One thing that has always stood out to me about Rooney is her unique prose, which is at once laconic and ornate. She writes with great restraint—there’s nothing showy about her prose—but at the same time with remarkable beauty and a comforting rhythm.
“Growing up I was just like you—I had a rock star for a dad, was told to call my parents by their first names, had two invisible camels for playmates, and dreamed about my future following in Frank’s footsteps."
There can be no more American story than the story of how this gun, powered by politicians and marketers, became the high-performance weapon of choice by evildoers around the world.
The book goes a long way toward explaining why Seattle was so unprepared for what happened. (To be fair, no city could have properly prepared for an invasion on this scale—some 50,000 demonstrators.)Â
The most interesting material is not about how these three women teamed up and caught the person tormenting them, but how—and for how long—they enthusiastically submitted to their digitally-delivered torture.
This book goes far beyond discussions of political policies and rights. There is poetry, haiku, fiction, and nonfiction reminiscences by the imprisoned that highlight the shock and dislocation experienced by people in human, often oddly mundane, terms.
The result of her efforts is a great gift to historians. It is by turns inspiring, instructive, revealing, astonishing, shocking, and—when considered in contrast with present-day politics—almost unbearably depressing.
Transcendence, he wants us to know, is indispensable to survival, and—as Rushdie illustrates in the transcendent telling of this horrible story—attainable. But it also is hard to sustain.