To say I was enamored with this book is an understatement. If you haven’t read much Christie, I wouldn’t recommend this as a place to start, as it feeTo say I was enamored with this book is an understatement. If you haven’t read much Christie, I wouldn’t recommend this as a place to start, as it feels somewhat distinct from everything else that I’ve read by her, and I don’t think it gives the most accurate indication of her usual style. That said, this quickly skyrocketed to my favorite of her works, overtaking And Then There Were None, which is high praise in itself.
This book is a slow burn; more character-driven than mystery-driven. In fact, you don’t even know what the mystery is for about half the novel. Endless Night follows young couple Michael and Ellie—a working man and a rich socialite who fall in love in spite of protestations by Ellie’s family—who are determined to buy a piece of land in a remote village and build a house there. Michael Rogers is possibly my all-time favorite Christie protagonist: he’s an insufferably pretentious young man with delusions of grandeur, but his voice is so convincing and engaging, and there’s something so authentically insecure at the heart of his character, that he pretty much embodies that type of character that you love to hate or hate to love.
Despite its slow beginning, I couldn’t put this book down from the very first page. What Endless Night lacks in plot it makes up for in its sinister, Gothic setting, its genius foreshadowing, its expert characterization, and its subtle integration of the supernatural. This isn’t going to be for everyone; specifically, this isn’t for the reader who needs their mysteries to be chock-full of twists and turns, but if you’re a Christie fan, this is a brilliant hidden gem that you need to check out asap. The problem with mysteries (at least for me) is that once you know the reveal there isn’t a whole lot of motivation to ever go back and reread the book, good as it may have been, but I know this is one that I’m going to want to revisit again and again. I loved it so, so much....more
**spoiler alert** Edie Richter is living in Boston with her husband, Oren, when her father is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Edie and Oren uproot their l**spoiler alert** Edie Richter is living in Boston with her husband, Oren, when her father is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Edie and Oren uproot their lives to move to San Francisco where she can be closer to her family, and she suffers considerable emotional strain as her father slowly loses his physical and mental faculties. “I knew Dad would stop recognizing me. I didn’t know I would stop recognizing him,” she confesses.
After watching his steady decline for months, Edie puts a t-shirt over her father’s mouth and suffocates him.
You can read my full review HERE on BookBrowse, and you can read a piece I wrote about Perth HERE....more
Effectively an anti-factory farming polemic satirized to its shocking, inevitable conclusion, Tender Is the Flesh is a horrifying and grotesque piece Effectively an anti-factory farming polemic satirized to its shocking, inevitable conclusion, Tender Is the Flesh is a horrifying and grotesque piece of work. Translated from the Spanish brilliantly by Sarah Moses, it tells the story of a man named Marcos who recently lost his son to a cot death and is estranged from his wife as a result. Marcos works at a local processing plant - but instead of cattle, the plant farms and slaughters humans, following a virus which infected all non-human animals, rendering their meat unsafe to eat. But these people are no longer referred to as humans; so desensitized is everyone to their new dietary reality.
This book made me feel physically ill every time I picked it up, but I found it equally hard to put it down. I've been a vegetarian for most of my life, primarily in protest against factory farming, so it's safe to say that this novel's central conceit resonated strongly enough to compel me to keep reading, but it would be reductive to say that condemning the meat industry is the only thing Bazterrica is doing here. This book focuses equally on the question of what it means to be human (I can't get a sort of half-baked Never Let Me Go comparison out of my head, even if the similarities truly do end there - but there's a reason that's my favorite book; it's a theme that I find endlessly fascinating to wrestle with) and the ways in which we allow our personal ethics to be shaped by those in positions of power.
It's not a flawless book - I think the (air-tight) worldbuilding occasionally overpowers the character-driven part of the novel, which I was honestly fine with until something happened that made me wish the character development hadn't been quite so withheld from the reader, so I initially rated this 4 stars when I finished, but on second thought, I think this book will be seared into my brain forever, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for what Bazterrica has achieved here.
This is not an easy book to recommend, and I cannot emphasize just how strong of a stomach you need to make it through this, but, somewhat perversely, it's not a hard book to love. I'd say it's probably the single most disturbing thing I have ever read (A Clockwork Orange has been dethroned at last), but that is in no way a criticism.
Thank you to Netgalley and Scribner for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review....more
Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls was a breath of fresh air. If you isolate many of its thematic elements and you read a lot of this type of meLong Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls was a breath of fresh air. If you isolate many of its thematic elements and you read a lot of this type of memoir, there's plenty of familiarity - coming of age, coming to terms with queerness, racial identity, sexual assault, trauma, drugs, love, family ties. But T Kira Madden does something completely unique with it, revealing enough of her life to the reader in each chapter to keep us absorbed, yet employing a non-linear structure so faultlessly that its full impact cannot be felt until you turn the final page.
Set mostly in Boca Raton where Madden grew up, Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls chronicles a childhood marked both by privilege and instability (she grew up with many material comforts being related to the Steve Madden shoe dynasty, but under the guardianship of neglectful parents battling addiction). Each chapter, charting a different period of Madden's life, is in its own way fresh, dynamic, and heart-wrenching, but the titular chapter is probably the stand-out - the depiction of the tight bonds of teenage girlhood underscored by Madden's burgeoning sexual awakening made my heart hurt - as well as the final chapter that so brilliantly ties the whole book together.
It's hard to talk about this book without getting into specifics which would neuter some of the impact if you know too much of what to expect, but I can't say enough good things about it and about Madden's prose. It was gentle, visceral, intricate, and structured with a kind of careful deliberation that ultimately elevates what was already going to be an exquisite book....more
Simply put, one of the most rewarding reading experiences I’ve ever had. I think it’s best to approach this book while knowing as little as possible aSimply put, one of the most rewarding reading experiences I’ve ever had. I think it’s best to approach this book while knowing as little as possible about it, so I’m not really going to talk about the plot. Instead I’ll just say that this book is like Penelope’s tapestry; Levy weaves a brilliant tale in the first act, only to unweave it halfway through and then stitch it back together, and she does it carefully without sacrificing either the details or the big picture.
It’s arguably easier to talk about this book’s themes than its actual plot, but I don’t want to suggest that my interpretation is the be all end all, because this is the sort of book that lends itself to discussions and contradictions. Above all else this is book is about memory – are we more than our memories, or are our memories all we are – but what also stuck out to me was Levy’s deft meditation on what it means to age, what it means to live as a foreigner abroad, what it means to love, what it means to be a part of a culture’s shifting landscape. It seems like a tall order to balance all of this in just under 200 pages while also prioritizing structural innovation, but this book is a case of form and content coming together perfectly. I wouldn’t change a single page – a single sentence – of this book, and I cannot say that often.
That said, I understand why this hasn’t worked for some readers, especially those who err on the side of more traditional storytelling, but for anyone who’s willing to take a risk, and willing to stumble blindly through the dark at times, you can rest easy with the confidence that Levy knows exactly what she is doing here. I can say with absolute confidence that I am going to reread this at some point, and I’m sure I’ll find it even more revelatory when I do....more
I had such a strange reaction to this book: I loved this more than anything I have read in a long time, but when I started thinking about writing thisI had such a strange reaction to this book: I loved this more than anything I have read in a long time, but when I started thinking about writing this review, I had the hardest time putting my finger on why. Its structure is a bit messy and tonally inconsistent; it doesn't really deliver anything promised on the blurb (not a fault in the book itself - but I think it's bound to frustrate a lot of readers who go into expecting a mystery or a Shirley Jackson-esque haunted mansion tale); but it really came together for me and gave me one of the most enthralling reading experiences I have had in a while.
A Spell of Winter is a difficult book to categorize and difficult to explain without giving too much away - but it follows siblings Cathy and Rob who have spent their lives in a quasi-abandoned manor in the English countryside which belonged to their parents; their father is now dead and their mother ran off when they were young. As adults, Cathy and Rob's relationship begins to develop into something forbidden, and it sets off a tragic chain of events that spread into the years of the First World War.
This was my first Helen Dunmore, which I decided to pick up as it won the inaugural Women's Prize for Fiction back when it was known as the Orange Prize, and the first thing that struck me about it was how enchanting I found her prose. Even when you get past the arresting first sentence ('"I saw an arm fall off a man once," said Kate') the writing itself continued to beguile - her prose is descriptive and evocative without being overly flowery; there was something distinctly reminiscent of Daphne du Maurier there, and indeed the book's setting and atmosphere called to mind Rebecca (though the comparisons really do stop there).
The other reason this book came alive for me is that Cathy was such a fascinating, sympathetic, well-developed character, and the depth of emotional complexity that Dunmore was able to excavate with this book was staggering. This book is about sexuality, societal restraints, and female agency, all examined through the lens of one woman's fraught relationship with her own family inheritance. It all sounds like a rather standard female-centric historical fiction novel, but Cathy's journey and Dunmore's psychological insights took on a hard edge that subverted all of my expectations and then some.
I don't think this is the kind of book that people intensely hate - I think it's more of a 'it was fine, nothing special' for a lot of readers. So again, it's hard to recommend this enthusiastically knowing that it's bound to fall flat for a lot of people who find themselves disappointed by the (anticlimactic?) direction it takes. But I was so utterly enchanted and riveted by this book, and I cannot wait to see what else Dunmore has to offer....more
I wish it weren't only February because the statement 'this is the best book I've read all year' does not carry very much weight when we still have 10I wish it weren't only February because the statement 'this is the best book I've read all year' does not carry very much weight when we still have 10 months to go. But, nonetheless, this is my reigning book of 2019. And it ended up being one of those rare cases when the book turned out so differently from what I expected, but I ended up liking it all the more for that. From the blurb I got the impression that this was going to focus on the disappearance of a woman called Jean McConville, with details about the Troubles setting the background context, but instead it's primarily a narrative account of the Troubles which occasionally, haltingly zeroes in on McConville's story. So it's less true crime than it is historical nonfiction, but the final product is focused and compelling.
Say Nothing, whose title comes from a line from a Seamus Heaney poem which examines the treacherous precedent of speaking plainly about the Troubles, paints a comprehensive picture of twentieth century Belfast and introduces us to a few of the main players responsible for much of the devastation caused by the IRA - Brendan Hughes, Gerry Adams, Dolours and Marian Price, et al. Radden Keefe explores the lives and family histories and philosophies and interpersonal dynamics of these individuals and I found it refreshing that he didn't have an interest in moralizing in his approach to this story; while I think true objectivity is probably impossible, this is about as multifaceted as it gets. Driven primarily by an interest in the human cost of the conflict, Radden Keefe turns four years of research into a richly detailed account of Northern Ireland's fraught history, particularly examining how difficult it is to cultivate a historical record when different accounts contain conflicting information, and when everyone is afraid to speak openly about a conflict that's officially been resolved, but is a strong force in cumulative living memory. (If you loved Milkman, or if you didn't understand Milkman, this is such a valuable nonfiction supplement.)
Certain anecdotes and images in this book were just arresting, and I think it's telling that the two stories that affected me the most had victims on opposite sides of the conflict. The first was about an IRA man who ordered a hit on another IRA man, whose wife he was having an affair with; the first man was sentenced to death, and Dolours Price, driving him to his execution, was struck with the thought that she could let him go, or that he could attack her and escape, but neither of those possibilities was going to happen because they both wholly accepted their devotion to the cause. The chapter ends with the flat and haunting lines "'I'll be seeing you Joe,' Price said. But she knew that she wouldn't be, and she cried the whole way home." The second story that got under my skin was about two young British soldiers who had accidentally found themselves in the middle of an IRA funeral; because of a recent attack by loyalists, their presence was met with suspicion and they were dragged from their car and beaten, and eventually taken across the road and shot. A Catholic priest ran over and when he noticed that one of the men was still breathing, asked if anyone knew CPR, but he was met with silence from the crowd, and a photograph was captured of him kneeling over this soldier's body and staring into the camera, his lips bloody from trying to resuscitate him.
As for the significance of Jean McConville, the mother of ten who went missing in 1972, and whose body wasn't recovered until her bones were found on a beach in 2003: at first I did worry that this element was being shoehorned as a bizarre piece of human interest (I say 'bizarre' due to the little attention that's paid to McConville and her children throughout). However, I needn't have worried, as everything does eventually dovetail in a way that fully justifies this book's premise. Running alongside the historical account of the Troubles, Radden Keefe introduces the reader to something called the Boston College Tapes, an aborted project in which heads of the college's Irish History department endeavored to curate an oral history of the Troubles, to be accessed by the college's students in future generations. Due to the fact that discussing past paramilitary activity is an incriminating act, participants in the project were granted a sort of amnesty and promised that the tapes would not be released until after the participant's death. This promise was violated in the form of a lengthy legal battle between BC and the UK government, and ended up playing a key role in getting to the bottom of McConville's disappearance.
While I'd first and foremost recommend Say Nothing to those with an interest in Irish history and wouldn't dream of selling this as a true crime book, I don't want to downplay how enthralling this was. Granted, its focus is something I already had an interest in, but what Radden Keefe brought to this narrative was a fiercely human angle, and I found this as deeply moving as it was informative.
Thank you to Netgalley and Doubleday for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review....more
Either Goodreads ate my review, or I never posted it here? I usually cross-post from Goodreads to my blog, not the other way around, so that is very oEither Goodreads ate my review, or I never posted it here? I usually cross-post from Goodreads to my blog, not the other way around, so that is very odd.
Anyway.
Constellations is the debut memoirist essay collection by noted Irish arts critic Sinéad Gleeson, and it’s a collection that appears to have been years in the making. It’s unsurprising then that the result is as masterful as it is – I inhaled this utterly marvelous book in one day and could not stop thinking about it after I finished.
Gleeson puts her own body at the front and center of these essays; she writes of hip replacements, leukemia, arthritis, and childbirth, deftly tying in her own stories with broader observations about the politicization of women’s bodies. These essays are at their best when they’re the most personal, I think, because Gleeson has the remarkable ability to express vulnerability without self-pity, but there isn’t a single essay in this collection that isn’t in its own way thought-provoking and memorable.
This is perfect for fans of Maggie O’Farrell’s I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death, though I consider Constellations to be (perhaps ironically) more thematically coherent. ‘Blue Hills and Chalk Bones’ opens the collection with a story about a school trip to France and coming to terms with her body’s limitations, a moving opening that segues into the more widely accessible ‘Hair,’ which interrogates the relationship between hair and identity. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything that captures the utter senselessness and cruelty of death better than ‘Our Mutual Friend,’ far and away the collection’s standout, but even though that emotional crescendo comes early, the essays that follow continue to hold their own and deliver the occasional gut-punch while meditating on themes of illness, death, motherhood, and the interplay between art and health.
All said, this collection is essentially a reminder of the importance of bodily autonomy (which Gleeson fights for most ardently in her essay in which she reflects on Ireland’s notoriously harsh abortion policies). But despite the relentlessly heavy subject matter, this is the kind of book that you feel lighter having read, because it isn’t weighed down by the kind of hopelessness and despair that Gleeson has been fighting through ever since her first health diagnosis. As a self-proclaimed lover of all things macabre I tend to shudder at the word ‘uplifting’ so I’m trying to avoid using it, but suffice to say that this is a beautiful book that works through a number of difficult subjects to a consequential and impactful end. Read it....more
For whatever reason I never tire of reading about the Troubles, but The Fire Starters is not your average 'Troubles book.' Set in modern-day East BelfFor whatever reason I never tire of reading about the Troubles, but The Fire Starters is not your average 'Troubles book.' Set in modern-day East Belfast, Jan Carson imagines a series of fires that break out throughout the city, initiated by an enigmatic figure referred to as the Fire Starter, who revels in the blood lust that his havoc causes. Amidst this violence we have two fathers, Sammy Agnew, an old man and former paramilitary, and Jonathan Murray, a socially awkward new father, both of whom fear their own children, as Sammy begins to suspect that his son is the cause of the Tall Fires, and Jonathan begins to suspect that his newborn daughter is a Siren.
This is a singular, inventive, tragic, and wildly funny book about the legacy of violence and the lasting scars it leaves on a community. The novel's central conceit is reminiscent of Milkman, and of other quintessential Northern Irish lit - that terror begins at home, that trust cannot automatically be extended to one's own family - but Jan Carson's interpretation of this theme is far more abstract than any I've seen before.
I'll be honest, I'm so relieved that I didn't know there was going to be a magical realism element to this book before picking it up, because as I'm sure you all know by now, magical realism almost never works for me - but fortunately, Carson shows us how it's done. This book quite literally mythologizes the Troubles as the threat of Sophie the maybe-Siren looms large over Jonathan, but her narrative role is more ambiguous; is Jonathan merely appropriating the grandiosity of the cultural narrative he was raised into, or is Sophie actually a danger to society? As Jonathan fears for the future, Sammy reminisces on the past and the violent role he played in the conflict in the 1970s; he fears that he can never wash his hands clean, and that his actions have irrevocably damaged his son.
As I'm sure you can tell, I loved this. Jan Carson's writing is sharp and funny and piercing; the fusion of perspectives works magnificently; the examination of Belfast's history of violence and the ever-present threat of its resurgence is timely and unapologetic. And this is, frankly, one of the most original things I've read in a very long time....more
Michelangelo never traveled to Constantinople, but author and scholar Mathias Énard imagines that he did in the richly detailed novella Tell Them of BMichelangelo never traveled to Constantinople, but author and scholar Mathias Énard imagines that he did in the richly detailed novella Tell Them of Battles, Kings, and Elephants. Énard draws on the historically verified premise that Michelangelo was invited in 1506 to Constantinople by the Sultan Bayezid II, who wished to commission the design for a bridge over the Golden Horn, having already rejected a design proposed by Leonardo da Vinci. Wishing to surpass his elder and seduced by promises of eternal glory, Énard's Michelangelo makes the excursion, fleeing from Pope Julius II and an unfinished commission in Rome.
What this slim book lacks in word count it makes up for in atmosphere: lush and evocative, Énard's writing propels the reader into the past with a tonal confidence and authority that blurs the line between fact and fiction - and even after reading Énard's note at the end, you would be forgiven for still not knowing which is which. Even the physicality of the pages makes you feel like you're reading a historical document; with sparse, short chapters, occasional sketches, and an abundance of blank space, Énard easily earns his reader's trust and convincingly brings the past to life.
While I imagine that Énard is a tremendously gifted writer in French, Charlotte Mandell's translation is stunning and sensual. The novella opens with the following paragraph:
“Night does not communicate with the day. It burns up in it. Night is carried to the stake at dawn. And its people along with it—the drinkers, the poets, the lovers. We are a people of the banished, of the condemned. I do not know you. I know your Turkish friend; he is one of ours. Little by little he is vanishing from the world, swallowed up by the shadows and their mirages; we are brothers. I don't know what pain or what pleasure propelled him to us, to stardust, maybe opium, maybe wine, maybe love; maybe some obscure wound of the soul deep-hidden in the folds of memory.”
These words are narrated by an Andalusian singer that Michelangelo spends the night with, whose perspective occasionally resurfaces throughout the book. These chapters were consistently my favorites, but the chapters which focused on Michelangelo's time in Constantinople and his fraught relationship with the gay poet Mesihi I found almost equally as thrilling.
'Thrilling' almost feels like an inappropriate word to use while trying to sell a relatively plotless book, but it feels like an accurate way to describe the constant emotional and intellectual engagement I felt with this story. In only 144 pages, Énard tells a propulsive tale of art, ambition, and a clashing of two cultures that don't actually meet in a significant artistic way in 1506 - this book instead hinges on the glorious 'what if?' It's also a bracing portrayal of one of history's greatest artists - genius though he is, Énard's Michelangelo fears the carnal as much as he reveres the aesthetic of it, and this contradiction is navigated here with grace and tragedy.
Make no mistake: this is very much my kind of book. I'm sure a lot of readers will find it serviceable or even dull, but everything came together for me for the perfectly enchanting and emotionally satisfying read. I can't recommend it highly enough... but only if the premise intrigues you. This is the kind of book that I wanted to reread immediately upon finishing it, and I can confidently say I will be returning to it in the not too distant future....more
Man Booker 2018 WINNER! So well deserved; congrats, Anna Burns!
I loved Milkman, but it's so painfully niche I can't think of anyone I'd personallyMan Booker 2018 WINNER! So well deserved; congrats, Anna Burns!
I loved Milkman, but it's so painfully niche I can't think of anyone I'd personally recommend it to. Set in an unnamed city that's probably Belfast in the 1970s, Milkman follows an unnamed narrator who's believed by her community to be having an affair with a man known only as 'the milkman,' who isn't actually a milkman. Told in stream-of-consciousness prose and set against the backdrop of the Troubles, Milkman doesn't offer much of a plot, but it does provide a perceptive and intelligent look at a community under duress and constant surveillance.
It also starts with these stellar opening lines:
"The day Somebody McSomebody put a gun to my breast and called me a cat and threatened to shoot me was the same day the milkman died. He had been shot by one of the state hit squads and I did not care about the shooting of this man. Others did care though, and some were those who, in the parlance, ‘knew me to see but not to speak to’ and I was being talked about because there was a rumour started by them, or more likely by first brother-in-law, that I had been having an affair with this milkman and that I was eighteen and he was forty-one."
But this book is hard work, I will readily admit that. Though I loved the narrator's sharp observational commentary, even I found the narrative style painfully long-winded at times. Paragraphs go on for pages; chapters go on for hours; the kind of concentration it takes to really immerse yourself in this novel can be draining. This is not what anyone would describe as an easy read, and I think it's the kind of book that's going to fall under the category of 'I appreciated it but I didn't like it' for a lot of people.
This line of thought actually made me reflect on what it means to 'like' a book, because I wouldn't describe my reading experience as 'fun,' necessarily, but despite that, I found Milkman incredibly rewarding. Anna Burns deftly crafts a living, breathing community, and paints a portrait of the realities of living in a city torn apart by civil unrest. Rumors and false perceptions dog these characters, and our narrator in particular, who's considered an oddity, a 'beyond-the-pale,' due to the fact that she often reads while walking. In order to fit in in a society like this, every time you leave the house you have to bury a part of yourself, and Milkman incisively and comprehensively examines the toll that takes. I don't know if I've ever read another novel that so expertly evokes the kind of anxiety that comes from the inability to trust your neighbor or even your own family. Characters in this novel operate under a veil of formality that you as a reader want to peel back to reveal their genuine hopes and fears and aspirations, but of course all you're able to do is mutely watch them navigate social situations while unable to truly express themselves. This book can be infuriating because of that, but it's supposed to be. There's also an undeniably feminist undercurrent to the whole thing, as the narrator laments the difficulties unique to women during this time, though it remains a subtle element throughout.
Though it’s ultimately more of a psychological story than a historical one, drawing obvious parallels to any number of totalitarian regimes across history, Milkman does feel firmly rooted in its Northern Irish setting. This is a recognizably Irish novel, from its stream-of-consciousness prose to its pitch-black humor, and there's no question that that played a huge role in my ultimate enjoyment of it, so above all else I think I'd recommend this to anyone who loves Irish lit and Irish history, but who can tolerate a lack of plot and likes their novels a bit on the philosophical side.
Personally, I'll be thrilled if this is shortlisted for the Booker, but I also doubt that likelihood as it's not the kind of novel that's destined to reach a wide audience - not that the Booker necessarily prioritizes accessibility, but I would just find it unlikely if all five judges are in complete agreement about this one's merits enough to advance it. But who knows. This had already been on my radar before the longlist announcement, but I'm very happy that it pushed me to read it sooner than I otherwise would have.
EDIT on 10/15: I changed my mind. I think it's going to win!...more
Vincent—a young woman named for American poet and playwright Edna St. Vincent Millay—is working as a bartender in a hotel on a remote island in BritisVincent—a young woman named for American poet and playwright Edna St. Vincent Millay—is working as a bartender in a hotel on a remote island in British Columbia, when one day a message is scrawled across the hotel window that reads: “Why don’t you swallow broken glass.” This sets off the unexpected chain of events that are chronicled by Emily St. John Mandel in her highly anticipated novel The Glass Hotel, which follows Vincent from rural Canada to Wall Street as she becomes involved with a high-level financial executive, whose successful business is revealed to be fronting a Ponzi scheme. This is the first novel that Mandel has published since the release of the wildly successful Station Eleven in 2014.
You can read my full review HERE and a piece I wrote about Ponzi schemes HERE....more
The Idiot is a book you either click with or you don't. I absolutely understand why some readers have found it maddening. I can't recall the last bookThe Idiot is a book you either click with or you don't. I absolutely understand why some readers have found it maddening. I can't recall the last book I read where less happened than it did here, which, considering that it's nearly a five-hundred page book, is kind of a triumph in its own right. But I got along with The Idiot splendidly.
This is quiet, sparse, cerebral, philosophical, surprisingly humorous account of a Turkish-American girl's first year at Harvard. In one of her Russian classes she meets Ivan, an older Hungarian student, and she becomes inexorably drawn to him. This isn't a romantic book, necessarily, but it is one that ruminates on the nature of love. Selin's pursuit of love and pursuit of intellectualism run parallel, both stemming from a desire to understand and be understood, and this is something that Batuman explores deftly in these pages.
The most noteworthy thing about this book is the brilliant protagonist that Batuman has created in Selin, and her striking narrative voice. Selin is first and foremost an observer. That's not to say that she isn't an active participant in her life, or that she doesn't make decisions, because she does, but often these decisions come more as reactions to the people and situations around her rather than from within herself. Selin observes the world in order to gain a deeper understanding of herself and where exactly she fits into the cosmic puzzle - and that's something I really connected with. I lost track of how many lines I highlighted because yes, that is me, that is my entire college experience encapsulated in a single phrase - but this one in particular stood out to me:
Even though I had a deep conviction that I was good at writing, and that in some way I already was a writer, this conviction was completely independent of my having ever written anything, or being able to imagine ever writing anything, that I thought anyone would like to read.
I will admit to flinching at this and some of the other truths that The Idiot elucidated for me.
My only complaint is that it overstays its welcome by about a hundred pages... but I'm actually struggling to make up my mind about whether I think that's an objective fault, or if this feeling is due to the fact that I traveled halfway across the country halfway through reading this book and had to take a break for several days due to work things and eventually came back to it in a different (and more tired) frame of mind.
Anyway, I can't think of many people I'd recommend this to, and I can think of several I would specifically not recommend this to (hi, Hadeer), but I thought it was brilliant. It's an easy, smooth read in some ways, but a difficult, dense read in others - Batuman doesn't rely on a flashy vocabulary to show off her intelligence, but it's on display on every single page. This isn't a book you read for escapism as much as one you read in order to gain a clearer picture of your own reality. For me, it was a resounding success in that regard....more
This was stupidly good. After recently loving Rooney's sophomore novel Normal People my expectations for Conversations With Friends were high, though This was stupidly good. After recently loving Rooney's sophomore novel Normal People my expectations for Conversations With Friends were high, though I was also a bit wary; in these situations I'm always afraid an author's debut isn't going to live up. I needn't have worried. This was perfect from start to finish. You know that feeling when you miss a stair and your stomach lurches briefly before you land - this was that sensation in book form.
Once again I was impressed with Rooney's writing; it's simple and seemingly effortless, but the kind of natural and conversational cadence she achieves is no easy feat. The simultaneous intelligence and lack of life experience of the narrator, Frances, were captured so convincingly; from the start this was a person that I wanted to understand, whose head I wanted to inhabit briefly. Sally Rooney writes about interpersonal dynamics with such skill and ease and sharp observation, and that was the shining point of this novel, but whenever Frances looked inward, those moments were also captured with the same unnerving clarity. I related to Frances and I didn't; I saw bits of myself in her and I found bits of her unreachable. But Rooney made me care, she earned my investment as I watched with sympathy and frustration and anxiety as Frances attempted to navigate an awkward, ill-thought-out affair with an older married man, a dynamic which only complicated her limited understanding of love, class, status, artistic freedom, and belonging.
If you can't handle books about unlikable, selfish people, you aren't going to enjoy this, and in that sense alone I don't necessarily believe this book transcends its premise. It's about unlikable, selfish people, many of whom are blind to their privilege. It's not about the kind of people you want to be, or want to be friends with. But if you're willing to sacrifice likability for realism, and an unpredictable plot for moments of startling self-reflection, this is the book for you. I actually ended up preferring this to Normal People, but both are a solid 5 stars and I am simply delighted that Sally Rooney's books have entered my life....more
Having already read Eimear McBride's sophomore novel, The Lesser Bohemians, I thought I was prepared for A Girl Is a Half-formed Thing. And indeed, I Having already read Eimear McBride's sophomore novel, The Lesser Bohemians, I thought I was prepared for A Girl Is a Half-formed Thing. And indeed, I was prepared for McBride's signature and singular prose style, a terse, choppy sort of stream of consciousness that mimics the incompleteness of thought. It's a difficult style to warm up to: I've heard that listening to this book on audio can help, but personally I tried that and as I'm not an auditory learner at all, I found it much more comprehensible in print. So I think it does depend on your personal preferences, but once you settle into the rhythm of her words, it's not as daunting as you might expect.
"Him anxious. Not at all like. But I am happy. Satisfied that I've done wrong and now and now. What now? Calm sliding down into my boat and pushing out to sin. He's on the shoreline getting small."
What I was not prepared for was how utterly gutting this book ended up being. This has to be one of the most intense, visceral, excruciating things I have read in my life - second only to A Little Life, perhaps? Just, don't pick this up lightly. Trigger warnings for everything. Seriously, everything.
But it's not just brutal; it's good. Form, style, and content all dovetail here for one of the most perceptive examinations of the psychological toll of sexual assault that I have ever read. But more than that, this book is a raw and unfiltered look at sex, isolation, terminal illness, and sibling bonds, and though it's relentlessly internal in its construction, a commentary on growing up as a young woman in Ireland beautifully underscores the entire thing. The protagonist remains nameless, something that I often find gimmicky and unnecessary, but here it works perfectly as a constant reminder of the narrator's fractured sense of identity as she finds herself defined by the horrifying things that happen to her and around her as a young girl. This is a hard book to recommend as it's so impenetrable at a glance, and so harrowing once you do get into it, but I think this is a book that is going to stay with me for a long time....more
Asking For It is a difficult book. As if the subject matter isn't disturbing and harrowing enough - an 18-year-old girl is raped and then ostracized fAsking For It is a difficult book. As if the subject matter isn't disturbing and harrowing enough - an 18-year-old girl is raped and then ostracized from her community because of it - Louise O'Neill's approach to this story is ruthlessly, unnervingly honest. Emma O'Donovan's story isn't one of healing and closure and happy endings, and it can be hard to read because of that, but it shows an important side to this story that we don't often see depicted in fiction.
The most striking thing about Asking For It is how unlikable our heroine Emma is. The first quarter of the book is devoted to her treating her friends rather poorly and treating prospective partners like trophies; she's stuck-up, vain, and self-centered. She wears short skirts and low-cut dresses, she drinks a lot of alcohol and takes drugs recreationally, and when she's raped by four boys, the question in absolutely everyone's mind - from her classmates to her parents to strangers who pass her on the street - is 'wasn't she asking for it?' Louise O'Neill challenges this absolutely vile conception of what a 'good victim' should look like: someone who's a virgin, who dresses modestly, whose trauma responses fit perfectly into the DSM-5. People like Emma (though she's fictional, she's all too real) don't fit into this mold and their allegations of rape are often met with disdain, which is why it's all the more critical that we support them.
Obviously, a book tackling an important and difficult subject matter doesn't in and of itself make it a good book, so I'm glad to say that I was blown away by Asking For It on just about every level. O'Neill's writing is stunning (I did such a double take when I flipped to the back cover and saw how young she is - not that young people can't be good writers, obviously! but this book is nearly flawless on a technical level). Her characters are three-dimensional - Emma isn't an archetype straight out of Mean Girls; she's pretty and popular and vain, but it's all rooted in a deep sense of insecurity that's tied heavily into her upbringing, which O'Neill deftly explores in the way Emma relates to her family. I also liked that I didn't at any point feel like I was being preached to, which is something I occasionally feel while reading YA as an adult. O'Neill explores these issues with subtlety and doesn't shy away from asking difficult questions of her readers. My one minor critique is that the rate at which secondary characters are introduced at the beginning of the novel is a little excessive - the first thirty or so pages were me going 'wait, who is that?' - but once over this hurdle, the book settles into a gripping pace.
This book isn't going to be for everyone, and I'd certainly advise that you proceed with caution if you're triggered by this subject matter or if you struggle with anxiety (my heart was racing pretty much the entire time I was reading). But it is such a critically important contribution to the discussion of rape culture. O'Neill fearlessly advocates justice for all rape victims, not just the ones whose stories are easier to digest, that fit better into our conceived narrative of what 'counts' as rape. We need to stop blaming rape victims and start listening to their stories, full stop....more
“When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years which you h
“When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about the joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”
This book is something rare and extraordinary. Though ostensibly a retelling of the myth of Cupid and Psyche (I'd recommend reading Lewis's afterward before you begin if you're not already familiar with the story, as he provides a succinct summary), it's told from the point of view of one of Psyche's sisters, Orual, a princess cursed with an ugly face. I think if I'd been informed before starting this book that so much of the focus would be on Orual rather than Psyche, I would have been disappointed - and that disappointment would have been very misguided indeed, because Orual captured my heart. This strong, flawed, broken young woman is honestly one of the most complex and haunting female protagonists I've come across.
I hadn't read any C.S. Lewis except for the first three (I think) books in the Chronicles of Narnia series when I was younger, and, as evidenced by the fact that I only read the first three (I think), I was not a huge fan. Honestly, he was an author I never had much interest in, but after reading Till We Have Faces, I am distraught that more of his fiction doesn't appeal to me (I'm not a big science fiction fan). I love his writing - the passage I quoted above is only one of many that I had to pause and reread because I found his prose so striking.
It's hard to summarize this book, or even fully wrap my head around it, as it's one of the more thematically complex things I think I've ever read. It's a book that almost demands to be read more than once. That's not to say that it's dense to the point of incomprehensibility - I read it in two days, and doing so was an absolute joy. But Lewis provides a thoughtful meditation on beauty and ugliness (with a startling commentary on how a woman's worth is wrongly determined by her appearance), as well as the symbiotic nature of love and hatred, before delving into even deeper philosophical and theological themes, examining the very nature of man's relationship with God (or, in the case of mythology, the gods). It's heavy stuff, but in a rewarding way. This book will stay with me. (Also, on a personal note, I'm not religious. I can't comment on whether having a vested interest in Christianity is essential for reading any of C.S. Lewis's other works, but I found that, despite the religious themes, this was really not the case here. I'd recommend this to absolutely everyone.)
Till We Have Faces achieves everything I like to see in a retelling - it fleshes out the stories of minor characters who only play bit parts in the original, it interrogates and expands on the original themes, and it captures the wondrous atmosphere that makes mythology so compelling. I'm in awe of this book....more
Self-Portrait with Boy is a ruthless examination of the cost of success for a young hopeful photographer. Lu Rile is in I was blown away by this book.
Self-Portrait with Boy is a ruthless examination of the cost of success for a young hopeful photographer. Lu Rile is in her late 20s, squatting in an Artists in Residence abandoned-warehouse-turned-apartment in Brooklyn which is so run down it should be condemned, working three jobs and trying to break into the competitive arts scene. When she accidentally captures in a self-portrait the image of a young boy falling to his death, the photograph turns out to be stunning, and Lu is forced to decide if she should destroy the print out of respect for the grieving family who she ends up befriending, or if she should use it to launch her career. (There's also a supernatural element to the story, as Lu believes she is being haunted by the ghost of the boy who died - though whether this element is literal or a manifestation of Lu's internal turmoil, I think Rachel Lyon leaves that for us to decide.)
Lu is one of the best anti-heroines I think I've ever read. She's fueled by an almost ruthless ambition, but so vulnerable that I found myself sympathizing with and rooting for her, even though she never asks you to. She's not a warm narrator and she doesn't ask for pity, but she's all the more honest and compelling for that fact. When she looks at her photograph she's forced to confront the very nature of art itself and the role of the artist - is it her responsibility to spare the feelings of this boy's family, or does she have a stronger duty to her career and the truth behind her art?
I'm actually very familiar with the Brooklyn neighborhoods - Dumbo and Brooklyn Heights - that provided this story with its setting, so that was definitely part of the appeal for me. It was fascinating to step back in time and look at Dumbo not as I know it now, but on the brink of gentrification in the early 90s. But even if you've never been to Dumbo, I think it's still possible to be impressed by just how immersive this novel is. It's such a brilliant and insular look at the New York art scene in the 90s; fans of twentieth century American art in particular I think will be entranced by this story.
There's really only one element of this novel that didn't work for me - the omission of quotation marks in dialogue. I can only assume that since Lu is recounting this story 20 years later, the desired effect is to imply that it's Lu's remembrance of characters' dialogue, rather than verbatim quotes? But I'm still not sure that it was necessary - it seems like a rather arbitrary stylistic choice. It didn't bother me enough to detract from my 5 star rating, but I think it's going to be a big deterrent for some people.
But like I said, all things considered, I was blown away. I don't think I appreciated just how hard-hitting this book was until I read the final sentence and nearly burst into tears. This whole novel was beautiful and unsettling and unique, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. I'll look forward to anything Rachel Lyon writes in the future - she's a huge talent to look out for.
Thank you to Scribner and Rachel Lyon for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review....more
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