I’m not exactly sure what I was wanting or expecting from this book, but I know I never found it. For all its hifalutin aims and pleasant layout, it proves to be an incredibly thin, shallow and inconsistent read, with most of these accounts rendered in cold, lifeless prose, which make for dull and disappointing reading.
A big problem with this is that its front loaded with some really weak accounts, giving the false impression that the rest of the book is just as poor and disappointing – which it isn’t, but it takes far too long for this to get anywhere near interesting. In fact I’d say it’s not until we get to page 86 with Annalee Newitz’s tribute to her laptop then this is followed by Gail Wight’s touching memories of her medication. “The Objects of History and Exchange” section was good value, giving us the likes of Julian Beinart’s “The Radio” and Susan Spilecki’s mysterious “jow” medicine.
So this is a wildly inconsistent read, the quality is all over the place and most of these accounts are just not interesting, with very little to nothing to offer in the way of insight or entertainment. The quotes before each recollection are poorly chosen and far too long. This could and should have been a compelling collection, but instead it was just far too inconsistent.