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Reading Ramble Wrap-up 2026 - Part 1 (January-March)

*Spoilers for novels will be present. Proceed with that in mind. :)

Hello, everyone. I have been on mini-hiatus of sorts this month, as I have been recovering from top surgery. So far, it has been a smooth, uneventful experience, and like with my hysterectomy, it was something I wish I had been able to do much sooner in my life. I think by day 2 I was already off the stronger pain medicine, and by the end of week 1 (once I got the initial bandages off) I was able to do some stuff around the house again. I still can’t lift anything really heavy for a few more weeks. My best friend of over 25 years was able to come stay with me for about a week to help out during the process, and I was grateful to them beyond words. With my last surgery, I was way more anxious and depressed during my recovery, but I noticed this time a drastic improvement in my mental health state.

So this year, I decided to divide my reading rambles into three month recaps, since trying to do a monthly post was a bit of a hassle to keep up with, plus there’s some months where I don’t finish any books at all, especially if I’m reading a longer or more dense book. I also figured I’d talk a bit about the non-fiction titles I’ve been reading too. I’m continuing my focus on Latin American and Caribbean history, preferably books with a left-leaning or decolonial lens. Last year, I read about Mexico, Cuba, and Jamaica. The fiction books will be same as always – a selection from my home TBR and books from my monthly book club.

The Black Jacobins: Toussaint L’Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution – by C.L.R. James: To conclude 2025 and kick off 2026, I started this highly recommended book about the Haitian Revolution that took place from the late 1790’s to the early 1800’s. While much of the focus of the book is on the background, rise, and accomplishments of Toussaint L’Ouverture, there’s a lot more comprehensive background history than just his biography. James gives a heartbreaking account of life on the island of Hispaniola, and the cruelties Black enslaved individuals endured to accumulate vast riches for the white plantation owners of French San Domingo. It also talks about the global economic and social forces at the time that set the stage for the uprisings and revolts that paved the way for independence. Basically, the San Domingo Revolution was the result of a massive domino effect kicked off by the shock waves of the French Revolution. As tends to be the case, dramatic upheavals in political and economic systems in the imperial metropole (as it was with the transition from feudal dominance to bourgeoise dominance) served as catalysts for social unrest in the colonies.

One of the things I learned that really pissed me off was how other imperial powers, such as the British, hijacked the growing slavery abolitionist movements and used them to cynically undermine their economic competitors, with no intent to provide true liberation. It was also frustrating, although unsurprising, to see the constant betrayals and flip-flopping of allegiances of different groups on the island based on whichever side held the most tantalizing promises for their economic interests. This was especially the case for members of the petite bourgeoise “small whites” class and the stratum of mixed-race people, who while themselves remained second-class citizens in many respects, still enjoyed more privileges than Black people.

I enjoyed that this book doesn’t sanitize nor does it valorize the revolutionary leaders it discusses. It provides nuanced perspectives on their strengths, shortcomings - their close calls, and the compromises they had to make under unprecedented pressures. Often, I notice in online discourse an annoying tendency for everyone to flatten historical figures into heroes or villains. I also appreciated the honest reflection in the forward to the book, where the author expresses regret that he focused only on a few “great men,” and if given the chance, he would have written something focusing more deeply on the point of view of the everyday Black revolutionaries. Nonetheless, I was moved reading about the people emerging victorious, despite intense opposition from what were once the world’s greater superpowers.

On the Calculation of Volume I – by Solvej Balle: This is the first of a seven book series, and what a fantastic introduction it was. The novel utilizes the “Groundhog Day” trope, but with some deviations from the usual formula. Tara Selter is a French antique book collector who discovers she is “stuck” in 18 November while away on a business trip. Every morning she wakes up and witnesses everything exactly as it happened the previous day. She is able to change her actions and behaviors, but once she goes to sleep and wakes up, all other events of the day repeat as before. She notices that sometimes if she has an item within close proximity to her, or if she consumes food, the items are not restored to their previous state when the cycle repeats. For example, a book she purchases and keeps with her under her pillow is still there when she wakes up the next day instead of returning to the shelf at the store. Tara is also able to travel to and remain in new locations; she doesn’t wake up back in her previous location. Further concerning is that Tara’s physical body still experiences time passing – for example, she retains wounds she received during a previous 18 November, and the wounds go through the typical stages of healing. It’s like her body is still essentially experiencing time “correctly” in one sense, while everything else around her is trapped in a constant loop. At first, Tara copes with this discovery by trying to solve the cause of the loop with her husband, who has to be told repeatedly every morning about her predicament, since she’s the only one who retains memories from the previous 18 Novembers. However, once the temporal rift between the couple becomes too great to bear, she ends up withdrawing to their home’s guest room to contemplate the mystery alone.

While the novel is short, the pacing and psychological grip it had on me as a reader made it feel like a much longer book. Each chapter, I was anxiously searching for little details or any sign that something had moved or changed, or that Tara was closer to breaking out of the loop and waking up to 19 November. Like Tara, I was treating her situation like a mystery or math problem that would eventually be solved, so long as I kept paying close enough attention to all the details. In real time, I experienced the rollercoaster of anticipation, hope, fatigue, and eventually a strong build-up of unease, as none of my theories ended up being correct. I also loved the use of water as a metaphorical device and focal point of the novel – the incorporations of rain and weather patterns, the sound of dripping in the pipes that she can hear every day, the sense that her size – her volume – is expanding beyond the limits of the day, and that she’s essentially “overflowing.”

One major thing that I kept asking while reading this book was: what exactly makes a day a “day.” In the scientific sense, we understand a “day” as a full rotation of the Earth on its axis. But what about when time fundamentally doesn’t move forward? And why do certain specific events define a certain interval of time? Why does the 18 November stay the 18 of November even when Tara manipulates certain aspects of her environment that, in my opinion, should logically result in a different series of events and thus a different “day” happening? For example: Tara observes food she purchases and eats from a local shop disappearing off the shelves. If she had ended up emptying the entire shop of its products, wouldn’t this fundamentally change the course of events for the shopkeepers, the employees, and any customers who visited thereafter? At one point in the novel, Tara insists that she can feel something change once she approaches a year having passed since the loop cycle began. Why is this? This was an insanely strong beginning to the series, and once the remaining books are published in English, I plan to continue.

The Fragments of Heraclitus – Translated by G.T.W. Patrick: In 2025, I also decided to dip my toe into the world of philosophy (and I just realized as I was writing this, I sorta made an apropos pun). A few years ago, I was checking out a series of books at my library about the history of philosophy - which were surprisingly popular, given that I often had to wait to reserve a copy. Reading about the history was good as an overview, but eventually I wanted to actually investigate the source materials and maybe work my way up to tackling more modern and contemporary works as well. One thing to recognize is that this isn’t a “book” really, but a collection of fragments that have been translated from the Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, who is classified among the pre-Socratics. He is best known for the “no man steps into the same river twice” quote. Somewhat in thematic continuity with the previous book I read, Heraclitus’ philosophy focuses on the concept of existence as a constant flux state instead of something static; change is essentially the only constant. Another one of his big concepts is the idea of opposites being unified in harmony with one another.

The actual text from Heraclitus is quite short, but the deceptive brevity and simplicity of the text is apparent once you dive into the commentary. The real meat of this booklet is in the introduction, which gives a brief historical background and context of who Heraclitus was, based on the little information we have on him. It also talks about the intense debate surrounding his work, providing the arguments and interpretations of previous scholars and philosophers. The translator breaks down the flaws in these interpretations, the nature of their misleading assumptions, and the sources of their preconceptions. I got the sense that the booklet was clearly intended for a student or an academic audience already very familiar with philosophy on an advanced level, and because philosophy is something I’m quite new to, it was a bit difficult to wrap my head around. I don’t know if I would recommend this for beginners to this type of material, but I’m glad I still gave it a shot. Oh well, I can always revisit it at a later time.

American Psycho – by Brett Easton Ellis: Before you ask – no, I have not seen the film, but I think at some point I will, I just haven’t been in the mood for watching movies lately. I came into this knowing very little about it, except I often see it described as one of those pieces of “bro media,” where fans of the film version grossly misinterept the work, even completely inverting the original message of the source material. (Fight Club is another common example I see). The novel is a satirical horror written in a stream of consciousness diary format. The narrator is Patrick Bateman – a young and wealthy Wall Street investor who leads a double life as a prolific serial killer. To say the beginning of the novel felt like a laborious slog is an understatement, but it builds up to a trade-off later on that makes everything come full circle in a thematic sense. But right off the bat, we get a taste of Bateman’s vanity and shallowness through the constant inundation of references to luxury products, brand names, magazine ratings, and other hallmarks of excessive consumerism that saturate his daily life. While he can rapid-fire recognize a dozen different brands and articles of clothing a person across the room is wearing, he rarely is able to correctly identify the person themselves – an infuriating running gag of the novel that became downright nauseating. Despite the highly detailed and intimate first person perspective, I barely felt any connection to Patrick Bateman as a human being. Even when we get flickers of biographical information sprinkled in to paint a bigger picture of what made him into the man we see before us, Bateman still feels eerily soulless. Every single interpersonal relationship he has with another person, male or female, is viewed through this lens of acidic contempt.

Of course, the only times we do finally get a sense that Bateman has the ability to feel anything at all is first: anytime his ego is wounded. Any time Bateman is mocked, feels inferior to one of his colleagues, or is rejected/insulted by a woman, we see a flash of unexpected hurt that is downright comical, given our first impression of him as the ultimate embodiment of stoic masculinity. Second: is anytime he is describing his sadistic homicidal compulsions, which he takes out on the most vulnerable human beings he encounters. Women (especially sex workers) are his primary victims, but beggars, children, queer people, and animals also happen to fall victim throughout the story – though those latter instances lack the premeditated, ritualistic sexual element. There is one phase of the novel where it feels like Bateman is trying his best to suppress his urges and mime the trappings of an ordinary American life and relationship, but ultimately this attempt backfires.

Being a horror novel, I wasn’t expecting it to hold back on its lurid, gory descriptions of Bateman torturing, murdering, sexually assaulting, desecrating and even eating his victims. However, I can definitely see why some people may find this excessive description to go beyond “uncomfortable” and into the realm of gratuitous and exploitative. For me, I think the line is very blurry when it comes to the debate on horror novels and depictions of sexual violence or crimes against women in general. Does it matter that Patrick Bateman is not merely a murderer but also a vile, homophobic, racist, necrophilic, sexual sadist? Does it have to matter? Isn’t this what horror is ultimately about? I think this would be a subject I would like to do more reading about, because I’ve heard different arguments – some believe that any depiction at all of such things automatically crosses the line into misogyny, and others who think it’s a matter of execution. Wherever you stand on the subject, I still think this novel’s overarching message – about capitalism, consumerism, American masculinity, etc. was brilliant, but I still caution anyone sensitive from reading it without some mental preparation/awareness of what you’re getting into.

Aid State: Elite Panic, Disaster Capitalism, and the Battle to Control Haiti – by Jake Johnston: After reading the Black Jacobins, I wanted to learn more about the situation in Haiti in the current day. The author of this very new book, Jake Johnston, currently serves as a member of the Center for Economic and Policy Research. It is an organization whose website claims to “promote democratic debate on issues that affect people’s lives, in the US and other parts of the world. . . through rigorous, independent research and analysis.” Wikipedia describes them as a left-leaning think tank that promotes left-leaning policies and governments in both the U.S. and Latin America. While nothing is without bias and special interests, the book felt as objective as it is possible to be on such a topic, and it serves primarily to dig into the root of a systemic problem vs. prescribe specific cut and dry solutions. Democrats, Republicans, and other major international players are not spared from criticism and exposure – in fact, the book’s main thesis is to hammer home the hypocrisy of the supposedly more benevolent actors on the world stage.

As its title suggests, the book is highly critical of the role of both the United States and other United Nations member states during the extremely deadly 2010 Haitian Earthquake, and it meticulously documents the painful chain of events leading up to the crisis in present-day Haiti. Johnston defines Haiti not as a “failed state,” but as an “aid state” – a state that never had the opportunity to fail on its own in the first place. Naomi Klein’s concept of the “shock doctrine” is relevant here. It shows not only how “aid” is used as a tool of soft imperialism – such as creating “opportunities” for foreign companies to displace domestic-made products (thus out competing local farms and businesses) and exploit cheap labor, but it also shows evidence documenting the poor efficacy of many aid organizations in actually using their billions in allocated funds to address the needs of the people. In many cases, the suffering and struggles of the people were only amplified, especially with the compounding of a cholera epidemic (traced to Nepalese UN troops) and the violent armed enforcement of “law and order” by the invading, so-called UN “peacekeepers.”

Amidst the many scandals and failed reconstruction projects, was also the slimy intervention that the “international community” imposed on Haitian elections, ensuring the victory of candidates who represented foreign or local elite interests over the interests of the Haitian people. Among the many players in these schemes were the Clinton family – so if you needed more reasons other than the Epstein files to hate them, this book is essential reading. Johnston concludes that what we are seeing today in the country is a result of that aid state structure ultimately crumbling in on itself, and now things are left even more open-ended following the recent annihilation of USAID under 2025 Donald Trump. Is there still potential for Haiti to finally break the previous cycle and take the reins of its own destiny? I can see how someone would have a sliver of optimism. Who knows - maybe Haiti can once again be a model nation for another form of revolution.

The Unkillable Frank Lightning – by Josh Rountree: For my speculative fiction book club, I read this Frankenstein retelling that had a “Wild West” and magical/witchy twist. While the back blurb sold it as being a fusion of Mary Shelley, Cormac McCarthy, and some other authors, I personally felt the thematic similarities to those authors weren’t really as strong as I was expecting. Honestly, it felt more like the spiritual successor to an episode of Welcome to Nightvale orThe Penumbra Podcast vs. the original Frankstein novel or Blood Meridian. The story takes place in 1905 Texas with alternating flashbacks in 1879 Montana Territory. Our protagonist is the brooding Dr. Catherine Coldbridge, who has successfully tracked down her missing husband, Frank Humble. Twenty-five years after she resurrected him using forbidden magical arts, the regretful Dr. Coldbridge is determined to kill Frank once and for all. With a pair of hired hitmen at her side, she travels to Fort Worth, Texas, where Frank has been billed as “The Unkillable Frank Lighting” for Cowboy Dan’s Wild West Revue. Upon meeting Frank, she realizes he is no longer the rampaging, murderous patchwork zombie that had terrorized her community decades before, but a man who has gained full use of his faculties and has formed a found family of sorts with his fellow performers. But despite the new lease on life he has been given, Frank’s existence feels “wrong,” and Coldbridge is surprised to learn that he too longs for his soul to finally be put rest. Except there is one major problem: no matter what methods are used, no one can actually kill Frank.

This novel has a unique combination of elements and were quite inventive. However while it was a very fun read, I got the sense it was suffering from a tiny bit of an identity crisis at times – like it tried to consolidate too much within too limited of space. It had a lot to say, but didn’t have the breadth to really expand on the topics it brought up. I couldn’t help but feel like this story would have benefitted from a slower pacing to let some of the more dramatic and emotional sequences have room to breathe as they unfolded. I was surprised that despite the central focus on cult magic and disturbing resurrections, the horror elements were overshadowed by the interpersonal tension and the lightning-fast Western action scenes. And as I mentioned before, this felt less like an ode to the original Frankenstein in a thematic sense, and more of an exploration of grief, regret within relationships, and the pitfalls of romanticizing “The West.”

Dr. Coldbridge is a fantastic character, and despite the fact that she can be a bit self-pitying at times, I fell in love with her pretty quickly. I guess have a thing for messy, world-weary, bisexual, middle-aged women protagonists. However, I really wish we had gotten a bit more time to spend with the other characters we meet, particularly Frank himself – since he seemed to also be complex and layered, but we only really get to see that side of him during his reunion with Coldbridge. I also thought there were some abrupt conclusions to certain plot threads that felt unsatisfactory and unresolved. The ending was rather bittersweet, and it was sad to see the united party of characters dispersed and fractured so quickly. But that’s just the brutal nature of life sometimes, isn’t it?

Sourcery – by Terry Pratchett: since 2022, it looks like it’s become an accidental tradition for me to continue another installment of the Discworld series around the springtime. Since I was also going to be having surgery around this time, I figured I could use something light-hearted and easy to read while getting through the rougher stages of recovery. As usual, Terry Pratchett nailed it for me with his whimsical storytelling style that manages to be both humorous and thoughtful. We return to the magical wizard college, Unseen University, where a strange child named Coin has arrived, demanding to take the role of the university’s next Archchancellor. Coin is what is known as a “sourcerer” – an extremely powerful being that generates new magic, as opposed to drawing upon magic already existing in the world. Coin enacts his godlike, reality-warping abilities using a staff that is possessed by the vengeful spirit of his father – a wizard who was once shunned by the academy. As Coin’s influence grows, he gains a group of followers among the academics, who themselves gain deadly powers. Coin’s aspirations become set on world domination, and he desires to make the memory of the old magic completely obsolete.

But of course, a Discworld book wouldn’t be Discworld without a quirky anthropomorphic object that is set to determine that fate of the world. So while Coin is busy becoming the new magical Anti-Christ, the hat belonging to the original university Archchancellor finds itself with our ragtag group of misfits: Rincewind – our favorite recurring wizard school dropout, Conina, an expert thief who is daughter of the legendary “Cohen the Barbarian,” the walking Luggage that we meet in The Color of Magic, and Nijel, who is an awkward aspiring barbarian. The hat, warning of the sourcerer’s powers (which can talk to the other characters via telekinesis), recruits Rincewind and Conina to deliver it to a city called Al Khali in the nation of Klatch. The hat ends up possessing the body of the vizier of Al Khali’s “Seriph,” igniting a massive magic war against the Sourcerer which further fucks with the fabric of reality. So with the Apocalypse now nigh, it becomes naturally up to Rincewind and co. to find a way to stop it.

I thought the beginning of this book was a bit confusing at times, and truthfully it took a while for me to get into this one. It’s really in the second half, when the more emotional beats start to bloom through the wacky ride of the narrative, that I started to remember why I love Terry Pratchett so much. I love when thoughtful satire or comedy comes back around to punch you in the heart – when it makes you feel deeply for the characters as they emerge on the other side of all the trials they’ve faced. Rincewind, the most “useless” and weakest wizard of the entire Discworld, recognizes that at the end of the day, while Coin is extremely powerful, he is still a literal child. And like any child, he only wants to be a “good boy” who listens to his parents and live up to what others want him to be. By being confronted by the empathetic Rincewind, Coin is able to break free of his father’s control and reverse the progression of the Apocalypse.

Something I also appreciated about the book was its frank, mature honesty. Rincewind has no true answers or comforting words for Coin’s destiny going forward. He himself hasn’t really been able to figure out what he wants to be or who he truly is – and sometimes that’s just part of adulthood: your story doesn’t always have a coherent throughline or fairytale ending. While a lot of the damage was undone, Coin did still kill people, and while it would have been nice for him to go on living a reformed life, his decision to move on to a different plane of reality was where his newfound conscience ultimately landed. So while the ending was “good,” as in most things were back to a previous state of normalcy, there was still a lingering heaviness to it all. I’m just really, really happy that the Librarian got to protect his book collection.

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