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Awkward. I was hoping for honest reflections on the role reading, engaging with books, can play in incarcerated people's lives, and that was part of the text. The awkward part was the author's realization that literature didn't play as big a role in their lives as in hers, that the book club was an escape that she seemed happy to be part of until confronted with its relative position in others' lives and ends on a self-pitying note. 1/4

I am posting one book per day from my extensive to-be-read collection. No description and providing no reason for wanting to read it, I just do. Some will be old, some will be new. Don‘t judge me - I have a lot of books. Join in if you want!

#ABookADay2023

It's the memoir of an English professor who leads a literature course in a maximum security prison. It's okay: the premise is appealing, and the discussions are occasionally enlightening. But also the author sometimes comes across as naive or self-superior or both. To her credit, she often acknowledges her missteps and does not attempt to justify them; still, it's sometimes hard to sympathize with her or see what the takeaway is supposed to be.

The concept is fascinating, and when the men's thoughts and opinions are allowed into the narrative you can see the potential for a thought provoking read. But Brottman is, quite frankly, insufferable. She gets frustrated when the men don't share her own views on whatever they're reading, she complains that they're not connecting to the work, but then says they're wrong whenever they start drawing connections. Just when it seems that she's 👇