Church: there and back again

Recommending a book is a tricky business. No more so than when it comes to Christian books – especially the ones aimed at a more popular market. Recommend something and there can often be the assumption that the recommendation also means endorsement and agreement. That always seems to me to be a lazy approach to anything, let alone something so personal as a book; but there we have it. Algorithms increasingly tell us what we should read, watch, listen to next based on what we’ve liked before, and we expect people to do the same – so we get funnelled deeper into an echo chamber we may not have been aware we were making.

I value Rachel Held Evans. I don’t always agree with her; sometimes her writing on blogs or in books annoys or angers me. Which is all the more reason I need to listen to voices like hers. She is one of those who voices what many who love Jesus increasingly feel and experience. As such, whether I agree with her or not is in many senses irrelevant. I need to hear her, and through her hear those who feel she speaks for them. Her last book, A Year Of Biblical Womanhood, has been for me a key plank in establishing my own feminism. Her new book, Searching For Sunday, has challenged and enriched me deeply. Through a series of reflections around each of the Orthodox church’s sacraments, she tells her story of struggling with doubt; of leaving, trying to remake, and eventually reconnecting with church. Sometimes people who write or speak on these subjects put people like me (church leaders) on the back foot; we’re made to feel guilty, failures. It’s our fault, you see. Sometimes it is, of course, but such blame shifting doesn’t open dialogue or encourage learning. Searching For Sunday I found to be rather different. It was truthful, open, compassionate, humble. It spoke as much for the experience and concerns of someone in my role as it does for the skeptical and occasional pew-sitter.

It eschews easy judgements and blanket assertions; the book – and the author – is both vulnerable, but confident in her own incompleteness. It’s also her best piece of writing – some of the metaphors and imagery are startling or refreshing; I especially appreciated how the conscious use of voices, stories and metaphors associated with women opened up different perspectives.

It seems so reductive to ask myself if I agreed with everything she said. I don’t know how to answer that, or quantify it. I needed the book, and continue to need it. It speaks to me, and for me. It challenges me and refreshes me and encourages me and heals me. It sheds fresh light and depth on aspects of both my life as a disciple of Jesus and as one tasked with public ordained ministry, performing some of the sacraments on which she touches in the book.

It’s neither the first, nor the last, word on any of the issues it raises. It’s not trying to be either of those things. It’s more than that – it’s a beautiful, touching, and eloquent chapter in the story.

 I rated this book 5/5 on goodreads

Stuff Of The Year 2014, 2: Books

I’m self-indulgently posting a short series on the entertainment that’s fed, stimulated and enhanced my 2014.  This post’s about the books I’ve read in 2014 that have most improved the year. They’re in the order I finished reading them, if you’re interested, ending with the most recent. The year in brackets is the year of publishing.

Stillness and Speed: My Story by Dennis Bergkamp and David Winner (2013)

A great sports book, that transcends its subject. Thematic rather than strictly chronological, this is the anatomy of genius; it does justice to one of the greatest exponents on his art and it’s hard to imagine a genuine football fan or anyone interested in what goes into making greatness not enjoying this. (Click here for a longer post on the book)

Tresspass by Rose Tremain (2010)

An elegantly written, finely tuned novel by way of Ian McEwen, this exerts a vice like grip on the attention and never fails to develop its big themes of family, expats and greed. Rose Tremain at her understated and gripping best.

The Circle by Dave Eggars (2013)

Contemporary literary fiction of the most urgent, relevant kind; a convincing portrait of a near-future nightmare at the hands of omnipresent corporations and social media; never less than accessible or fun, too. (Click here for a longer post on the book)

This Isn’t The Sort Of Thing That Happens To Someone Like You by Jon McGregor (2012)

One of my favourite writers, McGregor is the great painter of contemporary urban Britain, spinning beauty out of the mundane and everyday. This is a collection of short stories, poems and bits and pieces around the broad theme the lenses we view life through and how they shift over time. Sometimes accessible, sometimes odd; always brilliant.

How God Became King by N T Wright (2012)

NT Wright is the era’s defining theologian, and this is one of his more popular level works, aiming to make his take on the Gospels accessible to the everyday reader. It’s pretty much essential reading for the Christian looking to really get to grips with the scope of what Jesus came to do.

Red Letter Christianity by Shane Claiborne and Tony Campolo (2012)

The authors are at the forefront of a movement seeking to transform how Biblically faithful Christians are viewed. It’s an American-centred book, but still vital reading if you say you care about Christian faith and social justice.

Fallen Land by Patrick Flanery (2013)

Absolution was one of my favourite books of the last few years; the follow-up isn’t quite that good, but nearly. It’s a literary thriller with some dazzlingly good touches; it’s thematically about truth, lies and the security we crave. It entertains and feeds the brain.

The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald (1925)

A bona fide masterpiece of sinuous prose, bravura characters and hallucinogenic portrayals. Every bit as good as you’ve heard.

Winter of The World by Ken Follett (2012)

The middle volume of 20th century spanning trilogy of  historical fiction, setting the trials of families from various nations against the backdrop of World War 2. Brilliantly executed, crowd-pleasing and no small achievement.

Dominion by C J Sansom (2012)

I love the Shardlake novels, but his may be his best; an alternate history novel set in a Britain which sought peace in 1940; it’s thrilling and chilling in its portrayal of how history turns on a sixpence. Characters are rich and deep, and not just the main ones – even the bit parts are richly textured.

Also In This Series

1: Movies

Closing The Circle: Social media’s subtle temptations and opportunities

Dave Eggars’ latest novel, The Circle is on the face of it straightforward. It’s an easy to read yarn about a woman taking a job working for a fictional hybrid of Google and Facebook, telling a gripping story of conspiracy and manipulation on a grand scale. This is Dave Eggars, though – a self-consciously brilliant writer (his first book, a kind of memoir, was called A Hearbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius)  – and he’s always as much about ideas as he is about story. That this book manages to twin the two so well is testament to his skill.

The book holds a mirror to our digital culture and invites us to consider if we like what we see. The fictional company  – The Circle – has combined online shopping, social media and web searching and seems to be on an unstoppable run of innovation and invention. It’s moving towards total market domination of more or less everything – what will it mean when ‘the circle is closed’? What will that look like, and what will it do to us? It’s an ultimately chilling conclusion.

In the process we see a series of different realities reflected to us. The novel portrays the desire to record and log everything we do, the measuring of viewpoints and popularity by ‘hits’ and ‘likes’, the addiction to screens and surveillance, the habit of experiencing great things second or third hand rather than directly, the need to present to the world a transparent picture of happiness, integrity and balance. The digitized life is well and truly under the microscope here.

It’s an achingly real vision of where we are and where we might be going. So much so that I was stunned to discover that many consider this to be science-fiction; I really don’t see it that way. It seems to me to be simply one perspective, only marginally exaggerated for story purposes, on where our society is headed. I’ve visited the Google campus in California twice; I can tell you that the workplace depicted in Eggars’ novel has roots in real life bricks and mortar. What’s on-screen in the novel’s world is equally recognisable.

Most of us use social media, but increasingly – especially in Christian circles (there’s that word again) – it has a bad reputation as something at best to be wary of, at worst something that’s eating us alive. Whether it’s privacy issues, cyber-bullying, the breakdown of ‘real’ community (a conveniently ill-defined term in the debate), the by-the-back-door marketing, or dangerous #neknomination style crazes, Christians are being warned frequently about the dangers these technologies present.

All of which obviously makes me think about playing music backwards. When I was a young Christian the biggest danger was, apparently, heavy metal. If you listened to it you were worshipping satan; there were messages so subtly written into the songs that they could only be discerned by playing the songs backwards. Slowly. But no matter! Listen to music often enough at the right speed, forwards, and the messages would seep into your soul and soon you’d be sacrificing kittens or killing yourself. Seriously.

It was absurd, of course. Not that there wasn’t destructive music out there, but everyone was looking in the wrong direction. So called Christian music was dangerous for sucking people into an artificial sub-culture of sub-standard music which took them away from the very people amongst whom they were meant to be salt and light. You didn’t have to listen to it backwards to see the danger, but that seemed irrelevant to most. Stick a Christian label on it and it must be kosher.

I was reminded of this when I was thinking on a friend’s recent Facebook post. She lives in a different country to me, and her family was experiencing a horrible crisis. The way she communicated updates and requests for help and prayer was through Facebook. It was such a good way for us all to be connected and involved. As the emergency abated she posted ‘I know Facebook has a bad reputation but …’. She went on to say what a good source of support it had been for her in this hard season. It was that first part of the post that intrigued me – the bad reputation. Add to the mix that one American mega-church has seen fit to set up its own social media platform, which is how much of its material and information is released. Not a Facebook group, you understand. I mean its own equivalent of Facebook. You can only join the platform if you’re a signed up member of the church. It’s Christian social media – for Christians only.

What is going on here? It seems to me that what’s being missed is the simple truth that social media is simply another incarnation of an old Christian dilemma. We see a new thing producing bad fruit, so we retreat and build a Christian version of it. Which misses the point. We brand the thing as evil, forgetting it’s people who make bad choices, not pixels or musical notes. Putting a ‘Christian’ label on something doesn’t make it better; too often it’s just a pale, lifeless version of the original. Ever listened to a Stryper album next to a Metallica one? Don’t. In fact, just don’t listen to Stryper.

These things are what we make them. What social media gives us is a unique opportunity to shape a vision of life that’s true – or false. We can do the bland sun-drenched, Instagrammed version of life or we can do something more real. We can put struggles and confessions of sin up there alongside chilled white wine and cute puppies (don’t put those last two together; chaos would clearly ensue). We can do real debate alongside status-update moralising. A few weeks ago I got into a Facebook argument with someone (another Christian leader) who decided, ultimately to block me. He said he’d rather not engage with me at all than disagree publicly.

Really?

I – and he – handled that incident badly. However, does it really do any good, as Christians, to present to the world a fantasy of smiling agreement? Or do we do better to put our sin, brokenness and disagreement on display as we try to work out what it means to be Jesus-people here and now? We need boundaries, of course; as The Circle shows us there are some things we shouldn’t share, some sins that should be confessed privately, some areas that must remain private. We are made to have boundaries. I’ve also learned that for me, Twitter is a bad place to debate. It’s hard to say something helpfully and clearly in such a short space. We all have our limits.

We, though, are called to be living sacrifices, people who live with whole lives laid down before God as worship, open to His use and purifying fire. Shouldn’t that make us more open with the world, not less? Either we do the age-old dance of retreating into a Christianised ghetto, in reality no more than a baptised theme-park version of reality; or we’re so eager to ‘win’ the world and the culture that we present a version of ourselves and our faith and our relationships, so filtered through sunny idealism that it won’t stand real scrutiny away from pixels in actual flesh and blood.

Live life online and in flesh and blood. Like flesh and blood, your online life is what you make it. Be wise, but be honest. Close the circle, but close it with humble honesty not grasping control. Don’t hide your sin; confess it appropriately the move on. Don’t retreat or seek to win the culture war. Just be there, living life and living it well. On screen and in person.

In a word it’s called incarnation. Which has, I think you’ll agree, a noble history.

I rated this book 4/5 on goodreads.com

Hatchet Job

What’s the point of it all, really?

No, not life. Something far more important than that. Movie reviews. The job of the film critic. How many of us are really influenced by what the (mostly) middle-aged men say?

Well, me for a start, middle-aged (just) man (definitely) that I am. I’ve been a film fan for as long as I can remember. For me a rare treat in term time was being able to stay up to watch Barry Norman on the BBC’s Film [insert year here]. I know. Most of you would have settled for sweets. I wasn’t and am not averse to sweets but that programme was kryptonite for me, destroying the next day’s productivity and inevitably alerting me to something I had to see. From I don’t know what age I would devour the film review pages of newspapers. Over the subsequent years the opinions of reviewers I trust has shaped what I do and don’t see. Not definitively, but I’ll let a list of 5 or so writers and broadcasters heavily influence for what I’ll give up my time and money. Since moving to South Africa that’s been harder – many of the films I want to see are smaller films which may well not get a release here; or if they do, it will be significantly delayed. This hasn’t deadened my love for good film criticism – if anything it’s raised it. Online, primarily, I read or listen to a good few hours’ worth of content each week. An entertaining and intelligent review of a film I might never see, positive or negative, feeds my soul in a very particular way.

Which brings me to this book, Hatchet Job by Mark Kermode. He’s the best known film reviewer in the UK. I’ve been listening to him on the radio for years, and the internet means I still can here in Cape Town. His weekly show is downloaded by millions. That’s serious reach. He and his co-host, the British broadcasting institution Simon Mayo, witter intelligently and entertainingly for close on two hours each week about film releases and matters related. Over the years these two have kept me going through boredom, busyness, trauma, depression, chronic pain, moving life to the other side of the world, fun, fear and a whole lot more besides. I can’t imagine life without my weekly dose.

This latest book from Mark Kermode asks the simple question of the role of the film critic. It’s easy to read, funny and full of entertaining stories and anecdotes from his years in the business. With the slow death of print news media it’s easy to imagine a world in which the role of the professional film critic becomes ever more irrelevant. After all, as Kermode demonstrates here, it’s not the critic whose opinion shapes how films are made or received. It’s the audience, the money in the bank. Pure and simple. It seems, though, however counter-intuitive this may seem, that more people than ever want a critic’s intelligent, informed and contextualised opinion. Even – or perhaps especially – if they’ve already seen the film. People see something, think about it – then want to know what others who know more about film than they do think. The freely available online content is viewed, read, heard by thousands upon thousands upon millions. Film critics are more consulted than ever before; they simply need to be cleverer about how they use their expertise to pay the bills.

Compared to many amateur film bloggers, the reviews I write here carry little weight. Apparently they shape the film-watching of a few of you; in reality, though, I don’t see enough to be a film critic. I’m simply someone who writes about most of the films I see. I write because I like films, and I like writing. Really, that’s it. Anything else is a side benefit. I need the professional film critics – especially Mark Kermode – because they entertain, stimulate and inform me. When I see a film and prepare to write about it, I remind myself of what he and one or two others have said about it. I never, no matter what others may imagine, allow a critic to tell me what to think; I simply want to see if they’ve seen something in the film that I haven’t or if my facts are correct and so on. I want to know what they think because if they think something different to me it means I may have missed something; that may mean I need to think some more, or even watch again. It may not change my opinion, but it will mean I’ve thought properly about the film and my opinion.

Does that seem excessive? Maybe it is. Or maybe not. When many people spend much time and millions of dollars making a film, I think it’s important not just to arrive blindly at an opinion, but to do justice to the blood, sweat and tears that went into the making of the film to allow that opinion to be informed and well-formed. I enjoy doing so too – this is a hobby for me, something that gives me life to do. If I thought for a moment that doing so, putting my content up for free, was leading to critics like Kermode being made irrelevant or redundant I’d stop in a shot. The pleasure I glean from them means too much to me to lose. For anyone who cares about film, this is a book to read and treasure.

I rated this book 4/5 on goodreads.com

Stillness and Speed

I had finished a 25-hour shift at the London homeless hostel where I was working. My night had been broken, as it usually was on such shifts, by incidents in which the night-shift worker needed support and assistant. I can’t remember the details. I was lying semi-comatose on the couch of our staff accommodation, kept from sleep only by the breathtaking to and fro of one of the greatest games of football I had seen. I would sleep after, I told myself. Holland v Argentina, a dream tie in the World Cup quarter finals. A game of high quality, decided in the game’s dying embers by a Dennis Bergkamp goal of such art, delicacy and precision it jolted through my system like a triple espresso. I sat bolt upright, mouth open. I shouted something incoherent. It was perfect. If you don’t believe me, click here for a moment of sublime sporting beauty.

As you’ve just discovered, it’s hard for words to do justice to moments like that. Bergkamp specialised in such moments, moments of perfection which even opponents and opposition fans would applaud, the sort of moments you dream of being in the same vicinity as, let alone being part of. On the rare occasions I found myself watching from the stands as he plied his trade for Arsenal it felt like his awareness of what was going on around him and his economy of movement were so supernatural that there must be two of him, one on the pitch in constant communication with another in the stand, able to relay down to the Dennis on the pitch where everybody else was and where the spaces were developing.

Then there’s this goal, the balletic grace of which frankly belies description. Watch it, and tell me your life isn’t better for seeing it.

How do you justice in words to such a player. Sports biographies – especially football ones, it seems – do not have a great history of artfulness or appropriateness. They’re usually written too early, with little insight or context. This one is different. Stillness and Speed is the English language version of Holland and Arsenal’s Dennis Bergkamp’s story, told by David Winner through deft prose and a series of illuminating interviews with Bergkamp himself and his colleagues. It have many of the elements of the biography, but is really trying to do something else; to get a handle on how genius is born and how great art comes to be. Hard work is part of it; resolute attention to, for example, the way different balls bounced. Training, fun, a desire to always do something meaningful and not ‘just’ try to do a job or simply win a game. All of it coming together in the revelation that as regards the second goal related above, he decided what to do when the ball was 10 yards away. Instinctive genius, served by muscle memory.

It’s a beautiful book, and like all good books its genius is in lifting the specific (a footballer) and finding things to say that are relevant and interesting way beyond the one arena. It’s hard to imagine people who don’t like football reading this, but really this is one for those who want to dig deeply into how a genius is set apart. In that context it might make a good companion volume to Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers.

Mainly though, I’m grateful. Grateful to feel closer to one of my heroes, but not to have the mystique taken away. Grateful that the book does him justice but leaves genius of this type where I want it – just out of reach. Grateful he’s both ordinary and extraordinary. Just grateful, really.

Want more? 9 more masterpieces here for your enjoyment.

I rated this book 5/5 on goodreads.com

Stuff Of The Year 2013, 2: Books

I’m self-indulgently posting a short series on the entertainment that’s fed, stimulated and enhanced my 2013. I’m making this up as I go along, as it’s my game and my rules, so it may not all have been produced in 2013 – the point is that the media in question have all been a big part of my year. Where possible, I’ll link to the media in question, or an article I wrote about them; click on a title to follow a link if I’ve found one suitable. This post’s about the books I’ve read in 2013 that have most shaped me. You may notice from this that star-rating books is, for me, a fairly arbitrary process. They’re in the order I finished reading them, if you’re interested, ending with the most recent.

A Year Of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans Spending a year doing something and writing about it is in vogue at the moment. It lends itself to the discipline of blogging and the momentum gathering potential of social media. This book chronicles one woman’s journey through a year taking everything the Bible has to say about women literally. She’s a Christian with the desire to take both the Bible and society seriously, and the results in this book are funny, deceptively weighty without necessarily showing the academic working and respectful. Required reading, especially for any Christian (male or female) who’s ever quoted Proverbs 31 in reference to how a wife should be.

The Compassion Quest by Trystan Owain Hughes  There are very few authors who can make me think of  Eugene Peterson, but Trystan Owain Hughes is one of them. Concise at around 100 pages, this is a beautiful book inviting us to humble awe, to find God and each other in the everyday and to rescue us from lazy, culturally skewed discipleship which has the powerful lording it over the powerless.

The God Of Intimacy And Action by Tony Campolo and Mary Albert Darling  One of the very few books linking a passion for social justice with spiritual practices, aiming to deepen our relationships with God as we live with responsive awareness to the needs around us. Worth reading not just because it’s one of the few like it, but because it’s a rich book born out of deep experience.

Absolution by Patrick Flanery  A crime story; a family drama; a thriller; a mediation on present-day South Africa; a book about fear; a book about hope; a book about writing books. A masterpiece.

On Warne by Gideon Haigh Cricket has a tradition of quality writing, and this is a good addition to that history; a small, beautifully formed and written book which isn’t so much a biography of the greatest bowler in history  as a reflection on him.

Bringing Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel  I know some struggle with her style, and I understand why. I don’t, and all I can say is that I’m a believer in these books. Historical fiction made vitally relevant to all our todays; we’re one book away from this being one of English literature’s greatest set of novels.

11/22/63 by Stephen King  When he’s good, he’s very good. This is a romantic, thrilling, time-travel-love-story-thriller showcasing King’s genius for storytelling, based around the assassination of JFK. It’s not a horror novel … I urge you to read this on your next holiday, especially if you’re one of those who thinks King is populist hack. Sometimes success is awarded to those with talent and an understanding of what people enjoy. This book is the perfect illustration of that.

The Pastor by Eugene Peterson I’ll blog on this in due course – the man I’ve never met, whose beautiful books have pastored me over the years writes his memoir of a life in pastoral work. It’s beautiful, and essential for anyone who is a pastor, has a pastor or is considering being a pastor.

Beauty, lies and what the eyes behold in South Africa: Absolution by Patrick Flanery

We’ve been living in South Africa for three and a half years. We’d been living in London up until that point, most latterly in that part of London where you can spend a morning in a coffee shop and hear only South African accents. Before moving we’d made a few South African friends, visited the country twice (one on holiday, once for job interview) and tried to learn as much as we could – watching, listening, talking, asking, reading. It’s been a good move for us. We love living here – the South Africa we found and live in is not the one we’d heard about from the UK media and (some) South African expats. We do miss the freedom to walk streets safely at night; neither do we live in fear. We live in an area of Cape Town some had told us was dangerous. The truth is that it’s safer than some parts of London. We’ve never really felt in any danger – not even driving into the townships. We are sensible and take appropriate precautions; but we also choose not to live in fear.

It’s not easy to move countries, though. There’s the issues you’d have anywhere – losing your extended support network of friends, missing the familiar you’ve had all your life, and not realising you don’t know how to post a letter until you need to do so. All these are destabilising in different ways. The hardest things in South Africa are intangible. Only a fool would pretend London is free of prejudice, but equally diversity is a reasonably accepted and celebrated fact of life. It’s the honest truth to say that in London I just don’t notice skin colour. Cut to a small group of fellow clergy a year ago in Cape Town, and one man is saying to me ‘Dave, what do you see when you look at me?’. ‘I see [his name]’, I said. That was true. That was who I saw.  He didn’t believe me. After ten minutes of trying to explain to him that the first thing I see when I look at a person isn’t skin colour, we gave up. It was too big a cultural gap for us both to cross.

It would be easy to say that’s something he needs to be healed of. In some senses, maybe – but it’s as much for me to be healed and changed. I need to learn what it’s like for people of all ethnicities to live in a context where the colour of skin was the primary mode of identification. The new South Africa is years old now, people are coming of voting age who only know what it’s like to live in freedom. Still the ripples of apartheid spread; poverty traps, issues of race and corruption and justice inflame. As my friend Sharlene, a leading South African social scientist, puts it in one of her books [paraphrase] “Apartheid is like a large worm that has laid many eggs. Even though the worm is long dead, the eggs are still hatching” (‘Ikasi: The Moral Ecology Of South Africa’s Township Youth’ by Sharlene Swartz). It’s this, and issues around it, that make South Africa one of the most challenging contexts in the world to work in – according to an aid worker I know of who has worked in post-genocide Rwanda. You’re navigating a minefield with no map and the mines are constantly shifting.

All of which is a convoluted way in to talk about a novel I’ve just finished reading. Absolution by Patrick Flanery is a debut novel that arrived last year on a wave of glowing reviews and awards nominations. It presents us with a series of interlocking and unraveling stories in South Africa: Sam, a writer researching a biography and simultaneously seeking resolution over his dead parents and murdered childhood carer; Clare, a novelist, is the subject of Sam’s biography, recovering from the trauma of a home invasion and seeking forgiveness for betraying her sister and her fractured relationship with her daughter. There’s something between author and subject, of which we learn in slowly revealed moments as stories are told and revisited. It’s a cunningly told tale – told from different perspectives and shifting back and forth in time. We’re told what characters think is true, but we’re never quite sure what truth is. That and the writing is beautiful – images are spun with clarity and haunting perception. It’s clear and readable on a plane – but it’s never simplistic or dull. It’s a transcendent and magnificent.

It also captures the endless decisions of daily South African life – is it safe with the back door open on a hot day? How much, how often – if at all – should I give to those calling at the door for money? Where are the panic buttons? Is what fear leads me to see true? Why must I keep seeing skin colour before the person – and yet feel like I have no choice? Reading it felt like gazing at a beautifully rendered painting of all the difficult questions I’ve been asked or asked myself over the last three and a half years.

A brilliant novel from a new South African novelist, I thought. Or at least until I decided to find out a little more about the author. He’s an American living in Britain who’s visited South Africa. A couple of times. Which given the depth of insight into South African life – the layers of truth and half-truth, the quarrels of fear and freedom, a recent past of censorship and activism and betrayal, and what it’s like to live in that and all that entails – is frankly staggering. Either the author’s biography is another layer of deception and truth, or he’s a profoundly gifted writer of rare insight, courage and compassion. Given that this is a book which puts into words of heartbreaking beauty parts of your soul you hope don’t exist, I’m guessing it’s the later.

I rated this book 5/5 on goodreads.com.