Going Infinite: That one time I decided to be a crypto investor

In case you need proof that I ought not to be responsible for large sums of money, it was the winter of 2021 that I decided I’d become a crypto investor. Indeed, that was just before the giant crypto crash: good memory. Thankfully my risk tolerance is that of a hospital administrator or air traffic controller, which is to say: low. And if I hadn’t lost my $50 in the crash, I’d have lost it because I misplaced the book where I’d painstakingly written down all the passwords to the many layers of security I’d installed – because, you know, someone was going to hack me for my $53-turned-$13-turned-who-knows.

All this to say it was with some sense of proximity to the crime – what with being a crypto investor myself – that I read Michael Lewis’ Going Infinite which describes the rise and fall of crypto-investor-turned-exchange-turned-convict Sam Bankman-Fried. Lewis does a fantastic job of grabbing hold of the reader and making clear just how bananas crypto investing was (is?). A casual two billion here, an easy three billion over there. And while the descriptions of outrageous wealth are, of course, fascinating, I found the turn toward trying to understand Bankman-Fried the most compelling part of the book. What were his intentions? What were his aims? How did he come to be in charge of such riches? (I think the short answer is math camp).

Oh and the intentions of the effective altruists. What a bunch! Taking the idea that the purpose of an individual life is to save the most human lives / reduce the most suffering (at least that was my read on their movement) they figure the best route is to make as much money as possible so that money can be invested in different domains (AI research, pandemic planning, etc) where it can do the most good. (I’m sure there’s an argument for why this EA approach is better than a redistribution of wealth that would see investments in these worthy aims made by government rather than the billionaire class, but I digress).

Anyway, thanks to C. and M. for suggesting this one. Non-fiction FTW. I think C. told me there’s also a good accompanying podcast about the trial and sentencing, so if you get fully hooked on SBF you can listen to that, too.

As for me I’m on to reading about forest fires because ’tis the season for angst.

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Small Things Like These

Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These is lovely. A short – novella? – novel that follows Furlong, the small town coal-delivery man as he discovers truths both of his own past and of the horrors of the Catholic “mother and baby homes.” When Furlong discovers a young woman being held captive in a coal shed the nuns who have kept her there implicitly threaten to deny Furlong’s own daughters access to the Church-run school. Furlong must then decide between preserving the goodwill of the Church for his own family and rescuing – at least one – of these trapped women. Complicating his choice is Furlong’s status as a bastard himself, raised to ‘goodness’ through the mercy of a wealthy woman who allowed his own mother to stay with her despite her ‘fallen’ status.

What, the book asks, should we be willing to give up for a just cause? What personal sacrifice do we owe when institutional harm and state violence is being wreaked upon the innocent? How can we imagine ourselves inherently good or worthy or kind when so much of what we are and what we have owes to chance and circumstance? And so, with the privilege we do hold, what moral obligation do we have to use this privilege well?

For Furlong this is a question pondered by the fire with a decision that he recognizes as implicating those he loves best and. For the reader these are the questions that are not – as historical fiction always reminds us – of the past, but urgently present.

It is an excellent read and one offered on St. Patrick’s day for its very certain setting. Oh and to let you know it was adapted for TV with Cillian Murphy starring, so you know, that’s also a good reason to read it.

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Filed under Book Club, Booker Prize, Fiction, Prize Winner

The Talk: Excellent

I hadn’t heard of Darrin Bell before my mum suggested The Talk, but I can’t wait to spend more time with his work. The Talk is Bell’s memoir of growing up in amid racist structures and people and of his path to becoming a Pulitzer winning editorial cartoonist. A Künstlerroman for those collecting their literary terms. I wish I’d had it to recommend in a recent conversation with a white man who told me there were no racist police officers. Or that I was teaching a course that I could put it on the booklist for so that more white young people could hear early: racism is real and white supremacy is not an accident and you have responsibilities for change. And as Bell ends the book, so that more black young people could hear early: you are not alone. Alas, all I have is this humble platform on which to echo mum’s recommendation: go read The Talk!

Oh and if you needed more reason: it’s visually stunning.

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The Wreckage: Does indeed pull your heart apart

Michael Crummy wrote (another) lovely novel in The Wreckage. Set in Newfoundland (not yet part of Canada, triva folks!) during WWII this precise romance just… wrecks you (get it? GET IT). Wish Furey, Catholic, falls for Mercedes (Sadie) Parsons (Protestant) and her mother Won’t Have It. So they have some secret romps and then through a series of accidents get separated and oops Wish goes off an enlists and gets shipped off to fight the Japanese. *lots of spoilers follow*

Only to encounter this Japanese soldier, Nishino – born and raised in racist Vancouver – who is represented as sadistic with a particular cruelty toward Canadians (and friends of Canadians, like Wish). And so over the war Sadie waits, Wish gets by in a POW camp being tortured by Nishino and then witnesses the detonation of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. By the time Wish gets home he’s deeply changed by what he has done, seen and had done to him. It’s the sort of thing you know: effects of war and trauma, and yet somehow its made fresh in the decades of suffering that follow this one small, particular person, what is lost for both of them.

It does what historical fiction does best and shakes the snow globe of the present to let the reader see it as it is, but slightly different. And so with daily stories of horror and trauma around the world The Wreckage helped this reader begin to grasp the impossibility of scale of loss. If we humans can’t make sense of big numbers (I heard that somewhere, I know you have to) The Wreckage lets us see in this one man, this one couple, all that is destroyed and lost. And that we cannot look away.

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Filed under Bestseller, Canadian Literature, Fiction, Historical Fiction