Rebecca Weekly

In June our book club tackled Good Dirt by Charmaine Wilkerson, and it turned into one of those conversations where the book itself became almost secondary to the stories and experiences it inspired us to share.

At its heart, Good Dirt follows Ebby Freeman as she grapples with the murder of her brother, a tragedy that has shaped every aspect of her life. Running alongside her story is the history of an heirloom stoneware jar, passed down through generations beginning in slavery. The jar becomes a symbol of memory, resilience, and the complicated inheritance we all carry: not just the objects we preserve, but the stories, wounds, and identities that are handed from one generation to the next.

One of the things we all appreciated was the author’s gentle touch with difficult topics. The novel explores slavery, racism, grief, privilege, and identity without becoming overwhelming. By moving between historical and contemporary timelines, Wilkerson reminds us both how far society has come and how deeply the past continues to echo into the present. The result is a story that is emotional without feeling relentlessly heavy.

That said, we had mixed feelings about the storytelling itself. Several of us felt the premise was stronger than the execution. While Ebby’s journey carried the novel, some of the modern-day characters never quite developed into the fully realized people we wanted them to be. In contrast, the historical figures often felt richer and more memorable. We found ourselves wanting to spend more time with them, understanding not just what happened to them but who they became because of it.

Nearly everyone came back to the stoneware jar. It is, in many ways, the central character of the novel. Damaged but enduring, beautiful because of its imperfections, it carries generations of history forward. Yet we also wrestled with its symbolism. The family’s desire to protect this treasured object ultimately contributes to devastating consequences, raising an interesting question: when does preserving history become more important than protecting the people living in the present?

The most meaningful part of our discussion came when the conversation shifted from fiction to real life.

One member shared the experience of losing a child and reflected on how authentically Wilkerson portrayed grief. Ebby’s endless “if only…” thoughts–the impossible guilt that convinces us one small decision could have changed everything. He identified deeply with those feelings. Yet what resonated even more was the reminder that while we don’t choose the tragedies that happen to us, we do choose how we respond. Sometimes unimaginable loss fractures relationships. Sometimes, as was shared with our group, it becomes the very thing that strengthens them. There was something profoundly hopeful in hearing that surviving grief together can deepen love rather than diminish it.

As we talked, I realized this was the thread that connected so much of the novel. Trauma shapes us, but it doesn’t have to define us.

Having also read Wilkerson’s Black Cake, I recognized her continued fascination with multigenerational trauma and the invisible ways history continues to influence our lives. As the grandchild of Holocaust survivors, I found myself reflecting on how experiences we never personally lived through can still shape the way we see the world, the fears we inherit, and the choices we make. The novel doesn’t suggest we can simply leave those histories behind. Instead, it asks whether understanding them gives us the freedom to choose a different future.

Another part of our discussion centered on identity within families and relationships. The novel’s portrayal of an interracial marriage resonated with one member, particularly the subtle ways parental expectations and cultural assumptions continue to influence adult lives. It’s another reminder that identity is never just about who we are individually—it is also about the stories our families tell us, consciously and unconsciously, about who we should become.

Like many book club discussions, we didn’t all agree. Some thought the ending wrapped things up a little too neatly. Others were simply happy to see the characters find some measure of peace. But perhaps that’s beside the point.

The best books don’t always tell perfect stories. Sometimes they simply ask worthwhile questions.

Good Dirt left us reflecting on what we inherit, what we preserve, and what we choose to carry forward. We inherit joy and resilience alongside pain and trauma. We inherit objects, traditions, expectations, and memories. But inheritance is only the beginning of the story. What ultimately matters is what we build from that “good dirt”: the rich, complicated soil of our past and whether we can cultivate something hopeful for the generations that come after us.

As always, I walked away grateful not just for another good book, but for a group of thoughtful friends willing to bring their own experiences into the conversation. Those shared perspectives are what continue to make book club one of my favorite activities each month.

For May book club we tackled The Upswing, a sweeping look at the past 125 years of American history and an ambitious argument that societies move in cycles—from extreme individualism (“I”), to collective purpose (“We”), and back again.

The premise is simple: through decades of data on economics, politics, civic engagement, and culture, the authors argue that America experienced a dramatic upswing from the Gilded Age into the middle of the twentieth century. Wealth inequality declined. Civic organizations flourished. Political polarization eased. Americans became more likely to think in terms of shared responsibility than personal advancement. Beginning in the 1960s, however, those trends began reversing, leading us back toward a culture defined by individualism, inequality, and distrust.

What makes The Upswing memorable isn’t simply the historical analysis, it’s the conviction that because we’ve made this journey before, we can make it again. That optimism sparked a lively discussion in our group.

One observation that particularly resonated with the group was the authors’ analysis of language itself. They examined song lyrics over time and found a measurable shift from “we”-centered language to “I”-centered language beginning in the 1960s. It’s an elegant example of the book’s broader thesis: culture often changes gradually enough that we don’t notice it until someone graphs the trend.

That led naturally into a conversation about community.

One member described living on an island (literally) where neighbors naturally depend on one another more than many suburban communities do. Retirement for that member has become less about withdrawing and more about investing in relationships—hosting Thanksgiving dinners for friends, baking bread and pies, and delivering food to neighbors. The simple act of bringing someone a meal cuts through political differences. It reminds people that before we’re voters or consumers, we’re neighbors.

That point was particularly poignant to me: perhaps that’s what “we” looks like. Not grand national movements, but ordinary acts of care repeated enough times to become culture.

Another point shared from one of our members was from his MBA professor: after roughly two generations, societies tend to forget the lessons of major crises and repeat the same mistakes. That observation maps remarkably well onto the timeline presented in The Upswing. The people who lived through the Great Depression and World War II built institutions emphasizing cooperation, regulation, and broad-based prosperity. Their grandchildren inherited those institutions without inheriting the memories that created them. The result may be the pendulum swing the authors describe.

Several of us found ourselves wondering whether we’re living in what might someday be described as a “late-stage I” era. The phrase sounds ominous, but it captures something many of us feel: increasing concentration of wealth and power, declining trust in governments and institutions, and systems that seem designed to benefit those already holding influence. If that’s true, the obvious question becomes: how do ordinary people help start the next upswing?

One theme I kept returning to was how hopeful the book is compared to how I feel reading it today. The authors point to the corruption and inequality of the original Gilded Age as evidence that America has recovered from worse. Yet I found myself wondering whether our current moment is fundamentally different.

The corruption of the late 19th century was concentrated largely in monopolies, industrialists, and political machines. Today, those forces often feel intertwined with national political leadership itself. That distinction made it harder for me to fully embrace the book’s optimism.

Others shared a similar tension. One member described feeling nostalgic because he had lived through the height of the postwar “we” era. The book reminded him of the optimism and shared purpose of that period, yet it was difficult to imagine recreating it given today’s political climate.

Another member saw the book less as a prediction than as a recipe. Rather than promising that another upswing is inevitable, it outlines the ingredients that made one possible before: broader educational opportunity, more inclusive institutions, civic participation, and a willingness to prioritize long-term societal health over short-term individual gain.

Whether we choose to follow that recipe remains an open question. One perspective I especially appreciated challenged the idea that we’re living entirely in an age of “I.” The discussion connected the book to the concept of the Nash equilibrium: while individuals naturally pursue their own interests, societies often thrive when those interests become aligned with the common good. Perhaps the healthiest societies aren’t purely individualistic or purely collectivist, but continuously balancing both. That member also questioned whether we sometimes romanticize the 1950s and early 1960s. Were those decades really as unified as the data suggests? Or do we remember them selectively?

Even so, she appreciated that the book refused to be cynical. It argues that individual actions—bringing people together, building community, creating opportunities for connection—still matter. The pendulum isn’t moved only by the powerful or the wealthy.

No modern book club discussion would be complete without asking what artificial intelligence means in all of this. Would AI accelerate another “we” era by democratizing knowledge and creativity? Or would it deepen inequality by concentrating power even further among the companies that own the technology? Our group found itself split. Some saw enormous potential. Lower costs, broader access to expertise, and new creative tools could lift many people at once. Others worried that automation and robotics could dramatically reduce the number of people needed to produce economic value, further concentrating wealth and influence.

Several of us rejected the familiar answer that “it’s just a tool.” Tools reshape societies. The Internet was also “just a tool,” yet it fundamentally changed how we communicate, organize, and consume information, often in ways few anticipated.

One particularly interesting observation was that the tremendous prosperity of the 1950s and early 1960s may also have planted the seeds of the subsequent return to individualism. Success can breed complacency. If that’s true, perhaps today’s AI revolution will contain the seeds of both greater fragmentation and greater connection.

Another member reflected on something more personal: today’s AI systems often feel strangely affirming, eager to praise and validate us. While pleasant in the moment, that kind of interaction risks substituting simulated connection for genuine human relationships. If our need for authentic community is strong enough, perhaps that tension itself becomes part of the next upswing. We may eventually rediscover that technology cannot replace the richness of real people gathered around a table, sharing a meal, baking bread for a neighbor, or wrestling together with difficult ideas.

I finished The Upswing on my flight home from London and found myself torn between admiration and skepticism. I admired the historical scope, the careful use of data, and the authors’ belief that societies are capable of renewal. I wanted to believe their optimism.

But I also found myself looking for evidence that the conditions for another upswing already exist. The book points to civic organizations, reform-minded leaders, broad-based institutions, and growing social trust as early indicators of change. Those aren’t the signals I naturally see when I look at today’s headlines.

Perhaps that’s because we’re still in the middle of the story.

Or perhaps, as one member suggested, the book isn’t offering hope so much as a roadmap. It reminds us that the last upswing wasn’t inevitable. It happened because countless people chose, over decades, to build institutions, communities, and relationships that valued “we” over “I.” If that’s true, maybe the next upswing won’t begin with a sweeping political movement.

Maybe it starts by baking a pie for a neighbor.

For April’s book club session we read Nancy Kress’s Beggars in Spain. I first read Beggars in Spain a while ago, and it is fairly rare that we choose a book for book club that isn’t new to me. The book was written before the internet had fully taken hold—before we understood just how profoundly technology would reshape not only how we work, but how we assign value to people. And yet, for a novel so rooted in its moment, it has proven strangely durable in my own thinking. My mind has returned to it again and again, particularly at inflection points—whenever a new technological shift begins to redraw the boundaries of who contributes, who thrives, and who is left behind.

Nancy Kress imagines a world divided by a single engineered advantage: the ability to live without sleep. The Sleepless are more productive, more economically valuable, and—unsurprisingly—more powerful. It is a clean, almost clinical premise, and that clarity is both the book’s strength and, at times, its limitation. Written before the complexity of the internet economy, platform dynamics, and algorithmic influence, the novel presents inequality in stark, binary terms. There are those who can produce more, and those who cannot. The resulting social fracture is direct, ideological, and at times almost too neatly drawn.

Kress anchors this divide in a question that echoes a familiar moral frame:

“If you beg from those who have nothing to give, is it any less wrong than stealing from those who have more than enough?”

The title itself gestures toward this tension—what is owed, what can be given, and what happens when need and capacity no longer align. The Sleepless are not simply advantaged; they exist in a system where traditional expectations of mutual obligation begin to break down.

And yet, beneath that simplicity lies the reason the book still lingers. The Sleepless are not merely more efficient; they fundamentally disrupt the social contract. If productivity becomes the primary measure of worth, what happens to those who cannot—or will not—compete on those terms? What obligations, if any, do the advantaged have to the rest? These questions feel even more urgent now than they did when I first encountered them. Today, the divide is less about genetics and more about access—to data, to compute, to systems of leverage that amplify certain individuals and organizations far beyond others. But the underlying tension is the same.

What makes Beggars in Spain particularly compelling is that it refuses easy answers. The Sleepless are not villains, nor are they purely sympathetic. They are, in many ways, rational actors responding to a system that rewards their capabilities. The discomfort comes from recognizing that their logic is not entirely wrong—and that the consequences of that logic are deeply destabilizing.

At the same time, the novel does feel dated in its execution. The characters often serve as vessels for ideas rather than fully realized individuals, and the social dynamics lack the messy, networked complexity that defines modern life. Conflict unfolds more like a structured debate than an emergent property of overlapping systems and incentives. For some folks in our book club, this made the narrative feel somewhat distant, even as the themes remain sharply relevant.

But perhaps that distance is part of its value. By stripping the problem down to its essentials, Kress exposes a core question that continues to resurface in different forms: how do we build a society that remains humane in the face of uneven capability? When technological or biological advances create outsized gains for some, how do we prevent that divergence from calcifying into permanent division?

If anything, the book reads now less as a prediction and more as a recurring thought experiment—one that replays each time a new technology reshapes the landscape. Whether the dividing line is sleeplessness, artificial intelligence, or something yet to come, the challenge remains: how do we ensure that progress does not come at the expense of cohesion?

That is why, decades later, Beggars in Spain continues to echo. Not because it got every detail right, but because it understood the shape of human nature and a question we would keep asking.

For March’s book club we read Aaron Sorkin’s 1929:  Inside the Greatest Crash in Wall Street History–and How It Shattered a Nation. There was something almost too on-the-nose reading 1929 while sitting in New York City, speaking at a conference focused on the future of data centers—how fast they must scale, how much capital they require, and how insatiable the demand for AI infrastructure has become.

It felt less like reading history and more like watching a pattern repeat itself in real time.

I didn’t love the book. It’s highly stylized, driven by Sorkin’s signature rapid-fire dialogue, and while in some books that works, given that this occurred nearly 100 years ago there was something not-quite legitimate about it. The voicing didn’t match the age; at times it feels more like a performance rather than a deep exploration of the history and forces behind the 1929 market crash. I kept wanting more grounding, more synthesis, more of the “this is what actually happened and why it matters” that strong narrative nonfiction delivers. Instead, it offers fragments—compelling, articulate, but ultimately inconclusive.

And yet, despite that frustration, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Because what 1929 does capture—perhaps unintentionally—is the power of narrative itself. Not just the story of the market, but the story about the market. The media voices, the confident assertions, the polished explanations that don’t just describe reality—they shape it.

In Sorkin’s world, everyone sounds certain. The language is crisp, persuasive, almost irresistible. And that’s the point, whether the book fully realizes it or not: when enough authoritative voices repeat a story, it becomes truth-adjacent. It becomes investable.

Sitting in conference rooms in New York, listening to conversations about AI infrastructure—about exponential demand, about the race to build, about the inevitability of growth—it was hard not to hear echoes of that same tone. Different domain, same cadence. The certainty. The momentum. The underlying assumption that this time, the scale is justified.

And maybe it is.

But we’ve seen this before.

The parallels aren’t about predicting a crash—they’re about recognizing a pattern:

• A transformative technology reshaping the economy
• Massive capital flowing into infrastructure to support it
• Media and market narratives reinforcing the inevitability of growth
• A feedback loop where belief drives investment, and investment reinforces belief

Today, that narrative is amplified not just by traditional media, but by social media and algorithmic ecosystems. The velocity is higher. The reach is broader. The line between analysis and amplification is blurrier. And increasingly, AI itself is both the subject of the hype cycle and a participant in spreading it.

What 1929 hints at—but never fully dissects—is how dangerous that convergence can be. Not because the underlying innovation isn’t real, but because the narrative around it can outpace reality. Confidence becomes consensus. Consensus becomes momentum. And momentum becomes hard to question.

Reading the book in isolation, I found it lacking. Reading it in context—in the middle of a modern infrastructure boom, surrounded by conversations that felt eerily familiar—it became something else entirely. Less a definitive account, and more a mirror.

A reminder that markets don’t just run on fundamentals. They run on stories.

And we are very, very good at telling ourselves the ones we want to believe.

For February’s book club session we read Lula Dean’s Little Library of Banned Books by Kirsten Miller. The novel is an undeniably entertaining using humor and satire to explore the politics of censorship in a small Southern town. The premise is clever: after Lula Dean campaigns to remove “dangerous” books from the local public library, she installs a Little Free Library stocked with morally “wholesome” titles. Unknown to her, the books inside the covers have been secretly replaced with the very works she fought to ban. As neighbors borrow from the library, they encounter stories that challenge their assumptions and quietly reshape their lives.

The book shines in its accessibility and wit. Miller writes with a light, quick-moving style that makes the novel easy to fly through, and there’s genuine humor in the central conceit—an accidental underground circulation system for banned literature operating right under Lula Dean’s nose. It offers plenty of moments to reflect about censorship, community dynamics, and the power of the written word, which is part of why we were drawn to it as a book club. In a world full of extremely concerning themes, this felt escapist in the most pleasant of ways.

Unfortunately, the novel’s ambition is also its greatest weakness. Miller populates the story with a large cast of townspeople, each representing a different social issue currently shaping American cultural debates: historical monuments, generational divides between parents and college-aged children, sexuality and religion, white supremacy, antisemitism, spousal abuse, sexual assault, transgender identity, and more. Each thread appears briefly as a vignette tied to a particular banned book.

While the intention seems to be a broad portrait of how literature can affect many lives, the sheer number of characters and themes means that no single storyline has time to fully develop. Characters appear, confront a life-altering realization, and disappear again in just a few pages. As a result, it can be difficult to emotionally anchor to anyone in particular and their stories can come across as satirical rather than realistic, poignant, or even plausible.

In many ways the novel begins to feel less like a traditional narrative and more like a collection of linked short stories orbiting a single device—the little library. Each individual story hints at a potentially powerful novel of its own, but trying to tell ten such stories at once leaves most of them feeling compromised.

Because of this, the book sometimes reads like an extended satire, deliberately packing nearly every contemporary cultural debate into one small town. That satirical breadth has value—it highlights how polarized and overlapping today’s social issues can be—but it also keeps the story from achieving the depth or emotional focus that one or two of those narratives might have provided on their own.

In our book club discussion, this tension between clever premise and narrative overload overshadowed other topics that some of the vignettes might have elicited. We found humor in the characters, and some people reflected on a recurring theme that the strength t0 fight injustice requires the greatest sacrifice from the most disempowered in a population, a sad truth. I wish I could say the novel was a sharp satirical panorama of modern culture wars, but I think it was a story that tried to hold too many issues at once and at times it felt cacophonous.

Still it’s a fast, humorous read that sparks conversation, even if it sometimes sacrifices character depth in favor of thematic scope and I’m sure you will enjoy chatting about it with others as we did.

January’s read, Everything Is Tuberculosis, landed with the kind of narrative force that feels both investigative and deeply human.What Everything Is Tuberculosis does so well is invite us in gently through the author’s first person story, and then slowly reveal through weaving in history how much of our understanding of disease—and responsibility—is shaped by stories we’ve been told rather than the truth.

Interestingly I found it tickled some of the same subtle narrative sleight of hand as Why Fish Don’t Exist: the sense that the writer is turning a jewel in the light, showing us one facet and then another, until we realize the object itself is not what we assumed. Where Why Fish Don’t Exist questioned the categories we impose on the natural world, Everything Is Tuberculosis questions the categories we impose on people, suffering, and responsibility.

Both books remind us that the real danger lies not in chaos, but in the false order we cling to.

In Everything Is Tuberculosis, Henry is the living contradiction that breaks the narrative open. He is powerful not in the sense of authority, but in the way he dissolves abstraction. The book’s political and scientific commentary could have remained academic, but Henry does not allow that. His life, observations, anger, and humor drag the story out of the realm of theory and into lived truth.

Henry embodies everything the book wants us to understand:

• Tuberculosis is not “a disease of the poor.”
• It is not “a relic of the past.”
• It is not “someone else’s problem.”
• And it is certainly not a medical issue separate from politics.

Through Henry’s eyes, we see how systems built on tidy categories—who is deserving, who is safe, who is someone we should care about—break real people. His presence forces the reader to confront the stakes not as statistics, but as human consequences.

One of the boldest parts of the book is its unwillingness to pretend that TB persists for biological reasons alone. Its persistence is a political choice—shaped by policies on housing, nutrition, immigration, incarceration, medical access, and global funding priorities.

It’s not that the world can’t eliminate TB. It’s that we haven’t chosen to. This is where the narrative connection becomes clear:
Everything Is Tuberculosis and Why Fish Don’t Exist both challenge the systems we rely on to make meaning. But while Why Fish Don’t Exist destabilized our assumptions about nature, Everything Is Tuberculosis destabilizes our assumptions about justice.

Our book club discussion homed in on the painful truths that public health had an important moment in the Covid19 pandemic, and that we missed that opportunity to gain trust in our systems by rushing “antidotes”, indemnifying pharmaceutical companies, and not empowering scientific review. Ultimately, what could have been an opportunity for society to understand that global health is human health actually further undermined faith in vaccines and the public health system.

For me this book created a sharpened awareness that if we want to improve the world, we have to be willing to see it without the categories that keep us comfortable. TB doesn’t persist because it’s inevitable. It persists because our labels make it easy for its victims to become invisible. Recognizing that is uncomfortable—but it’s also the beginning of changing it.

Rounding out the year, for our final book club session we read Apple in China. This book landed with unusual force for me, in part because it intersects so directly with my professional and personal life. I’ve spent my entire career in or adjacent to the semiconductor industry—in hardware design and development, electronic design automation, Infrastructure—where outsourcing, yield, and supply-chain orchestration are not abstract concepts but daily operational realities. My children are in a Mandarin Immersion school, a decision we made in part because of the years I spent watching how essential language and cultural fluency are to doing business across Taiwan and mainland China. With that backdrop this book became less a historical account than a parallel journey through an ecosystem I know well. Reading it now when I travel to China far less, but amid tariffs, export controls, and a rapidly shifting geopolitical climate, I found myself looking at the obvious choices made then through an evolving and more judgmental lens—especially as AI accelerates the stakes of global technological interdependence.

In the book Patrick McGee examines how Apple, once a quintessentially U.S.-based, design-driven company, came to rely almost entirely on China for manufacturing its most important products, particularly the iPhone. This evolution was not a simple story of cost-cutting or opportunistic outsourcing. Over decades, Apple invested hundreds of billions of dollars into Chinese manufacturing infrastructure, embedding itself so deeply that its operational success became inseparable from China’s industrial ecosystem. McGee argues persuasively that this investment didn’t just make Apple extraordinarily wealthy—it played a meaningful role in helping China build one of the most advanced manufacturing and technology systems in the world.

What gives the book its authority is the depth of reporting behind it. Drawing on more than 200 interviews with former Apple executives, engineers, manufacturing design specialists, and supply-chain insiders, McGee reconstructs the behind-the-scenes decisions that shaped Apple’s China strategy. What emerges is not a single dramatic turning point, but a series of rational, incremental choices—each defensible on their own—that collectively created profound long-term consequences for global technology, corporate risk, and geopolitics.

At the core of the narrative is what McGee frames as a Faustian bargain: speed and scale in exchange for dependency. Apple chose China because, at the time, only China could deliver the combination of labor availability, cost structure, responsiveness, and sheer manufacturing scale required to produce iPhones by the tens of millions. Over time, this led Apple to shutter or neglect much of its manufacturing footprint elsewhere. What began as a mutually beneficial partnership evolved into something far more entangled. Apple didn’t just manufacture in China; it became structurally dependent on Chinese suppliers, logistics networks, and political realities, which then meaningfully changed both at home and abroad.

Crucially, the book emphasizes that Apple didn’t merely outsource production—it transferred know-how. Apple engineers worked shoulder to shoulder with Chinese factory teams, co-inventing manufacturing processes, refining yields, and solving problems at breathtaking speed. In doing so, Apple helped cultivate not just factories, but skills, systems, and human capital. McGee makes the case that this transfer of tacit knowledge—far more than patents or blueprints—laid the groundwork for Chinese firms to climb the value chain and eventually compete globally. From that perspective, Apple’s supply chain becomes not just an operational asset, but a training ground.

The geopolitical implications of this evolution are where the book feels most urgent. McGee argues that by rooting its manufacturing and much of its business in an authoritarian state with rising global ambitions, Apple introduced systemic risks—not only to itself, but to global supply chains and U.S. technological leadership more broadly. In this telling, Apple’s rise is inseparable from China’s emergence as a global tech power. The book reframes Apple’s China strategy not just as a corporate success story, but as a geopolitical event with nation-scale ripple effects.

At the same time, Apple in China does not go unchallenged. Some critics view its framing as alarmist, arguing that it overstates the extent to which Apple “trained” China or underplays China’s own domestic policies, state planning, and broader economic forces. Others note that while Apple accelerated China’s rise, it was hardly the sole driver. McGee also touches on labor conditions and ethical compromises, revealing how profit motives sometimes eclipsed responsibility—adding another layer of moral complexity to decisions often justified as operational necessities.

For me, the book’s greatest strength lies in how it complicates the narrative of globalization. Outsourcing and global supply chains brought Apple extraordinary efficiency and profit—but they also diffused control, leverage, and long-term strategic autonomy. Decisions made in the name of convenience and cost optimization ended up shaping global politics, technology competition, and national security debates. Supply chains, the book makes clear, are not neutral. They are strategy.

Reading this now, with AI reshaping both demand and dependency across hardware, infrastructure, and energy, the lessons feel especially salient. As AI systems grow more resource-intensive and geopolitically sensitive, the risks McGee outlines—concentrated capability, opaque dependencies, and misaligned incentives—are no longer theoretical. They are actively unfolding.

Apple in China ultimately asks readers to confront uncomfortable truths: that corporate decisions can alter global power balances; that efficiency can mask fragility; and that ignoring geopolitics is itself a political choice. For anyone working in technology—or raising the next generation who will inherit its consequences—this book is less a warning siren than a long, steady alarm. It doesn’t offer easy solutions, but it makes one thing unmistakably clear: the systems we build to move faster and cheaper can also lock us into futures we never fully intended to choose, so buyer beware.

For October’s book club session we read Station Eternity by Mur Lafferty. Honestly, this book was not great, which is a rare takeaway for me (reading is one of my favorite pastimes and I cannot think of a time I didn’t finish a book I started or find something genuinely enjoyable about it). True to form, I will start with what I loved: the author’s imagination. The world-building in this novel is inventive, playful, and frequently smart in quiet, understated ways. The central premise—a sentient space station serving as a diplomatic and social hub for dozens of alien species—is fresh and full of promise. Each species is given its own logic, culture, communication style, and relationship to humanity, and the book shines most brightly when it allows those differences to collide.

Some of the most engaging moments come from seeing humanity reflected through alien eyes. Humans are perceived as emotional, volatile, and strangely self-destructive—qualities that both fascinate and alarm the station’s nonhuman residents. These observations feel sharp and thoughtful rather than judgmental, and they offer a compelling lens on first contact, cultural misunderstanding, and the uneasy power dynamics that emerge when humans are no longer the dominant or even the most rational species in the room. I also appreciated the glimpses of Earth-side politics: the factions, opportunists, and shadowy interests eager to control or manipulate humanity’s role in this new interstellar ecosystem. Those threads hinted at a much larger, more complex story unfolding just beyond the page.

Another standout element is the station itself. Station Eternity isn’t merely a setting—it’s a character. Its sentience, emotional responses, and symbiotic relationships with its inhabitants add a layer of intimacy and strangeness that sets the book apart. The idea of a living structure that cares, reacts, and occasionally misjudges its residents is one of the novel’s most compelling achievements, and I found myself wishing the story had lingered there longer.

Where the book faltered for me was in its central murder mystery. Rather than feeling integral to the story, the mystery felt like an imposed framework—one that went through the expected motions of bodies, suspects, and reveals without the investigative rigor or narrative momentum that makes a mystery satisfying. The clues didn’t accumulate in a way that invited real engagement, and the eventual solution didn’t feel earned so much as delivered. For a novel so rich in speculative ideas and alien psychology, the mystery itself felt oddly flat and underdeveloped, as though it had been bolted onto a much more interesting science fiction novel rather than arising organically from the world.

To be fair, I’m not a devoted murder-mystery reader, and it’s entirely possible I wasn’t the ideal audience for that aspect of the book. But even accounting for that bias, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Station Eternity would have been far stronger if it had trusted its own strengths more fully. The politics of alien coexistence, the emotional isolation of being human in a mostly non-human society, the station’s evolving consciousness—those elements felt alive, layered, and full of unrealized potential. Instead of elevating them, the mystery often seemed to weigh them down.

In the end, Station Eternity struck me as a fascinating world trapped inside a less-than-fascinating plot. I didn’t dislike it because it failed to imagine boldly—it absolutely did—but because it seemed to pull its punches on the very ideas that made it unique. I came away wishing Lafferty had written a different book set in the same universe: one more focused on the strange, political, emotional, and philosophical implications of shared space, rather than a mystery that never quite justified its place at the center of the story.

For September’s book club session we read Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides. This book is both an epic of endurance and a quiet indictment of war itself. In recounting the January 1945 raid on the Cabanatuan prison camp in the Philippines, Sides tells a story that feels almost mythic in its bravery while remaining grounded in the brutal physical and psychological realities faced by those who lived it. This tale is not clean in the recounting of heroism or triumphant in its declaration of victory. It is a story of bodies pushed beyond reason, of men surviving on will alone, and of courage that emerges not in spite of horror, but directly because of it.

At the heart of the book are the prisoners of war held at Cabanatuan—American and Allied soldiers who had already survived the Bataan Death March, an ordeal so punishing it stripped thousands of their lives and nearly all of their dignity. By the time the narrative reaches the camp, these men are no longer soldiers in any conventional sense. They are emaciated, diseased, and traumatized, surviving on starvation rations and living with the daily expectation of death. What Sides captures with devastating clarity is not only their physical decline, but the fragile psychological scaffolding that keeps them alive: routines, friendships, shared memories, and the stubborn refusal to surrender hope, even when hope feels irrational.

Interwoven with this narrative of slow annihilation is the story of the rescuers—U.S. Army Rangers, Alamo Scouts, and Filipino guerrillas—moving through enemy-held territory with the knowledge that time is running out. As General MacArthur’s forces advance across the Philippines, intelligence suggests that the Japanese may execute their remaining prisoners before retreating. The rescue mission is conceived not as a strategic necessity, but as a moral one: a declaration that these men, long written off as lost, still matter.

The planning and execution of the raid reads like a war thriller, but one weighted with consequence. The Rangers crawl for hours through open grasslands, exposed and silent, knowing that a single mistake could doom not only themselves but the prisoners they are trying to save. Filipino resistance fighters—too often sidelined in World War II narratives—play a critical role, guiding the Americans, securing escape routes, and risking reprisals against their own communities. The raid itself is swift, violent, and terrifying. It succeeds not because of overwhelming force, but because of discipline, coordination, and an almost unbearable willingness to accept personal risk.

The most haunting moments come after the gunfire fades. The prisoners are too weak to flee. Many must be carried on improvised stretchers or supported as they stagger through the darkness. The rescuers, already exhausted, refuse to leave anyone behind. In these scenes, Sides reveals the profound moral weight that underpins the entire mission: the belief that abandonment is a greater failure than death itself.

Ghost Soldiers ultimately becomes a meditation on endurance—on how much suffering the human body and spirit can absorb, and on the bonds that form under extreme pressure. Yet it never romanticizes war. The bravery on display exists alongside unspeakable cruelty; the rescue shines all the brighter because it emerges from such darkness. What makes the book linger is this tension: awe at human resilience, paired with horror at the systems and decisions that made such suffering inevitable.

Like Unbroken and other narratives of survival under unimaginable strain, Ghost Soldiers is a tribute—to those who endured captivity, to those who risked everything to bring them home, and to the power of remembrance itself. As the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, books like this and Man’s Search for Meaning remind me of how small any trial I endure is by comparison. We can be stronger than we know—ultimately how you endure is your choice. I highly recommend this book—it rescues not only men from a prison camp, but a chapter of history that deserves to be held, examined, and never forgotten.

I’m woefully behind on posting because life has been busy to an extent that I find hard to capture in words. I’m sitting here on New Year’s Eve, at a coffee shop, delightfully unencumbered by…anything, and finally taking my many notes and thoughts about books I’ve read this year and writing them up.

For August, our Book Club read the terribly popular Project Hail Mary. This book is, at heart, a celebration of the belief that science—applied rigorously, creatively, and with a sense of humor—can solve almost any problem. It is also a quintessential example of Andy Weir’s particular brand of hard science fiction: meticulous technical speculation, nerdy joy in discovery, and a tone that invites the reader to marvel alongside the protagonist. For those of us who grew up as space-admiring/aspiring nerds in the 1980s (myself very much included), the novel is a deeply lovable romp through physics, chemistry, biology, and engineering—even if its emotional and psychological dimensions sometimes feel underdeveloped. As with The Martian and Artemis, Weir’s emphasis on scientific accuracy and problem-solving captures hearts and minds, even when the characters themselves can feel more functional than fully realized.

The story takes place in a near future—close enough that all of the science feels contemporary—where junior high school science teacher Dr. Ryland Grace wakes up alone on the interstellar spacecraft Hail Mary with total amnesia. He soon learns that he is the sole survivor of a three-person crew sent twelve light-years from Earth to the Tau Ceti system on a one-way mission to save humanity. Earth’s sun has been infected with Astrophage, a microbial life form that feeds on stellar energy and migrates between stars via infrared emissions known as the Petrova Line. As Astrophage dims the Sun, humanity has only a few decades before agricultural collapse, mass famine, and eventual extinction.

Grace’s task is brutally simple in concept and terrifying in execution: determine why Tau Ceti is unaffected by Astrophage and send that information back to Earth via unmanned probes. The Hail Mary itself is a sacrifice ship—there is not enough fuel for a return journey—and the novel alternates between Grace’s present-day struggle to survive and his gradually returning memories of how he became involved in the mission at all.

Those memories introduce Eva Stratt, arguably one of the most interesting characters in the book. As the UN-appointed director of Project Hail Mary, Stratt is granted total authority and legal immunity, and she uses it without hesitation. Her moral calculus is chilling but compelling: conscription of unwilling experts, international coercion, and even the nuclear bombing of Antarctic ice shelves are all justified if they buy humanity more time. Stratt is not portrayed as cruel, but as ruthlessly pragmatic—someone who accepts the moral cost of survival without flinching. In contrast, Grace’s role in these flashbacks highlights one of his central flaws: his passivity. He enables Stratt’s choices through cooperation and intellectual brilliance, while systematically turning a blind eye to his personal responsibility for their ethical consequences.

At Tau Ceti, the novel truly comes alive when Grace encounters an alien spacecraft—the Blip-A—and its sole surviving pilot, a spider-like Eridian engineer Grace names Rocky. Rocky is easily the most interesting character in the book. Sightless, reliant on sonar, encased in mineral armor, and breathing an ammonia-rich atmosphere, Rocky is both profoundly alien and instantly relatable. His intelligence, perfect memory, extraordinary engineering skill, and deeply ingrained sense of cooperation make him a natural counterpart to Grace. Where Grace improvises and theorizes, Rocky builds. Where Grace jokes to deflect anxiety, Rocky responds with earnest curiosity. Their growing friendship—built through painstaking communication, shared scientific puzzles, and genuine affection—is the emotional core of the novel.

Rocky is on a parallel mission: Astrophage threatens his home system, 40 Eridani, just as it threatens Earth. Together, Grace and Rocky investigate Tau Ceti’s Petrova Line and the planet Adrian, narrowly surviving catastrophic accidents and even exposing themselves to each other’s lethal atmospheres in acts of mutual sacrifice. These scenes underscore one of the book’s strongest themes: cooperation across difference as a survival strategy, not just for individuals, but for entire species.

Grace’s recovered memories reveal the final, damning truth about his own character. After the original crew members—Martin DuBois and Annie Shapiro—are killed in an accident, Stratt forces Grace onto the mission against his will. When he refuses to volunteer, she drugs him with an amnesia-inducing agent and has him loaded onto the ship unconscious. Grace’s shame over this cowardice haunts him in the present timeline, particularly as his actions in space repeatedly demonstrate extraordinary courage, ingenuity, and self-sacrifice.

The ultimate scientific breakthrough—the discovery of Astrophage’s natural predator, Taumoeba, and the engineering of a nitrogen-resistant strain capable of saving both human and Eridian stars—perfectly encapsulates Weir’s thesis: complex, existential problems can be solved through persistence, experimentation, and collaboration. Yet the emotional resolution is more ambiguous. When Grace realizes that his solution may have stranded Rocky, he chooses to abandon his own chance at survival to save his friend. It is the bravest decision he makes in the entire novel—and one that finally feels unambiguous, indicating he has grown through the harrowing experience and friendship he built.

The novel ends with Grace living on Erid, teaching science to young Eridians—a full-circle return to the role that once gave him joy. Earth, we learn, has been saved; the Sun has recovered. But the state of humanity itself remains unresolved. The mission took nearly the entire window before agricultural collapse, and Grace’s choice not to return conveniently spares him from confronting both his earlier cowardice and his complicity in Stratt’s morally catastrophic decisions. In that sense, the ending feels emotionally evasive, even as it is narratively satisfying.

Ultimately, I loved Project Hail Mary. As hard science fiction, it is enormously fun, generous to its readers, and infused with genuine wonder. But I also wished for more: more confrontation, more internal reckoning, and a deeper evolution of Grace as a character. He begins and ends the story in essentially the same emotional place—defined by teaching, avoidance, and intellectual problem-solving—while the most compelling moral and emotional arcs belong to Rocky and Stratt. It’s an incredibly fun book, but one that hints at richer counter-narratives it never fully explores.