam Bradley 

Goodreads Description: If asked to list the greatest innovators of modern American poetry, few of us would think to include Jay-Z or Eminem in their number. And yet hip hop is the source of some of the most exciting developments in verse today. The media uproar in response to its controversial lyrical content has obscured hip hop's revolution of poetic craft and experience: Only in rap music can the beat of a song render poetic meter audible, allowing an MC's wordplay to move a club-full of eager listeners.

Examining rap history's most memorable lyricists and their inimitable techniques, literary scholar Adam Bradley argues that we must understand rap as poetry or miss the vanguard of poetry today. Book of Rhymes explores America's least understood poets, unpacking their surprisingly complex craft, and according rap poetry the respect it deserves. 

My Review: This book is Adam Bradley's love letter to rap, and what a letter it is. Despite being a nonfiction book set on teaching readers about the fundamentals of rap poetry, Bradley writes this book more like a memoir, centering his real-life experiences of studying and loving hip-hop. In this way, the book feels intimate and personal, while making solid arguments for the recognition of an art form that promotes community pride, encourages activism, and rebels against a system that has actively oppressed minorities since its inception. 

Bradley breaks down rap into six major elements and spends a chunk of the book looking into each element: rhythm, rhyme, wordplay, style, signifying, and storytelling. Bradley begins the book by digging into rap's influence on the world, its historical roots, role in black communities, and what separates it from other forms of poetry or music. He directly tackles difficult questions that have plagued rap for years and seeks to "explain without apologizing" when it comes to the genre's homophobic, misogynistic, or violent lyrics that appears antithesis to political activism. He does this by framing hip-hop within the socio-economic environment from which it grows, its lyrics therefore a reflection of the intergenerational trauma of black communities and their desire to be heard, to have a voice. As any troubled kid looking for attention will tell you, sometimes being unapologetically offensive is the best way to make society pay attention to what you have to say. Rap's authenticity resonates because it doesn't censor its expression; it just spits feeling onto the page and lets the dominos fall where they may. Unfortunately, that leads to some problematic lyrics now and again. 

Bradley splices in bits of history, interviews, and quotes from famous rappers, industry professionals, poets, English scholars, as well as plenty of rap lyrics, to illustrate hip-hop's place in the wider linguistic, poetic, and musical world. Bradley's writing is easy to read and engaging, and by centering his own passion for the subject in first person reflections, readers are able to easily connect to the subject matter through Bradley's enthusiasm. At times, his wordplay rivals the lyricists he is praising, ultimately leading to a delightful read obviously imbued with substantial passion for the art form. 

TL;DR: 3/5 stars. A well-written and passionate analysis of rap poetics. 

Book Review: Far From You

Book Review: Far From You by Tess Sharpe 

Goodreads Description: Sophie Winters nearly died. Twice. The first time, she's fourteen, and escapes a near-fatal car accident with scars, a bum leg, and an addiction to Oxy that'll take years to kick. 

The second time, she's seventeen, and it's no accident. Sophie and her best friend, Mina, are confronted by a masked man in the woods. Sophie survives, but Mina is not so lucky. When the cops deem Mina's murder a drug deal gone wrong, casting partial blame on Sophie, no one will believe the truth: Sophie has been clean for months, and it was Mina who led her into the woods that night. 

After a forced stint in rehab, Sophie returns home to find a chilly new reality. Mina's brother won't speak to her, her parents fear she'll relapse, old friends have become enemies, and Sophie has to learn how to live without her other half. To make matters worse, no one is looking in the right places, so Sophie must search for Mina's murderer on her own. But with every step, Sophie comes closer to revealing all: about herself, about Mina, and about the secret they shared. 

My Review: Sharpe's Far From You exists in a nebulous space for me. Even after several months, I still can't decide how I feel about it. It's a mixed bag; while the positives are on point, the negatives make me so frustrated that I wanted to throw the whole book out, good parts be damned. For one, it's an excellent read, full of twists, turns, red herrings and scattered clues that make it a satisfying mystery to unravel. It also has a deep emotional core that sits atop a romance that meshes together so many confusing adolescent feelings and experiences: love, jealousy, anxiety, social stigma, interpersonal drama, grief, and loss. The romance captures a realistic look at teenage social dynamics that spiked a wave of nostalgia for my own adolescence, where the interpersonal drama and intense emotional reactions were all claustrophobically bottled up within our tight-knit teenage cliques. Yet despite the realism, the book falls into the YA publishing trap when it comes to depicting teenage drug use: wanting to borrow the drama of addiction while failing to actually represent people with addiction. YA publishing errs on the side of caution when tackling these stories, preferring to depict addicts as victims rather than as having an active hand in their own addiction. While this is the safer approach when appealing to parent pocketbooks, it purposefully skews the perception of addiction and differentiates between "deserving" and "undeserving" addicts. When the point of writing a story like this is to encourage empathy towards people living in different circumstances, creating this distinction in fiction that isn't reflective of reality is more problematic than not publishing fiction on addiction in the first place. 

Before I elaborate on its problematic elements-- we'll start with the basics. The book features a first person POV with a writing style focused primarily on action, with little introspection or lyricism to its style. This helps to keep the pacing swift as the mystery builds upon itself layer by layer. The text also features heavy flashbacks that jump all over the timeline, and this scattered sense of events shows the reader how Sophie's trauma and addiction have rattled her memory and ultimately the story of her life. The book is gritty, managing a noir detective-like tone, but not as much as one would expect -- Sophie largely hangs out with non-drug users, which significantly reduces opportunities for sketchier scenes. The book's focus on the romance subplot also detracts from its 'edginess.' The depictions of drug use are minimal and purposefully vague, which ultimately prevents glamorization and copycat behaviours. There are just enough signal words, like 'snorted,' to give hints to the methods, but no overt descriptions of her use.  

As far as queer representation goes, this book is wonderful. It features a relationship between a bisexual woman and a lesbian, and explores the nuances of how labels affect them - Sophie's ability to love men as well as women allows her to blend in with heteronormative society, while Mina doesn't have that option. The book also beautifully conflates the stigmas of addiction with WLW attraction - showcasing how both addicts and LGBTQ2S+ people live dual or shadowed lives that prevent them from self-actualization. The text also digs into how homophobia manifests differently for bisexual vs lesbian women, which is just... *chef's kiss* Books that dig into the nuances of identity and interpersonal relationships really get my motor running, because expanding empathetic understanding for those different from you is what writing is all about. 

Which is why the depiction of drug addiction left me seriously disappointed. Firstly, I want to be clear: Far From You is not completely unrealistic. There are a lot of very real elements to Sophie's addiction that do speak truth to the experience, but the narrative still falls into the same victimization pits that claim many other YA books dealing with the topic. The origin of Sophie's addiction is revealed within the first few pages: a car accident left her with chronic pain and a near--unlimited access to prescription painkillers. The addiction that develops almost feels inevitable. The 'car accident' narrative is extremely popular in YA when tackling drug addiction, because it removes a character's personal responsibility for their addiction. This unfortunately creates a distinction between "deserving" and "undeserving" addicts --  those who are victims of treatment mismanagement are therefore worthy of our attention, support, and treatment, while characters who instigate their own addiction through the use of street drugs are ultimately "monsters" who deserve to be vilified and forgotten. Unfortunately, Far From You highlights who is "deserving" and "undeserving" very clearly when Sophie encounters a teenage meth addict later in the book who is trying to get clean -- she is incredibly rude to him, condescending, and treats him as the liar 'addict' stereotype - a stereotype she vehemently fought against when parents and adults pinned it on her. This lack of empathy for someone going through nearly the exact same situation as her feels strange - I could write it off as a character flaw, if the narrative itself didn't treat Sophie and Matt so differently. Matt is in recovery, yet spoken about like garbage, the worst is assumed about him, he goes to NA meetings, and he is heavily watched by his entire family. He's treated as dangerous, as a bomb that's about to blow, while Sophie, on the other hand, gets incredible freedom, and people act like they're just disappointed in her -- when Sophie is the one who has supposedly gotten someone murdered. 

This unbalanced treatment left a bad taste in my mouth, especially because in my experience working in a youth detox/rehab facility, teenagers don't follow Sophie's trajectory of car accident, pain killers, addiction. They usually look more like Matt, and have chosen to use substances to cope with trauma, or because their parents did it, or because of abusive peer pressure, and now find themselves powerless against their addiction. The Matts of the world are just as deserving as the Sophies, and I'm tired of fiction that draws a line between types of addicts, because this distinction influences our politics, our laws, and how we treat the most vulnerable in our society. Frankly, I think understanding what makes someone reach for a pipe is far more fascinating than borrowing the drama of drug addiction through a victimization narrative that allows characters to "play bad" without being "one of them." 

TL;DR: All in all, 4/5 stars. A story about love and loss that enmeshes the stigmas of homophobia and drug addiction, while ultimately failing the addicts it hopes to represent.