Well, it’s a good thing Dermansky is coming out with a new novel, since I now have none left. Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait until Spring! You know Well, it’s a good thing Dermansky is coming out with a new novel, since I now have none left. Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait until Spring! You know those authors you can always turn to and know exactly what you’re getting? Dermansky is one of those for me, someone who can immerse me when distracted, delight and entertain, all while addressing something deep.
Here she explores romantic and sexual exploitation of women with her usual innocent characters, exposing hypocrisy and nuance in predator and prey alike. She gives enough distance and humor to maintain a light touch, dropping in the pathos in bite-sized surprise. I felt like the guilty listener of neighborhood gossip.
I did find the chapters from the male characters’ POVs to not be as engrossing as the females.’ They felt necessary, they just had less of a magnetic pull. At the start, her writing was so sharp that it revealed much from what was not said. As it progressed, it gave me more, and I settled into the comfort of knowing all was going to be ok. ...more
This was perfect for audio given its tone of conversational vignettes. It felt like an interesting and clever friend was sharing various thoughts withThis was perfect for audio given its tone of conversational vignettes. It felt like an interesting and clever friend was sharing various thoughts with me around the deeper, more troubling themes of aging, death, friendship and intimacy. It entertained as the true substance emerged. Sometimes those we know peripherally become our biggest allies.
I like the way Nunez writes. I first heard her read in person from The Friend, and I loved that. If you haven’t read her yet, that one was better for me. But her artistry is here, too, and I look forward to reading her again. And as much as her writing lends itself well to audio, it still makes a greater impact on the page....more
Batuman has one of the most uniquely enjoyable voices for her character, Selin, in both this and The Idiot. She’s one of the funniest authors I’ve 3.5
Batuman has one of the most uniquely enjoyable voices for her character, Selin, in both this and The Idiot. She’s one of the funniest authors I’ve read. A lot of the humor comes from Selin’s constant commentary on her own behavior, juxtaposing an awareness beyond her years with an inability to be anything but a teen.
If you’ve read The Idiot, this one picks up RIGHT where we left off, and like many sequels, felt like diminishing returns. On the other hand, I enjoyed spending time with Selin so much in The Idiot, that I had to control myself from picking this one up immediately after, so I could wait for my wonderful buddy, Charles. Charles went into this without having read the first one, and it was great to see it through his fresh experience as I was reading. I could see how reading these in the reverse order could work well for a reader, first introduced to such a smart, funny, lost-but-strong and likable character, and then getting more of a plot to lead you through in the first. But if you need order, the order is clear, and I can’t help wondering from the ending of this one if Batuman will bless us with a third.
Selin is a student at Harvard, an American with strong family ties to Turkey. In the first, she visits Hungary, and I very much enjoyed the comparisons and bits of history as Selin works things out. In this one, she returns to Turkey as a writer of a travel guide that focuses away from the beaten path. We get to see her with her Grandmother, and we see her navigate the advances of strange men. There’s lots here about culture, privilege, and womanhood, all through the eyes of a whip-smart innocent. If you like a good coming of age novel, there’s so much to appreciate here: lots of great observations and laugh-out-loud musings, lots of hurt, helplessness, self-loathing, joy, celebrations, new adventures, and interesting friends. It does lack plot. Now, I must confess that at the start I was simultaneously reading Kevin Wilson’s, Now is Not the Time to Panic, which moves like a freight train, so by comparison this felt more like fragmented thoughts (and interesting to me, this was way funnier, even though I also enjoy Wilson’s humor). All that said, I hope she does write a third book about Selin—after all, Selin is just getting started....more
I Love Dick is both a novel and not a novel. It’s an exploration of the roles and dynamics between the sexes when they want each other. Ultimately, itI Love Dick is both a novel and not a novel. It’s an exploration of the roles and dynamics between the sexes when they want each other. Ultimately, it’s a work of surrender to both sexual and artistic obsession.
The story starts when Chris Kraus, author and protagonist, is failing to meet expectations of herself as a filmmaker, is dulled and warn by her marriage, and suddenly comes alive in the presence of a stranger. That awakening consumes her and drives the action of the book. But it also calls the book into being because Chris finds the story telling itself: first in the form of letters to her obsession (yes, his name is Dick); next in letters from her husband to Dick acknowledging that obsession (yes, the husband gets a say); and then in written accounts of how this affects their marriage (suddenly they find themselves able to have real conversations again). All this is funneled into new creative territory for Chris, now part memoir as well as novel, and we readers hold the project in our hands. The artist has managed to capture one of the most vibrant shifts in her life in what feels like real time.
Rarely do we record the heightened moments in our lives while they’re in motion; mostly we need time to make sense of things. Yet time creates a shift in our angle of experience, and we lose the immediacy. While many prefer distance and reflection, to me the immediacy of works like I Love Dick is part of our lifeblood, the writer inviting the reader smack-into-the-middle of their unfolding. For some, that’s the ultimate act of intimacy.
You know those kitchen-sex scenes where a couple gets so hot for each other they just shove aside everything unneeded to make room for what matters, what must happen, between them? Well, although I’ve never had kitchen sex, I’ve experienced this surge while creating artwork: there’s nothing to do but give in. What is that engine inside us that drives us towards one thing or another? Do we fool ourselves into thinking that we even have a choice?
In this way, Kraus captures something at once scientific and spiritual: what makes us who we are in each moment? Why do we do the things we do? Is certain movement in our lives inevitable, and our only choices to either go with the flow, or wrestle it into some other shape along the way?
I’m glad Chris Kraus moved towards this, and maybe I’m even grateful for how she wrestled it into something else. I’m not sure she and Dick were ever a love match, but I will say her commitment to her art eclipsed any chance of that. “But you don’t know me,” Dick says more than once. Has a lover ever said that to you? How much do we need to know?
This work lays bare not only the objectification of women, but also of men. Dick becomes the one unseen and used, any intimacy eclipsed by Chris’ act of creation. What’s more interesting is how she sacrifices herself for her art. Is it a human need to carve out one place where we can truly surrender? Is it easier to surrender to a stranger?
There’s much more to this work than what I’ve described. Most of the exploration feels cerebral, at times even academic, despite the life force underneath. The author inserts facts about Jennifer Harbury’s time in Guatemala in the 1980s, discusses poets, painters, politicians, filmmakers, philosophers and art critics, talks about her own place in the world as a woman and as a Jew. I found most of it interesting even if I didn’t get how it all fit together. I’d have to reread those parts to create a connection, and I think there’s something of value in saying it didn’t come naturally to me.
I got tired towards the end, a little numb to the repetition and headiness of it. But if your brain enjoys this kind of play with something so basic, yet meaningful, you are bound to find enough morsels here to satisfy....more
When I heard this book was about the pandemic, I was hesitant to read it. I’m so glad I did. Enough time has gone by for the specifics of the lockd4.5
When I heard this book was about the pandemic, I was hesitant to read it. I’m so glad I did. Enough time has gone by for the specifics of the lockdown to give a sense of recognition and inclusion, rather than overwhelm. The novel begins as the lockdown unfolds and takes us through that strange and disorienting time from the specific point-of-view of Lucy Barton and her surrounding loved ones. The three previous novels (Anything is Possible, My Name is Lucy Barton, and Oh, William!) provide a foundation that supports and fills the story, but none are necessary; Strout ensures that this novel stands alone. Even Bob Burgess of The Burgess Boys plays a strong role here, and although reading that might have also added to my joy, Strout communicates what’s necessary without it. Even Olive Kitteridge shows up in conversation as one who impacted Lucy’s friend’s life (and I hear they will meet in Strout’s next book— how exciting). It’s fun to see characters from the outside and then read a book that lets us inhabit them. The reverse is also fun. Strout seems to do a bit of both in all she writes (I’m only unsure of Abide with Me). All that said, I do suggest reading Oh, William! first, as it’s almost a continuous story.
If you’ve only read Olive Kitteridge, I would say that is her most dense, and the writing here is most similar to Oh, William!. In this and in Oh, William!, Strout writes in deceptively simple sentences that left me breathless. The cumulative effect of those sentences felt profound....more
One of the most enjoyable reads for me in a long time, accessible and still so smart. It's almost as if A Gentleman in Moscow and Demon Copperhead hadOne of the most enjoyable reads for me in a long time, accessible and still so smart. It's almost as if A Gentleman in Moscow and Demon Copperhead had a baby: the former a bit more cerebrally delightful to this one's heart, the latter a bit more mired in tragedy to this one's lighter touch. And neither of those contained the excitement and pain of collaborative creativity that is at this book's core. I’m reminded of the show, Halt and Catch Fire, with a sprinkle of Mythic Quest, but no other book comes to mind.
It's amazing how many issues this touches seamlessly. There's a certain acceptance of the way things are that I found refreshing. One protagonist, Sam, is disabled and the author does a great job of integrating this as part of his life without a heavy hand, while not backing away from what is painful. The physical disability both inhibits aspects of Sam’s life and fuels his creativity to enhance it. Also in the spotlight is Sadie, a brilliant woman in the gaming world of men. Again, the story shows the frustration and challenges inherent in that, while drawing reactions that feel very Sadie-specific. The book addresses interracial identity, social appropriation, sexual fluidity, childhood trauma, depression, isolation, friendship, success, creativity and loss, all woven expertly into the fabric that makes a life. There was one incident that felt just a bit forced as an Issue, but the resulting unfolding felt important and real.
I think this would be a good book for everyone, even if not familiar with the gaming world. Mostly, the book explores what it means to be in a committed relationship with all its victories and disappointments, power shifts and sacrifice, and struggles for independence that conflict with those cravings for enmeshment. The commitment is a work partnership, as intense as any marriage, and the individuals within it experience tremendous growth. And it isn’t just between Sadie and Sam, the two designers: their games and gaming company would be nothing without the consistent support of their friend, Marx, who desires no credit for what he does. An optimist and problem-solver with an eye for talent, Marx is content to live in the background and be their rock.
When I was a stage director, my very favorite thing was working with the actors. Starting with a discussion about how I wanted to frame the text, the actors would then show the work they did on their own under that interpretation. Then I’d throw out an idea or pose a question, and the talented collaborators would give me something more than I’d hoped for, inspiring me even further to inspire them. This dynamic would build and build into a clear shape. It was exhilarating, and since then I’m thrilled when I find myself in a rare conversation that spirals upward from this kind of exchange. The high is almost erotic, and this book drew me into that same wave.
Equally explored and important to the story is the theme of death. Although the title of this book first brought to mind the futility of life expressed in the Macbeth speech, it came to symbolize the sense of possibility brought by each new day. This is not without the awareness of mortality—quite the contrary: the beauty of living inside a game world is that death signifies the opportunity to start again, and these characters are very aware of how this contrasts with real life.
I lost my dad unexpectedly on the first of this year, and so the wish for immortality resonated for me. My dad believed in alternate universes and I’d like to think he’s somewhere still alive and well. Games offer an alternate universe in which we can test our choices without dire consequence. In a way, fiction does this, too. I think there’s enough here to emotionally move most readers with what’s all too real, while reminding us of what’s still possible.
What kind of Hole is this? Is it for a round peg? Does each hole have a special shape fit only for one?
The pegs are people on the margins, where our What kind of Hole is this? Is it for a round peg? Does each hole have a special shape fit only for one?
The pegs are people on the margins, where our protagonist finds herself after quitting her city job and moving into a free house in the country. Nothing is required of her, and she wanders spontaneously about and comes into contact with different creatures — some human, some not.
Is it magical realism, or is this high metaphor, a new genre that seems to be emerging from contemporary Japan’s female writers? I liked this book, just as I liked The Memory Police, I liked The Lonesome Body Builder, I liked Convenience Store Woman, and Before the Coffee Gets Cold. But none of these books wowed me, and I’m starting to feel like I know what I’m going to get, more or less, and may now be sated. These are all somewhat surreal depictions of the limited choices we’re faced with in society, and how when we’re squeezed into a too-tight space, we come out sideways. I enjoy this type of read, but it always lacks depth for me; the characters feel more like representations than real people, the circumstances broad-stroked metaphors. The details in each book are vastly different, yet I feel I keep reading the same book that never worked deeply on my psyche in the first place....more
4.5. I adored this novel! It appealed to me because my sister and I lost our father unexpectedly in early 2023, as did the sisters here, and because m4.5. I adored this novel! It appealed to me because my sister and I lost our father unexpectedly in early 2023, as did the sisters here, and because my dad was obsessed with creatures from the past. The woolly mammoth baby on the cover alone took me back to our frequent visits to The Museum of Natural History, only 4 blocks from my dad’s home. But I really didn’t know what to expect — I’d never read this author before. Well, I loved the writing:
“She thought about how interchangeable everyone was, little plastic figures that could snap in and out of lives, families. The professor was alive and her dad was dead for no fair or justifiable reason. One woman was a rich zookeeper and another a poor graduate student with two daughters she had to care for alone.”
And this:
“‘I do not love you,’ Eve said to their mother. ‘You do love me and I know it. This is exactly, exactly, what love feels like.’”
The daughters are in their early teens at the start, and the story is told in close third from the perspective of the youngest. I’ve read books where third person is SO close, it feels like first; but this is the polar opposite, so subtle it took me a while to realize it was from the youngest daughter’s POV at all (it may have in fact started from omniscience and eased its way in, I still can’t tell). What this did was give us a close feeling for the family dynamics between the three, as well as a clear feeling for the individuals. And one thing I liked best was how the youngest daughter saw herself come of age through her sister’s eyes rather than from her own, avoiding the self-referential. The sisters’ relationship was one of the strongest things about this book, and the differences between them were not something I could describe in usual tropes:
“Eve was fifteen, reshaping herself more each day; Vera, just shy of thirteen, was a stubborn straight line.”
But this is not just a story of a tight-knit threesome with no exterior: Jane, the mother, is a graduate student of paleobiology, continuing the path she began with her late husband. This brings the threesome to Siberia, Iceland, and Italy, each with its own adventure and a cast of rich characters. Scientific research, the effects of climate on the living and extinct, and the politics of foreign lands, of being female in a field ruled by men, and of the haves and have-nots, all make this more of a cerebral read with heart than a wholly interior one.
“This life of movement and travel and research had been his idea first and he had given it to Jane like a virus and Eve and Vera were born infected. They had grown up on the road, on the move, in countries all over the world….The summer Vera was nine and Eve eleven their family had been evacuated from Somalia when a civil war had broken out.”
And later, Vera feels guilty because “she wanted a life with a shallow swing to it, a life that did not peak and decline, peak and decline.”
My dad would have loved this book. He said I had a gift for choosing novels that spoke to him personally. In fact, our last actual conversation was when he called me from The Strand to get my book recommendation for his vacation from which he never returned. I often think of things he’d still enjoy, and this novel is one of them. Instead, I pass it along to you…...more
What a lovely experience this was, listening to the incomparable Meryl Streep bring to life a book of Ann Patchett’s. As much as I have my go-to narraWhat a lovely experience this was, listening to the incomparable Meryl Streep bring to life a book of Ann Patchett’s. As much as I have my go-to narrators, Meryl Streep brought a whole new level of humanity, humor, and kindness to each character and to the story as a whole. I could just feel her nuanced, multi-faceted intelligence through her craft. If other narrators give 5-star readings, Meryl Streep is off the charts.
I really enjoyed the story, too. In a way, it was a story about the power of story. A woman, her husband, and their three grown daughters are living together during the pandemic on a farm in Michigan. The family gathers around and listens to the mother tell stories of her past, when she fell into acting and dated a movie star before he was one. There is power in the simple act of sharing stories, and there was something idyllic about this close family gathered together for it on a cherry orchard.
I loved the Meryl-Streep-embodied main character most of all, Lara, the mother, when she recounted what lead to acting in a summer stock theater nearby the farm. I knew what she meant when she said that a summer stock day was packed with the normal intensity of a week, and so on from there. It brought me back to times of sleep away camp when couples and best friends were determined by the first night. The heightened sense of being away from home, and thrown into newness and possibility, was well captured. It’s no accident that colleges and universities by tradition house people of the same age together for a particular kind of learning and transition into adulthood. Patchett’s summer stock brought me back.
The reason Lara tells this story is because all of her grown daughters want to hear about the famous movie star she dated. It’s a strong, believable reason, made more interesting by the sheer joy of youth and first love. As the story unfolds, it reveals the personalities and relationships between them in the here and now. It also deals with the fear that the world is ending. And while the mother is pretty straight with her daughters, she shares only with us what she’s kept to herself, highlighting how stories are made by what she chose to tell, and revealing the paths not taken.
Lara also admits her guilty pleasure of enjoying her daughters at home, despite it being because of the global pandemic. The knowledge that this is temporary makes it all the more precious—just like summer stock. Just like a life. Maybe just like our world.
4.5 The story begins in 1991 with an 8-year-old boy, Ajay, in Eastern Uttar Pradesh, where people struggle to survive. It’s full of dramatic action, th4.5 The story begins in 1991 with an 8-year-old boy, Ajay, in Eastern Uttar Pradesh, where people struggle to survive. It’s full of dramatic action, the kind that reveals both character and society. We follow Ajay’s rise from job to job, each time with new rules in new surroundings. He’s so likable, so good, a quiet observer, and through him we piece together the currents of modern-day India. His story could almost be a novella in itself. It ends in high drama, and we’re left wanting more.
Then things shift. We follow a different character, then another. At first, I felt cast out - I’d grown deeply attached to Ajay’s story. But as we spent more time with Neda, a female journalist of privilege in her early 20s, I adapted to the faster pace, the snappy dialogue, the days-long parties of the wasteful young. Where Ajay learned of his world by observing, Neda tested and engaged. Ajay’s journey felt interior, Neda’s cinematic. Neda’s sharp mind fooled her into thinking she could hold her own with power (in conversation she was equal), but then her naïveté shatters. The storylines merge from opposite ends, revealing the pulse of a society. At the center of its orbit is Sunny, the son of a ruling gangster who came up in the same place as Ajay, who struggles with all the emptiness his life can afford, and vacillates between two life paths. His decisions make Ajay and Neda what they become.
Thanks to Barnes & Noble, and Riverhead Books, for the advanced uncorrected proof on which this review was based....more
3.5 I loved that this was an authentic portrait of a Trans community from an intimate Trans perspective. The members in this community prostitute thems3.5 I loved that this was an authentic portrait of a Trans community from an intimate Trans perspective. The members in this community prostitute themselves in Sarmiento Park, Argentina, to survive. The story takes us through a period in time when the group lived and worked together, supported and fought for each other, and finally found somewhere to belong. Most characters are given their own chapter, all from the narrator’s perspective, in first person, past tense. It’s not so much a novel in the traditional sense, which may be fitting: It feels more like an autobiographical piece with a series of vignettes, each starring a member of the group. There is so much love and loss, violence, fear and hope that at first bring this community together. Eventually, people change, drift, or die, and the group unravels, as groups of people do. What’s left is an exquisite memorial to a moment in these lives.
I remember someone talking about Toni Morrison in a documentary as the first Black-American writer who wrote from the gaze of other Black people in a community, that even James Baldwin before her wrote from the White gaze. This book is immersed in Trans community, rather than just including a single Trans character. The writing is heart-felt, poetic, and authentic. It moved me. The characters felt unique and real, and I valued getting to know them. The effect is one of inclusion from the inside, a close-up and deeply personal and painful look at a marginalized group trying to make their way, thirsting for all the things we humans do, but having to work through obstacles unique to them for any sense of freedom. Sarmiento Park provides the openness to be themselves, but in the end, gentrification, or a “cleaning up” of this space, is the final cause of displacement, leaving the narrator nostalgic for a time in youth unable to be lived again.
The book jacket led me to expect a more traditional through-line, with a baby at its center. Although the group finds an abandoned baby in the park and the already symbolic “mom” of the group chooses to become a true mother, the book is not really about them. Instead, the child felt more like a devise to measure time and cause change, rather than a person. That whole thread felt hollow and forced, emotionally dividing the characters in each chapter, rather than uniting them for me. I think this work might’ve been more successful as a collection without that element, just a more honest account of the narrator’s first time meeting the individuals and becoming part of something that mattered. Although I tend to prefer novels with a traditional arc, this book felt more like a peek into a talented writer’s journal, and still I wish everyone involved in publishing could have trusted that that was enough....more
There’s a flat affect to Hurricane Girl, both the book and the character. I couldn’t help but be infected by her innocence. The perspective is always There’s a flat affect to Hurricane Girl, both the book and the character. I couldn’t help but be infected by her innocence. The perspective is always from her eyes, her mind, in a staccato kind of stream-of-consciousness. This means that delights of the moment, such as waking up in a nice bed, are delivered with the same level of emotion as finding your home shredded inside-out by a hurricane. Allison, the main character, and our guide, mostly stays moment to moment. This gives us conflicting sensations in seconds, highlighting the bizarreness of life, and I laughed in recognition:
“Allison’s mother hugged her hard. Then her mother proceeded to yell at her. It was not the homecoming Allison had been hoping for.”
Allison’s mind darts into the past, using it to support her understanding of the present, and therefore, ours. The story is simple and straightforward. It is told in short sentences, each leading logically to the next, creating a kind of freight-train pace. The short chapters echo the short sentences like a Russian doll, all neatly encased in a compact, protective whole. It’s playful and so satisfying.
But this is a character who experiences devastation. How does one bounce back from that? This is that story....more
This was a pleasant surprise. I found this book while exploring bookstore shelves, and bought it based on the description on the back. But I didn’t exThis was a pleasant surprise. I found this book while exploring bookstore shelves, and bought it based on the description on the back. But I didn’t expect to love the emotional weight of it. I didn’t know it would be written in this internal way that always resonates with me. It’s a personal aesthetic, the effect of this particular kind of writing, often experienced for me in translations into English, more than in my native tongue....more
The most recent Dan Chaon (“Shawn”) novel, to be released mid-April, did not disappoint. Not as complex nor as fragmented as You Remind Me of Me, SleeThe most recent Dan Chaon (“Shawn”) novel, to be released mid-April, did not disappoint. Not as complex nor as fragmented as You Remind Me of Me, Sleepwalk moves like a film. I kept imagining Jesse Plemons as the laid-back and likable mercenary, and singular guide of this surprisingly emotional, speculative-fiction adventure. And this film-like feeling may have been deliberate, as the main character often disassociates and begins narrating as he watches his own life unfold.
The story begins by bringing us into the main character, Billy’s, work routine, which is clearly on the fringe of society. Turns out Bill lives completely off the grid! Or so he thought - until someone, somehow has tracked him down. And this someone has an odd story to tell, which just gets odder as we and William struggle to fill in the picture.
This novel has a different kind of puzzle-building feel from You Remind Me of Me, but it does have one. And as we learn the details of this world they feel half off-kilter and half familiar. There’s an eerie quality to what our protagonist is up against, both in what he expects (like a particular kind of traffic jam), and what he doesn’t expect (the main story), because the world he inhabits - one where morals become relative - feels too close for comfort. Sleepwalk could only take place in this context, and everything in this story dances on that boundary between marginal and familiar. The protagonist, Will, is told that a small choice from his past has snowballed into something huge, in part because he didn’t have all the facts about his own life. As he learns, he sees all the people and events from his past through a new lens. The story makes us question what we trust and what we don’t, while once again playing with the yearning for connection, specifically family connection. That yearning to understand ourselves through connection with family seems to be at the heart of both Chaon novels I’ve read.
Dan Chaon is a new-to-me favorite author, and I feel lucky to have won the Goodreads giveaway from Henry Holt Books....more
The Anomaly was recommended to me as getting buzz in the book world, but that’s all I knew going in. I read the first chapteWhat a strange book. 3.5?
The Anomaly was recommended to me as getting buzz in the book world, but that’s all I knew going in. I read the first chapter and loved it – it’s from the perspective of a hit man, and the writing is clean. The second chapter is from the perspective of a female film editor, and I liked it less (no reflection on her occupation, nor her gender - I just wanted more of the hit man). I kept reading and meeting a new character in every chapter, and by page 80 I felt like I’d flitted through a party of introductions with no deep connections. I wanted to go home.
But I don’t, and now there’s something building. So I stay for the ride. And then the story turns into something clever and curious, and I’m wondering what I’d do in this situation. And then I’m enjoying the different reactions played out by those many characters I eventually meet again.
I feel like Itami hit the sweet spot here between sharp, witty chick-lit, and the occasional surfacing of something darker and more real from underneaI feel like Itami hit the sweet spot here between sharp, witty chick-lit, and the occasional surfacing of something darker and more real from underneath. It peers outward from this deeper place few too times for me, personally, but her craft is exquisite. She does a lot with a little here, and I’m a fan of this. But something didn’t compel me to gobble up all 215 pages in this novella, and I was more engrossed in other reads. Yet, I did keep on with Fault Lines, and this never felt like a chore. When I was in a particular mood, this hit the spot. If you’re someone who generally gravitates towards this kind of read, you’re in for a treat. 3.5...more
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