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Thrust
Lidia Yuknavitch has an unmatched gift for capturing stories of people on the margins--vulnerable humans leading lives of challenge and transcendence. Now, Yuknavitch offers an imaginative masterpiece: the story of Laisve, a motherless girl from the late 21st century who is learning her power as a carrier, a person who can harness the power of meaningful objects to carry her through time. Sifting through the detritus of a fallen city known as the Brook, she discovers a talisman that will mysteriously connect her with a series of characters from the past two centuries: a French sculptor; a woman of the American underworld; a dictator's daughter; an accused murderer; and a squad of laborers at work on a national monument. Through intricately braided storylines, Laisve must dodge enforcement raids and find her way to the present day, and then, finally, to the early days of her imperfect country, to forge a connection that might save their lives--and their shared dream of freedom.
A dazzling novel of body, spirit, and survival, Thrust will leave no reader unchanged.
A dazzling novel of body, spirit, and survival, Thrust will leave no reader unchanged.
352 pages, Hardcover
First published June 28, 2022
428 people are currently reading
19.6k people want to read
About the author
Lidia Yuknavitch
45books2,332followersLidia Yuknavitch is the author of the National Bestselling novels The Book of Joan and The Small Backs of Children, winner of the 2016 Oregon Book Award's Ken Kesey Award for Fiction as well as the Reader's Choice Award, and the novel Dora: A Headcase, Her widely acclaimed memoir The Chronology of Water was a finalist for a PEN Center USA award for creative nonfiction and winner of a PNBA Award and the Oregon Book Award Reader's Choice. Her nonfiction book based on her TED Talk, The Misfit's Manifesto, is forthcoming from TED Books.
She founded the workshop series Corporeal Writing in Portland Oregon, where she teaches both in person and online. She received her doctorate in Literature from the University of Oregon. She lives in Oregon with her husband Andy Mingo and their renaissance man son, Miles. She is a very good swimmer.
She founded the workshop series Corporeal Writing in Portland Oregon, where she teaches both in person and online. She received her doctorate in Literature from the University of Oregon. She lives in Oregon with her husband Andy Mingo and their renaissance man son, Miles. She is a very good swimmer.
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Displaying 1 - 29 of 480 reviews
July 24, 2022
What’s refreshing about Lidia Yuknavitch is her understanding of narrative and storytelling that runs counter to the prevailing wisdom. In terms of formal construction, her prior work was about deconstructing narrative. In Thrust, she begins piecing the narrative together in interesting ways. I read this book twice in succession: first front to back, then the second time I read the matching pieces together (Cruces, Ethnography, etc). Yuknavitch’s style may not be for everyone - the imagery is imprecise and the fantastical elements seem to lack context or world building. Characters are thinly sketched. The individual parts to this were at times excellent, even brilliant, although they perhaps did not cohere into an intelligible whole. Yuknavitch may have an even better novel in her that matches her talents but for now this is a nice forward development from her prior work and a singular expression of a unique if quirky vision.
June 22, 2022
Lidia Yuknavitch’s extraordinary new novel is the weirdest, most mind-blowing book about America I’ve ever inhaled. Part history, part prophecy, all fever dream, “Thrust� offers a radical critique of the foundational ideals that conceal our persistent national crimes. As we march from Juneteenth to July 4, this is a story to scrub the patinated surface of our civic pride.
There’s a tidal movement to “Thrust,� whose chapters ebb and flow across 200 years in and around the New York Harbor. At the opening, we catch a vision of immigrants working on a colossal new monument designed in France and shipped in pieces to the United States. With allusions to Walt Whitman, Yuknavitch gives voice to the multitude. “We were woodworkers, iron workers, roofers and plasterers and brick masons,� the narrator intones. “We were. . . .
To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post:
There’s a tidal movement to “Thrust,� whose chapters ebb and flow across 200 years in and around the New York Harbor. At the opening, we catch a vision of immigrants working on a colossal new monument designed in France and shipped in pieces to the United States. With allusions to Walt Whitman, Yuknavitch gives voice to the multitude. “We were woodworkers, iron workers, roofers and plasterers and brick masons,� the narrator intones. “We were. . . .
To read the rest of this review, go to The Washington Post:
July 24, 2022
A very rich book of ideas and themes, with the execution at time lacking compared to the ambition of the author. Poetic in imagery and surprisingly hopefully in overall message of resilience in kids and trust is the future
You can’t kill the future in us
So much is touched upon in this book: economic exploitation, misogyny, gender norms and identification (including American civil war Mulan like soldiers), children being grind up in welfare systems or being handicapped by hard labour, mother/parenthood, climate change, linguistics, indigenous populations versus Western exploration, evolution of species.
The richness of ideas in is dizzying.
Also we have recurring themes of indigo, loss of limbs, people scarred on their back which looks like angel wings, apples, an umbilical cord, a pendant with the hair of Mary Shelley, seizures. And recurring people across time called Aurora, Lizzy/Lasivé and Joseph.
Lots to chew on, and as to be expected, not everything as intricate and beautifully rendered as one would hope. Still the ambition of is very much something to enjoy.
The audiobook, using many different narrators, is very well done and does the polyphonic book justice. The narrative tone is rather distant, and we move not just along time but also between narrators a lot.
We have a New York inundated, with a famous underwater woman a.k.a. Statue of Liberty. In that timeline there is also a talking turtle called Bertrand. The world building is not very clear, with raids on people and unclear economics: it reminded me of .
Then we have a timeline with sex workers annex an orphanage in post-Civil War New York. Here people are eating live salamanders and there is a epistolary conversation between a niece (Aurora) and nephew who have a rather intimate relationship, with one of them inspiring the other to build the Statue of Liberty. Aurora her story in industrial New York reminds me of first two sections, which also focusses on invalid children. The whole BDSM mistress annex Scheherazade having a letter exchange with her gay sculptor of the Statue of Liberty feels rather constructed.
Also why would someone narrate a persons own house to them in a letter? Isn’t this a bit of laziness in storytelling. Another example is How has she managed to capture my attention so thoroughly?, which a character ask himself. And well no, that’s not how it works with me as reader, just saying that but offering me nothing to feel this.
Then there is a section with a supremely unprofessional social worker who is rather emotional unstable. She gets attached to a boy who draws strange things and has a traumatic past.
Finally we are transported to the builders working on the Statue of Liberty. This section is the most well done in my view. The similarity between the numbered pieces of The Statue of Liberty, being transferred in a boat, is beautifully juxtaposed with slaves being carried in a similar manner to build America, and shows effectively the theme of immigrants who built both the country and its emblem.
Also this section has the least number of lists being narrated, which the other two sections have a lot.
The book overall is a bit solemn (humourless sounds too harsh but did cross my mind, especially the BDSM mistress at time is kind of funny in a constructed manner) and maybe too cinematic at times, with more eye for the visual appeal of scenes than the actual construction of them. These kind of open questions, supposedly thought by people in a crisis situation, is an example of the author being too much concerned with the message instead of the realistic construction of scenes:
Who are men when they are untethered from their fathers?
The foster child scene are a good example, with a lot “never in his life�, “every morning� and other absolute statements. In that sense this book reminded me a bit of in ambition or the imagination and lyricism of her work. Also definitely comes to mind with the parsimonious jumping through time, although this book is less neat in tying up threads and explaining stuff.
The ending for me felt a bit vague, with fetishized depictions of other species (isn’t the whole Darwin thesis that all species fight each other constantly) and a kind of water commune as a way towards a solution to all problems. This reminded me a bit of her work, which sometimes shows a bit too high amount of faith in basic human nature.
Still a truly interesting book, and is someone I am keen to read more from, since this was definitely an ambitious and thoughtful work.
Quotes:
She seems like the rest of us out here, the doctor said. Traumatized, all of us, and just getting on with things
Remember, you can’t save anyone
The important question turned out to be how do we assemble our hearts to keep us from breaking apart
I’m still haunted by the concept of freedom
The death of languages precedes the death of the world
The story of workers is buried under any monument of progress or power
People often see danger where change happens
So many stories heaped upon each other
Just studying something is not the same as being part of something
Stories are quantum
When is the time in your life when you felt the most human?
Carrying a real name in once heart
You can’t kill the future in us
So much is touched upon in this book: economic exploitation, misogyny, gender norms and identification (including American civil war Mulan like soldiers), children being grind up in welfare systems or being handicapped by hard labour, mother/parenthood, climate change, linguistics, indigenous populations versus Western exploration, evolution of species.
The richness of ideas in is dizzying.
Also we have recurring themes of indigo, loss of limbs, people scarred on their back which looks like angel wings, apples, an umbilical cord, a pendant with the hair of Mary Shelley, seizures. And recurring people across time called Aurora, Lizzy/Lasivé and Joseph.
Lots to chew on, and as to be expected, not everything as intricate and beautifully rendered as one would hope. Still the ambition of is very much something to enjoy.
The audiobook, using many different narrators, is very well done and does the polyphonic book justice. The narrative tone is rather distant, and we move not just along time but also between narrators a lot.
We have a New York inundated, with a famous underwater woman a.k.a. Statue of Liberty. In that timeline there is also a talking turtle called Bertrand. The world building is not very clear, with raids on people and unclear economics: it reminded me of .
Then we have a timeline with sex workers annex an orphanage in post-Civil War New York. Here people are eating live salamanders and there is a epistolary conversation between a niece (Aurora) and nephew who have a rather intimate relationship, with one of them inspiring the other to build the Statue of Liberty. Aurora her story in industrial New York reminds me of first two sections, which also focusses on invalid children. The whole BDSM mistress annex Scheherazade having a letter exchange with her gay sculptor of the Statue of Liberty feels rather constructed.
Also why would someone narrate a persons own house to them in a letter? Isn’t this a bit of laziness in storytelling. Another example is How has she managed to capture my attention so thoroughly?, which a character ask himself. And well no, that’s not how it works with me as reader, just saying that but offering me nothing to feel this.
Then there is a section with a supremely unprofessional social worker who is rather emotional unstable. She gets attached to a boy who draws strange things and has a traumatic past.
Finally we are transported to the builders working on the Statue of Liberty. This section is the most well done in my view. The similarity between the numbered pieces of The Statue of Liberty, being transferred in a boat, is beautifully juxtaposed with slaves being carried in a similar manner to build America, and shows effectively the theme of immigrants who built both the country and its emblem.
Also this section has the least number of lists being narrated, which the other two sections have a lot.
The book overall is a bit solemn (humourless sounds too harsh but did cross my mind, especially the BDSM mistress at time is kind of funny in a constructed manner) and maybe too cinematic at times, with more eye for the visual appeal of scenes than the actual construction of them. These kind of open questions, supposedly thought by people in a crisis situation, is an example of the author being too much concerned with the message instead of the realistic construction of scenes:
Who are men when they are untethered from their fathers?
The foster child scene are a good example, with a lot “never in his life�, “every morning� and other absolute statements. In that sense this book reminded me a bit of in ambition or the imagination and lyricism of her work. Also definitely comes to mind with the parsimonious jumping through time, although this book is less neat in tying up threads and explaining stuff.
The ending for me felt a bit vague, with fetishized depictions of other species (isn’t the whole Darwin thesis that all species fight each other constantly) and a kind of water commune as a way towards a solution to all problems. This reminded me a bit of her work, which sometimes shows a bit too high amount of faith in basic human nature.
Still a truly interesting book, and is someone I am keen to read more from, since this was definitely an ambitious and thoughtful work.
Quotes:
She seems like the rest of us out here, the doctor said. Traumatized, all of us, and just getting on with things
Remember, you can’t save anyone
The important question turned out to be how do we assemble our hearts to keep us from breaking apart
I’m still haunted by the concept of freedom
The death of languages precedes the death of the world
The story of workers is buried under any monument of progress or power
People often see danger where change happens
So many stories heaped upon each other
Just studying something is not the same as being part of something
Stories are quantum
When is the time in your life when you felt the most human?
Carrying a real name in once heart
August 4, 2022
I'm at a loss. This book was definitely not for me. This just isn't the kind of story I want to be told nor is it written in the way I want to read it.
I found it to be a huge, messy mishmash of stories told exclusively in summary - thus, at a great distance - and in the same voice, despite the many narrators. Whether young or old, or regardless of background, the voice is the same.
There are a huge number of themes, too, and not enough to tie them together to give me meaning. Each theme seems equally important, equally dramatic. I am drowned in the idea soup. I am bewildered by the time travelling turtle girl. I am repelled by the icky cousins who are sexually obsessed with each other. Sigh.
As I read this book, Lincoln in the Bardo came to mind. It's another book which incorporates a chorus of characters, as well as a magical realism element - but for some reason I love that book (it's on my favourites list). I wondered, why does Saunders' novel work so well for me, but Thrust does not? The only thing I can guess is that Saunders employs a precision, an economy of focus, and a very specific plot, even given his experimental form. I was totally invested in his story, I felt invited in. Yuknavitch's novel doesn't feel like a story at all - it seems to be the author riffing on many different subjects, and that doesn't appeal to me. Not even a little bit.
It does appeal to many other wonderful readers, though. From what I hear, this is her style, and she's simply not interested in traditional form. So, who knows, if you can ride the wave, you may have a delightful experience ahead of you... just make sure you hold on tight to that turtle's neck.
I found it to be a huge, messy mishmash of stories told exclusively in summary - thus, at a great distance - and in the same voice, despite the many narrators. Whether young or old, or regardless of background, the voice is the same.
There are a huge number of themes, too, and not enough to tie them together to give me meaning. Each theme seems equally important, equally dramatic. I am drowned in the idea soup. I am bewildered by the time travelling turtle girl. I am repelled by the icky cousins who are sexually obsessed with each other. Sigh.
As I read this book, Lincoln in the Bardo came to mind. It's another book which incorporates a chorus of characters, as well as a magical realism element - but for some reason I love that book (it's on my favourites list). I wondered, why does Saunders' novel work so well for me, but Thrust does not? The only thing I can guess is that Saunders employs a precision, an economy of focus, and a very specific plot, even given his experimental form. I was totally invested in his story, I felt invited in. Yuknavitch's novel doesn't feel like a story at all - it seems to be the author riffing on many different subjects, and that doesn't appeal to me. Not even a little bit.
It does appeal to many other wonderful readers, though. From what I hear, this is her style, and she's simply not interested in traditional form. So, who knows, if you can ride the wave, you may have a delightful experience ahead of you... just make sure you hold on tight to that turtle's neck.
Read
August 4, 2022the words and the sentences curled themselves into knotty shapes that did not fit the shape of my brain.
September 9, 2022
"Stories don’t care how we tell them. Stories take any shape they want. Not all stories happen with a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’ve come to understand maybe they never do. End, that is."
Thrust is the story of several individuals whose lives more or less revolve around the Statue of Liberty, from her inception to her near burial in a future where only her head protrudes above the rising waters.
Tying all these lives together is a young girl (sometimes woman) who can travel through time and communicate with sea creatures.
I don't think I've ever read a book thatfits on so many bookshelves. Different characters are a different genre, sometimes more than one: Historical fiction, speculative fiction, dystopia, erotica, clim-fic, magical realism, LGBTQIA+....
With a less talented author, this would have been a mess. Lydia Yuknavitch, however, pulled it off exquisitely. If someone had told me about the different genres before I read it, I'd have thought it would be confusing and that each character would seem like a different book.
Instead, the story flows seamlesslybetween times and places and peoples. My only complaints are that my interest waned towards the end and also that there are chapters (letters between two individuals) whichare written in italics. Sigh.
This is happening more and more. Does no one read ? It's difficult on the eyes to read long sections in italics. I had to ask Alexa to read those sections to me, which would have been ok if I liked audio but it's very difficult for my ADHD brain to "absorb" what I hear. I'm sure I missed a lot from those sections.
Ah well, it's a terrific book nonetheless, though those two complaints bring the rating down from a five to a four.
Thrust is the story of several individuals whose lives more or less revolve around the Statue of Liberty, from her inception to her near burial in a future where only her head protrudes above the rising waters.
Tying all these lives together is a young girl (sometimes woman) who can travel through time and communicate with sea creatures.
I don't think I've ever read a book thatfits on so many bookshelves. Different characters are a different genre, sometimes more than one: Historical fiction, speculative fiction, dystopia, erotica, clim-fic, magical realism, LGBTQIA+....
With a less talented author, this would have been a mess. Lydia Yuknavitch, however, pulled it off exquisitely. If someone had told me about the different genres before I read it, I'd have thought it would be confusing and that each character would seem like a different book.
Instead, the story flows seamlesslybetween times and places and peoples. My only complaints are that my interest waned towards the end and also that there are chapters (letters between two individuals) whichare written in italics. Sigh.
This is happening more and more. Does no one read ? It's difficult on the eyes to read long sections in italics. I had to ask Alexa to read those sections to me, which would have been ok if I liked audio but it's very difficult for my ADHD brain to "absorb" what I hear. I'm sure I missed a lot from those sections.
Ah well, it's a terrific book nonetheless, though those two complaints bring the rating down from a five to a four.
Read
August 18, 2022Brilliant!
July 15, 2022
Until about 60 pages in, I was a little unsure about this book. It was at that point when the author clearly conveyed that this novel dealt with big themes. It felt a little like walking the perimeter of a giant caldera, obscured by growth, but perfectly obvious when viewed from above. There's a lot to consider here, and it's hard to synthesize it all into a coherent analysis, so this review will be about my random observations, such as they are.
The first concept the author pointed out which jolted me, was that so much is created through violence: sand, gold, even nations. All that crashing together of elements seems like nature to us, and cooperation seems rather quaint.
Though hard to come up with one word which is the focus for the book, if pressed, I'd say it was stories. It's all about stories, which in some languages, is also the word for history. This is important.
Another major theme concerns the nature of freedom. Freedom is more than liberation, the sundering of one's bonds. It is the breaking up, the dismantling, of everything: the structures we've built to confine ourselves, both literally and figuratively. Freedom reaches beyond, punches through the sky, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 something new, and 𝘪𝘴 someone new, a being which transcends gender, nationality, or ethnicity. Freedom releases the borders from even time itself.
Above all, freedom should not be conflated with power. Freedom cannot be hoarded. It has no quantity.
An examination of what it truly means to be free exposes the ugly nature and fragility of capitalism, the costs of migration, and the complexities of toxic masculinity.
Yet, Yuknavitch doesn't identify problems without offering solutions. One thread throughout the novel refers to the connected social and environmental habitats of all creatures, and the benefits to all.
Yuknavitch's writing also flows with an increasing eroticism, like a swollen river slapping at the shore at every bend. Art and expression are the pulsing lifeblood at the core of the story. And, as she deftly avers, no story is meant to remain static. The intensity of each sensory experience contains the force of a reckoning and the surge of re-creation. My take on the title THRUST is that it not only refers to the reversal from male to female dominance, or an inside-out reconfiguration of the world, but it also means a bursting through of all the barriers of society, culture, and even the rules of time and space.
The first concept the author pointed out which jolted me, was that so much is created through violence: sand, gold, even nations. All that crashing together of elements seems like nature to us, and cooperation seems rather quaint.
Though hard to come up with one word which is the focus for the book, if pressed, I'd say it was stories. It's all about stories, which in some languages, is also the word for history. This is important.
Another major theme concerns the nature of freedom. Freedom is more than liberation, the sundering of one's bonds. It is the breaking up, the dismantling, of everything: the structures we've built to confine ourselves, both literally and figuratively. Freedom reaches beyond, punches through the sky, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 something new, and 𝘪𝘴 someone new, a being which transcends gender, nationality, or ethnicity. Freedom releases the borders from even time itself.
Above all, freedom should not be conflated with power. Freedom cannot be hoarded. It has no quantity.
An examination of what it truly means to be free exposes the ugly nature and fragility of capitalism, the costs of migration, and the complexities of toxic masculinity.
Yet, Yuknavitch doesn't identify problems without offering solutions. One thread throughout the novel refers to the connected social and environmental habitats of all creatures, and the benefits to all.
Yuknavitch's writing also flows with an increasing eroticism, like a swollen river slapping at the shore at every bend. Art and expression are the pulsing lifeblood at the core of the story. And, as she deftly avers, no story is meant to remain static. The intensity of each sensory experience contains the force of a reckoning and the surge of re-creation. My take on the title THRUST is that it not only refers to the reversal from male to female dominance, or an inside-out reconfiguration of the world, but it also means a bursting through of all the barriers of society, culture, and even the rules of time and space.
Shelved as 'tbr-overdrive'
January 10, 2022that cover is stunning.
Shelved as 'half-read'
September 11, 2022Unlike the explosive rush of invention that was The Book of Joan, Yuknavitch’s 2nd dystopian novel Thrust is an overcooked hodgepodge of vaguely connected prose stories themed around a young time-swimming woman who weaves herself through various pasts when her father is murdered by thugs in a Westworld-style future, or something like that, kinda maybe. The novel’s problem is many of the prose stories are only cryptically connected to any semblance of a coherent, broader theme or structure, and simply waft across the novel on clouds of WTF?! in a frustrating way (the worst example the italicised [ugh] epistolary [ugh2] sections that recur with painful frequency). The prose itself also insists on a continuous striving for a lyrical and profound grandeur, sacrificing any tangible meaning for frequently euphonious-yet-humourless wee pearls of prose wowdom (and there are some, though the poetic bombs of beauty are not on the same level as in The Book of Joan) that end up clouding an already very cloudy reading experience. By p.180, I had to call for a literary enema.
August 25, 2022
A mysterious shapeshifter of a novel, multi voiced, scattered across time and true to its watery core. We have the building of the Statue of Liberty, voiced by its laborers, their loyalties, loves and hopes; we have its designer, based loosely on Bertoldi, but here called Frederic, in correspondence with a mysterious one-legged woman called Aurora (echoes of the love affair between Frederic Chopin and George Sand? Her real name was Marie-Aurore), who operates an unusual "house" of experiential rooms... a kind of existential brothel. There's a water girl who lives between the worlds and moves with increasing ease through time. Time, geological history and climate-ruined future, is a major theme--we join the action as this character goes out in a boat to see the drowned statue of "the woman", now completely underwater due to global warming, all but her hand, and the torch. Multi-formed, multi-voiced, an unconventional depiction of a world of simultaneity and connection among stories. A hundred tiny dishes that make the most fascinating meal.
April 27, 2022
I have never read anything by Lidia Yuknavitch before but the cover of this book immediately drew me to it. The premise sounded interesting and I was lucky enough to win an ARC through ŷ.
I so wanted to love this book but it was not for me. The writing was beautiful at times but I often had trouble understanding what was happening. There were some truly odd moments. Even when I did understand, I was not quite sure what point the author was trying to make. I didn’t really feel anything for the characters with the exception of the statue workers.
I don’t know if the book was poorly executed or it just went over my head. I only pushed through to the end to see if everything came together but unfortunately it did not. I am looking forward to reading more reviews and summaries after the book is published in hopes they’ll provide new insight and maybe appreciation of the book.
Read time: 6hr20min
I so wanted to love this book but it was not for me. The writing was beautiful at times but I often had trouble understanding what was happening. There were some truly odd moments. Even when I did understand, I was not quite sure what point the author was trying to make. I didn’t really feel anything for the characters with the exception of the statue workers.
I don’t know if the book was poorly executed or it just went over my head. I only pushed through to the end to see if everything came together but unfortunately it did not. I am looking forward to reading more reviews and summaries after the book is published in hopes they’ll provide new insight and maybe appreciation of the book.
Read time: 6hr20min
February 17, 2023
This book was horrifying � and not in a good way � but I did manage to finish it, so I gave it three stars. But honestly, I couldn't recommend this to anyone without ample warning. I loved the author's nonlinear memoir, "Chronology of Water," so I looked forward to digging into this dystopian novel about a time-traveling young woman who carries objects through time and space to link up disparate stories, challenge those stories and "rewriting" them. I'm all for nonlinear poetics in fiction, especially when trying to bend reality toward speculative futures. But this novel is not very kind to its readers. It was aggressively confusing and disorienting in its absolute refusal to establish shared truths and grounding details. This book was more "look what I can do!" rather than "look what we can do" when it comes to relationship between author and reader. With few grounding throughlines, except perhaps the linked objects that appear throughout time and space, I ended up feeling shattered by the incoherence of this text � the farcical nature of the characters' speech & actions —and the absurdity of clipped-pace changes that didn't align at all with established facts about each of the characters. Historical details were well-researched but when spoken through the various characters, it felt largely unbelievable, exhausting & clichéd. All characters in this novel felt reduced to their essential traumas which made for such a heavy and exhausting read. I wondered if joy, levity, beauty or peace existed at all for any of them, at any time. In the middle of a scene, a character would espouse some lengthy monologue about what they knew about sea creatures or would break into an absurd masturbatory moment that felt violating and totally out of sync with the rest of the story at the moment. At no point did I feel I had any idea about where scenes took place or when, because it leapt around so much. Finally, I will say that I was not prepared for the incestuous relationship between cousins and had to wonder why Yuknavitch relied on their familial relationship to tell the story of "ambitious sculptor Frederic" and his "firebrand American lover Aurora." Like, why did they need to be related. I felt disturbed by the details of their largely epistolary relationship and wondered why Yuknavitch would make that choice. What purpose did it serve that they were related? I appreciate the ways in which Yuknavitch defends nonlinear storytelling to explain time travel and story loops and intersections in the time-space continuum. But it grows repetitive, the number of times she defends herself through her characters in the text, saying over and over again, "Stories take any shape they want. Not all stories happen with a beginning, middle and an end." OK —we got it. That doesn't mean that you have to abandon your reader along the way. Even in nonlinear, nontraditional storytelling, there's profound power in establishing rules and building trust with the reader. In this novel, Yuknavitch made it nearly impossible for readers to follow her incoherent story plots, and then spent lines between the lines defending it. On the sentence level, there were some glorious passages � poetic and astute in their observances of how time works in the body and beyond it. And I cherished those as anchors as I grappled with the text. But ultimately, I felt like the work this book required of me didn't come with any sort of reward. In a recent NYT interview with Yuknavitch, she says that she's looking to break away from the "tyranny of the past." She writes: “Like so many other people, I’m looking for ways to live with a story of self and community and family that is not locked into where I came from, or how it was for me as a child. ... ’s a profound idea in life, that you can make a story that releases you from the tyranny of your past.� But Yuknavitch seems to hold on to her history of sexual abuse and mental illness, infusing those conditions and mental states on her characters without much mercy and asking the readers to bear witness to it. She says it's possible to "change the stories we tell ourselves about who we are" but I only saw in this novel the reproduction of pain and trauma, not a transformation. This book should come with a clear warning that there are incest scenes and I also recommend that the reader asks themselves if they really want to be taken down a rabbit hole of nonsensical, disturbing surrealism guised as prophetic genius. Ultimately, this book felt contrived and I can't recommend it unless you are perhaps interested in catching a glimpse into Yuknavitch's vision of a despairing, incoherent future.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
Read
August 2, 2022DNF halfway through. I was looking forward to this book because I liked so much - so many challenging themes, and its dystopian world intrigued and repelled me in a way that was irresistible. I had the same intrigued/repelled experience here, but it didn't work this time. I was intrigued by Laisve and her world, and by the braided timelines, but I felt like Laisve was set aside for too long in favor of two cousins who were infatuated with themselves and each other, but bored and annoyed me. Also, the braiding of the timelines felt.... unbalanced. I tried to keep reading, knowing that more characters and timelines were coming, but my eyes kept wandering over to the unread books on my shelves, and that's a sure sign it's time to quit. I won't quit on this author though.
January 29, 2024
After finishing a novel by Lidia Yuknavitch there is always a feeling of gratitude. Of learning, of appreciating. Lidia writes like no other author I’ve read. Her novels are wild, and moving. Much like the water, ocean, that is such an important part of this story. This is a novel about immigrants, about unending love, death. Our main character Laisv is a “carrier�. Meaning that with the use of meaningful objects and through water, can travel back and forth through time to find and save people. People who can help rebuild a dying planet. I loved every word of this. I cannot recommend Yuknavitch enough. Must read!
December 16, 2021
Lidia Yuknavitch breaks through every false barrier of genre in her writing, and here she does it like never before. Past and future bound together to uncover stories and save lives, possibly those of her readers.
June 29, 2022
This is one of those rare books where even when you're about halfway through it, you're already thinking about the next time you'll read it. Fantastically written and full of incredible characters. I particularly loved the chapters about erecting the Statue of Liberty. As soon as it started I realized how little I actually knew about the statue's origins (I knew it was a gift from France, obviously, but very little else).
Definitely a top read of 2022.
Definitely a top read of 2022.
July 13, 2022
This might be among the first great post-Trump American novels (even post-Roe, though it was written before that) ; it is bewildering, magnificent, hopeful, devastating, sprawling, impossible, magical, and discordant.
There is so much happening - characters spanning over two hundred years, fabulous and wise talking animals, a young woman who can travel through time, multiple narrators. The story is heaving with allusions, metaphors, symbols, and references; I think I'd need to read this at least two more times to try to connect them all, and I'd likely still be unsuccessful. The scope is massive, and mostly succeeds in framing the past and future of the United States in an entirely new way while breaking conventions of literature and narrative along the way. It's a dizzying, polyphonic ride.
Some narratives are engaging and insightful; the story of the workers who built the statue of liberty, for instance, soars, both as a story and as a reframing of that incredible gift. The chapters by the sculptor of the statue were inventive and went in directions I never could have anticipated, and may have changed the way I think about apples forever. The first few pages of the book tell us that the statue is underwater due to climate change, so knowing its inevitable end, while capturing the hopes, dreams, suffering, and desires of its creators, is poignant.
Aurora - the sculptor's cousin who lives in New York - is fascinating and one of the most original characters I've read in some time. She works as a symbol, as a promise, and as a warning of all the things to come in the USA. I would devour a whole series of books about her.
But some threads I just didn't connect with at all, particularly the main character who can talk with animals and traverse time. Sometimes there was just *so* much happening and I didn't understand the connections. I felt at times, as I was flipping back and forth between chapters, trying to piece characters together, that I needed to write a chart to understand the plot, and I didn't want to work that hard. But for those who do, I think they will be richly rewarded. I think one could mine this story and never really reach the depths of it.
There is so much happening - characters spanning over two hundred years, fabulous and wise talking animals, a young woman who can travel through time, multiple narrators. The story is heaving with allusions, metaphors, symbols, and references; I think I'd need to read this at least two more times to try to connect them all, and I'd likely still be unsuccessful. The scope is massive, and mostly succeeds in framing the past and future of the United States in an entirely new way while breaking conventions of literature and narrative along the way. It's a dizzying, polyphonic ride.
Some narratives are engaging and insightful; the story of the workers who built the statue of liberty, for instance, soars, both as a story and as a reframing of that incredible gift. The chapters by the sculptor of the statue were inventive and went in directions I never could have anticipated, and may have changed the way I think about apples forever. The first few pages of the book tell us that the statue is underwater due to climate change, so knowing its inevitable end, while capturing the hopes, dreams, suffering, and desires of its creators, is poignant.
Aurora - the sculptor's cousin who lives in New York - is fascinating and one of the most original characters I've read in some time. She works as a symbol, as a promise, and as a warning of all the things to come in the USA. I would devour a whole series of books about her.
But some threads I just didn't connect with at all, particularly the main character who can talk with animals and traverse time. Sometimes there was just *so* much happening and I didn't understand the connections. I felt at times, as I was flipping back and forth between chapters, trying to piece characters together, that I needed to write a chart to understand the plot, and I didn't want to work that hard. But for those who do, I think they will be richly rewarded. I think one could mine this story and never really reach the depths of it.
July 19, 2022
This very unusual novel has been getting a lot of attention lately. I had mixed feelings. There were characters I really liked, and those who I would cringe any time they appeared on the pages. ("Not this person again!") I enjoyed the time travel element and the idea that some people and objects are not bizarre or useless, they're just stuck in the wrong time period.
October 25, 2022
I feel sorry for the books I read immediately after 's Locked Tomb novels, as they have so much to live up to. I read either side of , which made it feel more disjointed than it otherwise would have. As the narrative darts around in time quite mysteriously, it's already pretty disjointed. Yuknavitch knits it all together via material objects and kinky sex. The settings are striking: the Statue of Liberty under construction, future drowned Manhattan, a 19th century BDSM club, a 20th century juvenile detention centre, and a magical sea. As with another novel by Yuknavitch that I enjoyed, , is preoccupied with embodiment and combines elements of sci-fi and fantasy. Both are probably best described as weird fiction.
I find Yuknavitch a distinctive and interesting writer. Her novels aren't very plot focused, sometimes to the point of incoherence, but I find her writing vivid and visceral and her ideas striking and original. She's good at exploring disability, sexuality, and resistance to exploitation via strange and fantastical concepts. takes about sixty pages to get going and once it does the melange of characters and settings become compelling. While some elements work better than others, certain images and scenes are truly memorable.
I find Yuknavitch a distinctive and interesting writer. Her novels aren't very plot focused, sometimes to the point of incoherence, but I find her writing vivid and visceral and her ideas striking and original. She's good at exploring disability, sexuality, and resistance to exploitation via strange and fantastical concepts. takes about sixty pages to get going and once it does the melange of characters and settings become compelling. While some elements work better than others, certain images and scenes are truly memorable.
July 11, 2023
First, some praise for the simplicity of this title. Too often novels think they need to be cleverer by half and jam entire sentences into their titles or create cute, quirky subtitles in emulation of the eighteenth century. Thrust is as prosaic a title as its contents are poetical. Lidia Yuknavitch says in the acknowledgements that she wanted to play with the novel as a form, and that is evident throughout. Now, I like me a straightforward novel, so in that sense the artistic and literary boundaries that Thrust probes didn’t work well for me personally. At the same time, I can recognize good literature when I see it.
Laisvė is a teenager living in The Brook, a post-apocalyptic part of New York City sinking into the rising sea. Her father works on repairing the partially submerged Statue of Liberty. Meanwhile, she is a carrier—she has a rare ability to bring objects (and even people) through time via waterways. Laisvė visits people out of order across American history, some of them connected to each other throughout their lives, bringing them objects like pennies and rope. Along the way, Yuknavitch tells us stories within stories: of birth and death, childhood and senescence, of loss and finding. The architect of the Statue of Liberty corresponds with a one-legged woman in the States who oversees not so much a brothel as a kink parlour. A young man runs from a violent past towards a baby girl he found and then gave up. Oh, and there are turtles and whales.
There is also a lot of sex and sexual imagery. I’m asexual and sex-averse—I don’t mind reading the occasional sex scene, if it is well written. Honestly the stuff here is pretty tame, just a little florid (on purpose), but for people who are more sex-repulsed or just don’t enjoy explicit writing, you won’t like it.
This book was lent to me by the same neighbour who lent me Signs Preceding the End of the World . She, in turn, borrowed it from a coworker. I commented to my neighbour that she “likes weird books� and observed the similarities between these two titles—both involve a young female protagonist who undergoes a journey through space/time that is itself a metaphor for death and rebirth. Laisvė ability also reminded me of The Water Dancer , by Ta-Nehisi Coates. But the closest comp I can make is actually a TV series: The OA produced by Netflix, has extremely similar vibes to Thrust.
These connections don’t surprise me. Yuknavitch is undoubtedly trying to decolonize the novel here (as much as a white woman can decolonize anything). Laisvė’s heritage is Sakha (Yakut); there are Kanienʼkehá꞉ka (Mohawk) characters as well, and several times the languages and democracy of the Haudenosaunee is referenced. Laisvė’s journeys into the water have her talking to animals such as turtles, whales, and worms, all lamenting what the colonial parts of human civilization have wrought. The ongoing epistolary plot between Frédéric and Aurora and the hulking presence of the Statue of Liberty throughout problematize coloniality and the idea of the triumph of modernity. Aurora’s ending, in particular, and the gift she returns to Frédéric, seems to symbolize a rejection of a mechanistic, transhumanist philosophy in favour of one rooted in harmony and nature. Now, I have complicated feelings about all of this, but we will get there.
Let’s talk a little more about form and style first. Ever since I finished university, I’ve tried my best to hang up the hat that was my pretensions about literature and, as they say, slum it. After all, my first love has and always will be epic fantasy, including the works of David Eddings, who was fairly vocal about how he was just slapping plots together (with a lot of initially unacknowledged assistance from his wife, Leigh) using formulas. The same goes for my other first love, mysteries in the style of Agatha Christie. So as much as my minor in English and love of Regency and Victorian novelists might have you envisioning a classy lady in a monocle and top hat sipping tea while she writes reviews (well, the tea part is at least correct), really I just like a good yarn.
So I guess Yuknavitch has triggered this tension within me between the recovering English lit student and the exhausted teacher who just wants to escape into a straightforward story. I would love to just throw this novel across the room (metaphorically, of course, since this book is borrowed), cross my arms, and slide down against the wall while muttering, “literary fiction, ugh.� Alas, that is an oversimplification of my feelings about Thrust and perhaps literary fiction altogether.
’s cool that in 2022 novelists continue to experiment with the form. Literature, like all art, must continue to evolve as our societies evolve. Poetry often gets the most attention when it comes to being avant garde; I think this is a mistake. I love prose, and the novel in particular, precisely because its apparent structure belies an inherent chameleon-like nature. Novels are empty vessels into which authors pour and then sieve their consciousness.
So with all of that in mind, I respect what Yuknavitch is doing with Thrust. ’s not a book that I would necessarily have picked up all on my own—but that is why it’s good to have friends whose literary appetites overlap but do not perfectly match yours! However, it’s always nice to once in a while stretch the mind and see how authors are playing with form. There’s a lot going on here: epistolary chapters, first person, third person, ethnographies, prose poems, time slips, streams of consciousness � Yuknavitch doesn’t make it easy on the reader. I pity the translators!
In that sense, if I were to offer serious critique of Thrust’s form and style, it has to be how it feels overstuffed with experimentation. Yuknavitch has put so much into this short novel, transforming it into a kaleidoscope of storytelling that is not so much dazzling as it is dizzying. I prefer my experimental literature to be far more precise; the messiness on display here makes me recoil.
I also found it very challenging to connect with our main characters. Of all of them, Aurora was probably the one who felt most tangible to me with her letters and other perspective chapters. Yuknavitch’s heavy reliance on metaphor and other figurative language left me at a loss when it comes to characters like Aster. This is why, as I mentioned earlier, I’m ambivalent about the endings of so many of these characters. With so much going on, despite the intricate intersections created by Laisvė’s travel and storytelling, the characters� disparate stories did not always come together for me.
On the other hand, I really appreciate how Yuknavitch challenges readers with what a novel’s structure should be. In particular, a lot of what she is doing reminds me of Indigenous concepts of circular storytelling—Lee Maracle explains this exquisitely in her essay . Again, I temper my praise in this regard given that, ideally, we should be reading Indigenous authors who are doing this. But I think it is important to remark on how Yuknavitch is deliberately tapping into our existential dread of climate change through a structure that questions the colonial aspects of our society while championing storytelling that deviates from the dominant, Eurocentric norms of Western literature.
Oh boy. All of that in 1200 words simply to say, Thrust is a calculated and messy story that makes for an ambitious read. One of the blurbs on the back cover of this edition calls it “trenchant,� which is a fantastic word, and I agree. If you like intense, evocative sexuality, circular storytelling, anticolonial rhetoric, and vibrant explorations of violent grief, this book will appeal to you. Just don’t expect it to make a whole lot of sense the first time through.
Originally posted on , where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter.
Laisvė is a teenager living in The Brook, a post-apocalyptic part of New York City sinking into the rising sea. Her father works on repairing the partially submerged Statue of Liberty. Meanwhile, she is a carrier—she has a rare ability to bring objects (and even people) through time via waterways. Laisvė visits people out of order across American history, some of them connected to each other throughout their lives, bringing them objects like pennies and rope. Along the way, Yuknavitch tells us stories within stories: of birth and death, childhood and senescence, of loss and finding. The architect of the Statue of Liberty corresponds with a one-legged woman in the States who oversees not so much a brothel as a kink parlour. A young man runs from a violent past towards a baby girl he found and then gave up. Oh, and there are turtles and whales.
There is also a lot of sex and sexual imagery. I’m asexual and sex-averse—I don’t mind reading the occasional sex scene, if it is well written. Honestly the stuff here is pretty tame, just a little florid (on purpose), but for people who are more sex-repulsed or just don’t enjoy explicit writing, you won’t like it.
This book was lent to me by the same neighbour who lent me Signs Preceding the End of the World . She, in turn, borrowed it from a coworker. I commented to my neighbour that she “likes weird books� and observed the similarities between these two titles—both involve a young female protagonist who undergoes a journey through space/time that is itself a metaphor for death and rebirth. Laisvė ability also reminded me of The Water Dancer , by Ta-Nehisi Coates. But the closest comp I can make is actually a TV series: The OA produced by Netflix, has extremely similar vibes to Thrust.
These connections don’t surprise me. Yuknavitch is undoubtedly trying to decolonize the novel here (as much as a white woman can decolonize anything). Laisvė’s heritage is Sakha (Yakut); there are Kanienʼkehá꞉ka (Mohawk) characters as well, and several times the languages and democracy of the Haudenosaunee is referenced. Laisvė’s journeys into the water have her talking to animals such as turtles, whales, and worms, all lamenting what the colonial parts of human civilization have wrought. The ongoing epistolary plot between Frédéric and Aurora and the hulking presence of the Statue of Liberty throughout problematize coloniality and the idea of the triumph of modernity. Aurora’s ending, in particular, and the gift she returns to Frédéric, seems to symbolize a rejection of a mechanistic, transhumanist philosophy in favour of one rooted in harmony and nature. Now, I have complicated feelings about all of this, but we will get there.
Let’s talk a little more about form and style first. Ever since I finished university, I’ve tried my best to hang up the hat that was my pretensions about literature and, as they say, slum it. After all, my first love has and always will be epic fantasy, including the works of David Eddings, who was fairly vocal about how he was just slapping plots together (with a lot of initially unacknowledged assistance from his wife, Leigh) using formulas. The same goes for my other first love, mysteries in the style of Agatha Christie. So as much as my minor in English and love of Regency and Victorian novelists might have you envisioning a classy lady in a monocle and top hat sipping tea while she writes reviews (well, the tea part is at least correct), really I just like a good yarn.
So I guess Yuknavitch has triggered this tension within me between the recovering English lit student and the exhausted teacher who just wants to escape into a straightforward story. I would love to just throw this novel across the room (metaphorically, of course, since this book is borrowed), cross my arms, and slide down against the wall while muttering, “literary fiction, ugh.� Alas, that is an oversimplification of my feelings about Thrust and perhaps literary fiction altogether.
’s cool that in 2022 novelists continue to experiment with the form. Literature, like all art, must continue to evolve as our societies evolve. Poetry often gets the most attention when it comes to being avant garde; I think this is a mistake. I love prose, and the novel in particular, precisely because its apparent structure belies an inherent chameleon-like nature. Novels are empty vessels into which authors pour and then sieve their consciousness.
So with all of that in mind, I respect what Yuknavitch is doing with Thrust. ’s not a book that I would necessarily have picked up all on my own—but that is why it’s good to have friends whose literary appetites overlap but do not perfectly match yours! However, it’s always nice to once in a while stretch the mind and see how authors are playing with form. There’s a lot going on here: epistolary chapters, first person, third person, ethnographies, prose poems, time slips, streams of consciousness � Yuknavitch doesn’t make it easy on the reader. I pity the translators!
In that sense, if I were to offer serious critique of Thrust’s form and style, it has to be how it feels overstuffed with experimentation. Yuknavitch has put so much into this short novel, transforming it into a kaleidoscope of storytelling that is not so much dazzling as it is dizzying. I prefer my experimental literature to be far more precise; the messiness on display here makes me recoil.
I also found it very challenging to connect with our main characters. Of all of them, Aurora was probably the one who felt most tangible to me with her letters and other perspective chapters. Yuknavitch’s heavy reliance on metaphor and other figurative language left me at a loss when it comes to characters like Aster. This is why, as I mentioned earlier, I’m ambivalent about the endings of so many of these characters. With so much going on, despite the intricate intersections created by Laisvė’s travel and storytelling, the characters� disparate stories did not always come together for me.
On the other hand, I really appreciate how Yuknavitch challenges readers with what a novel’s structure should be. In particular, a lot of what she is doing reminds me of Indigenous concepts of circular storytelling—Lee Maracle explains this exquisitely in her essay . Again, I temper my praise in this regard given that, ideally, we should be reading Indigenous authors who are doing this. But I think it is important to remark on how Yuknavitch is deliberately tapping into our existential dread of climate change through a structure that questions the colonial aspects of our society while championing storytelling that deviates from the dominant, Eurocentric norms of Western literature.
Oh boy. All of that in 1200 words simply to say, Thrust is a calculated and messy story that makes for an ambitious read. One of the blurbs on the back cover of this edition calls it “trenchant,� which is a fantastic word, and I agree. If you like intense, evocative sexuality, circular storytelling, anticolonial rhetoric, and vibrant explorations of violent grief, this book will appeal to you. Just don’t expect it to make a whole lot of sense the first time through.
Originally posted on , where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter.
July 8, 2022
Hard to describe. There's a lot packed in this little story of stories, rewriting of how we tell stories, how stories keep stories alive. And how we must learn to tell stories differently if we're to survive the future. As most of the story is a circular, patterned thing with no beginning, middle, end (on purpose), the anchoring of the building of the Statue of Liberty (Cruces) was very grounding. There are several places where the lecture could have been more succinct or delivered differently (dialog instead of letters, for example), but everything does serve some purpose and provoke thought, so all in all, a great read. Lots of ponder. I never re-read books (who has time?!) but this one I might read again at some point. Recommended for those who like grumpy turtles, pennies, whales, boiler rooms, red velvet and messages in a bottle.
January 13, 2024
Love isn’t what we’ve been told it is.
Time isn’t either . . .
Stories take any shape they want. Not all stories happen with a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’ve come to understand maybe they never do. End, that is.
July 19, 2022
Reading this felt like taking too many edibles. More uncomfortable than fun. Out of every ten sentences, two would strike me as beautiful or at least interesting, and two would try my patience, like when someone is high or drunk and thinks what they've just said is profound.
Some intriguing information, such as about an alternative design for the Statue of Liberty in which she displayed the broken chains of slavery. Some intriguing characters, such as a Native American iron worker. But I kept wondering if I wouldn't prefer to read an article or essay about those aspects of US history.
I got roughly halfway through and took it back to the library. I didn't understand a lot of what I was reading and failed to appreciate the writing techniques (shifts in pov and time, dystopian stuff, magical creatures stuff, backstory dribbled out in hints and teases, and a lot of stuff about S&M/other fetishes and cousins having sex with each other (meant either as a metaphor or as a jolt out of bourgeois sensibilities, I'm not sure, I think I'm too much a product of the midwestern suburbs to really get it)).
It's possible that I'd like this book more if I read it when I can concentrate better, like on a long-haul flight.
Some intriguing information, such as about an alternative design for the Statue of Liberty in which she displayed the broken chains of slavery. Some intriguing characters, such as a Native American iron worker. But I kept wondering if I wouldn't prefer to read an article or essay about those aspects of US history.
I got roughly halfway through and took it back to the library. I didn't understand a lot of what I was reading and failed to appreciate the writing techniques (shifts in pov and time, dystopian stuff, magical creatures stuff, backstory dribbled out in hints and teases, and a lot of stuff about S&M/other fetishes and cousins having sex with each other (meant either as a metaphor or as a jolt out of bourgeois sensibilities, I'm not sure, I think I'm too much a product of the midwestern suburbs to really get it)).
It's possible that I'd like this book more if I read it when I can concentrate better, like on a long-haul flight.
July 7, 2022
Some books leave you wondering where the title came from. This is not one of those books. Lord, have mercy. I will never look at an apple the same way again. Some people will like this novel, and some will not, but no one can say Yuknavitch does not have an incredible imagination.
When I was nearly halfway through, I went back and skimmed what I had already read because this book is complicated; I need a graphic organizer, lol. I will probably re-read it because I think Yuknavitch has something important to say, and a little more time with it would be worth it. She is way smarter than I am.
My favorite character, without a doubt, is Bertrand. I need a talking turtle in my life.
When I was nearly halfway through, I went back and skimmed what I had already read because this book is complicated; I need a graphic organizer, lol. I will probably re-read it because I think Yuknavitch has something important to say, and a little more time with it would be worth it. She is way smarter than I am.
My favorite character, without a doubt, is Bertrand. I need a talking turtle in my life.
August 17, 2022
Oh boy. There were a billion little things that were cool or interesting or that I responded to in this - love a lot of the images, some really cool and varied settings across hundreds of years, the invention of a fictional sex worker cousin for the very real designer of the Statue of Liberty to have a complicated BDSM relationship with (bold creative choice!) But there were a lot of bigger things in the novel that really didn't do it for me. How every character felt like a device or a symbol or a platform. Dialogue that alternated between the extremes of tiringly heady and clinically moralizing. I just really did not love this.
Read
July 28, 2022Thrust started out interesting but then it meandered in countless directions. The novel is a disjointed pastiche of scenarios. The main character Laisve did not make sense. The sexual content was embarrassing to read. It is totally gratuitous and did nothing to advance/enhance the plot. Not a satisfying read for me.
July 29, 2022
Still processing…but I think I loved this. I also think I need to read it again, with all the pieces and times in my head at once. This is beautifully complex, so many returning themes and symbols, I have so many lines tabbed to read again, and I think I might buy my own copy so that when I reread I can annotate. For now my head is spinning too much to give this a full 5 stars, but I suspect that’ll change once I get a chance to discuss and unknot.
July 6, 2022
Thoughtful, provocative and innovative. To quote from Lidia Yuknavitch's own commentary at a reading, she is more interested in history, and storytelling, as a polyphonic compendium of voices vs. single voices of "noted individuals" in history and single-speaker accounts in prose. To that extent, she constructs a complicated world that deploys dozens of characters and spans a couple of centuries as it explores past and future lives touched by The Statue of Liberty and impacted (or in some cases destroyed) by the American project. A complicated and memorable novel.
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