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To be a conservative, in the literal sense of the word, is to oppose change. Often, change has already happened, and that opposition than takes the shape of nostalgia for the past, a sense that we are living in an age of decay and decadence. From this viewpoint, everyone is probably a bit conservative, at least in some respect. Didion was a full-blown conservative, and even when she abandoned the Republican party it was because it had changed, becoming tacky and populist under Nixon's lead (shortly before picking up this book, I listed to and enjoyed this Know Your Enemy podcast, which gives some helpful background).

In this book, she tackles her conservatism head-on, in a very sophisticated and intelligent way. What exactly is she nostalgic for? The book has four parts, which roughly coincide with four main themes. First, the mythology surrounding the settlement of the American West, the pioneers crossing the continent and fighting to turn the desert and swamps into fertile agricultural land (a story that completely disregard both the heavy-handed support provided by the federal government, and the extent to which lands were hoarded by speculators who enriched themselves, while most of the work was carried out by temporary laborers and migrants. Here, Didion only hints at the other elephant in the room, namely the genocide and forced displacement of native Americans. Second, the role of larger aerial companies (Douglas) in the development of California, an industry propped up by contracts with the federal government, and which collapsed after the end of the Cold War, producing resentment, unemployment, and suburban communities with no purpose. As the tech industry replaced airplane factories, a class of mostly white, white-collar Californians were pushed out by Silicon Valley types. Third, California's alarming number of prisons and asylums, the first just a new opportunity for the few to speculate, the latter a way, historically, to put away people who did not live up to the pioneer standards. Finally, Didion's own family, childhood memories and coming to question the idea that the Didions were 'real Californians', who had seen the place during its Golden age, and still possessed a set of qualities irremediably lost through so-called progress.

These themes are interwoven, explored through hundreds of anecdotes and stories, some similar to mini-reportages, other pieces of family folklore, others autobiographic fragments, others still the work of amateur historians. If Didion didn't write so well, it would certainly be boring. Instead, there is coherence, nuance and the courage to call bullshit on her own beliefs.

If I ever was to compile a reading list for people to learn about the Netherlands, this book would certainly be a good place to start with. In cultural analysis style of argument, Wekker uses a series of cultural products, public and personal situations and cultural products to discuss the distinct forms that racism takes in the Netherlands. According to Wekker, what is distinctive about the Netherlands is people's self-understanding as a small country, historically a victim rather than an oppressor, shaped by an ethos of equality that makes people colour-blind (in contrast to other former colonial power, e.g. the UK, and the US). Wekker considers how this self understanding manifests itself in different domains, e.g. Dutch women studies, policies about minorities/emancipation, discourses around homosexuality, especially among white gay men, as well as personal encounters, e.g. with police officers or fellow academics. The final chapter, which I found especially well-constructed, is about Zwarte Piet, or perhaps more accurately about predominant (white) reactions to critique of this tradition.

The book was published in 2016, and likely written 1-2 years prior. Wekker suggests that there is a trend towards greater acceptability of over racism, fueled by the discourses of far-right politicians, including Geert Wilders (who just led the PvV in the past election, leading to the formation of a far-right government just this week). I imagine Wekker would agree that the success of these discourses is a symptom more than it is a cause, so I would love to hear more about her analysis of the 'structural forces' that drive this trend, so to speak (put simply, a reflection on any relation between postcolonial melancholia, and changing socio-economic relations within and beyond Dutch society?).

I loved this book, but I do think it falls a bit into the trap of relentless deconstruction. Wekker is pointing out a gap between Dutch self-representation one the one hand, and material and symbolic power relations in Dutch society, on the other. But I stand by the idea that deconstructing other people's myths is a bit too easy (although probably politically necessary at this point in the Netherlands). Besides, it seems a flawed project to assess self-representations (just) in relation to their truth-value, rather than as potentially orienting visions. While I do understand that the way the ideal of equality is mobilised in the Netherlands is full of hypocrisy and maybe even violence, I also think there is something worth 'saving' in it, something that can be leveraged, also against racism.

King Kong Theory straddles across genres, mixing autobiographic sketches, essay-like reflections, and what one could describe as 'lyrical tirades'. I found it a compelling and fast read, that exudes anger and frustration, but also, at some level, a love for life and pleasure. Sexual pleasure, but also writing pleasure, as it is hard not to visualise her banging away on her keyboard, to the sound of 1990s punk classics.

Despentes main themes are the patriarchal system in which we all live, and the ways this shapes and is shaped by rape, prostitution and the porn industry.

Her argument about rape comes from personal experience with the arguably most shocking and less common form of rape, at the hands of complete strangers while hitchhiking. Despentes is interested in pushing back against the shared sentiment that this is the absolute worst thing that can happen to a woman, and that it is or should be life-defining. She goes as far as to refer, approvingly, to Camille Paglia, the bête noire of progressive third-wave feminism, and Paglia's understanding of rape, and the constant risk thereof, as an integral part of womanhood. She also argues (persuasively) that victims of rape are supposed to be eternally devastated by the event, but in a passive kind of way, as the idea that they could band up and take revenge violently (or even just make a film where this is what happens) is scandalous.

The second part of the book turns to prostitution and the porn industry. Somewhat similarly, she argues that, as a society, we should focus less on the tragedy that befalls on the women who undergo these experiences (itself a way to discipline what women are allowed to do), and more on the structural conditions that make these industry so dangerous for workers.

Perhaps one of the most interesting and controversial aspects of the book is how Despentes apportions responsibility and guilt on different groups. On the whole, she is rather sympathetic to men, who she also sees as victims of the patriarchy, and rather harsh on middle-class 'respectable' women, who she sees as the main culprits for the politics of respectability that stigmatizes prostitution and porn:

'It's hard not to feel that what respectable women aren't saying, when they're concerning themselves with what happens to whores, is that ultimately they fear the competition. If the prostitute practised her trade in decent conditions, like a beautician or a psychiatrist – if her activities were released from all the legal pressures they're currently under – then the position of the married woman would become suddenly less attractive. Because if the prostitute's contract becomes normalised, the marital contract can be seen more clearly for what it is: a transaction where women commit to carrying out a number of duties guaranteeing a man's comfort at unbeatable rates. Notably sexual tasks'.

One the one hand, I'm drawn to a feminism that looks for alliances across gender and places class at the centre of its politics, but on the other, I also think this is a very reductive view of conventional family structures, and is possibly itself a little sexist. But yes, I do get it, this is a feminist punk manifesto, and needs to punch. And punch it does!

Winds documents in a well-research and accessible ways how Israeli universities are complicit in the Occupation, oppression and ethnic cleansing of Palestinians. The first chapter demonstrates how specific disciplines, such as archeology, legal studies and Middle East studies, are almost entirely in service of justifying and upholding the Israeli political order. Next, Wind turns to how university campuses are used to physically establish a presence and take over Palestinian land. The third chapter looks at direct collaborations between the state, the industrial military complex, and universities, considering scholars involvement in the development of new weapons, propaganda and military training, among other. The forth chapter explains how Israeli universities represses the academic freedom of Palestinian and anti-Zionist Israeli academic, essentially banning them from researching and speaking about some topics, e.g. the Nakba. The fifth chapter is an account of the ways Israel sought to prevent and regulate Palestinian access to higher education, through outright bans, entry requirements and policies designed to exclude Palestinians, or physically, by making it difficult for students to go to class through checkpoints, road closures or simply lack of transport. The sixth and final chapter focuses on the repression of Palestinian students in Israeli universities (through policy and policing), the West Bank (through military raids) and Gaza (through bombing).

The Well of Loneliness is a great book to read for anyone interested in LGBT history, and European upper-class morality, but it is not a GOOD book. Not because it is classist, racist, homophobic (especially camp-phobic) and militarist - I understand moral standards and understandings of sexuality shift with time. Actually, it is a great chance to get a sense for the world views of a British aristocratic lady. But, there isn't much complexity, nor a desire to question moral judgements except those that directly affect Stephen. And, let's be honest, it is hard to write such a whiny book without being boring (even leaving aside the fact that Stephen's wealth gave her so many options that most lesbian/queer people didn't have).To my mind, there are two redeeming aspects to the book, both more evident in the first part - the one describing Stephen's growing up. First, the honesty and 'raw-ness' in the account of Stephen's tomboy childhood, and her feeling of not belonging. And, second, the description of Morton and the Midlands, which really conveyed the author's love for those places (and for the British class system, argh).

The coming of age story of two sisters who have to deal with a series of difficulties and tragic events, including disfunctional parents, the sense of not belonging, sucide, alcholism. I enjoyed the strong women characters who populated this book, and especially Hyacinth, the girls' grandmother: hurt, wise, fierce. I also enjoyed the descriptions of Barbados, its food, towns, landscapes and people. The way the story and the characters developed, however, was a touch too predictable, leaving little room for tension, indecision, and lack of resolve, which would, in my view, added to the book. The bad guys are bad, the good guys (ladies) are good, and get even better as the book goes by. That being said, I liked it. I read most of it on a long plane journey, and, in that context, I appreciated that its straightforwardness, which made for an easy read, and a good travel companion.