Cannibalism is intersectional, I guess. Although, to be fair, if my mother started dating a vile racist named George who fetishised me, my looks, and Cannibalism is intersectional, I guess. Although, to be fair, if my mother started dating a vile racist named George who fetishised me, my looks, and my culture, I'd probably eat his eyes too....more
Slightly uncomfortable, but incredibly well-written, Piglet is a masterclass in "fitting in". It's also a genre-bending story that tries expertly toesSlightly uncomfortable, but incredibly well-written, Piglet is a masterclass in "fitting in". It's also a genre-bending story that tries expertly toes the line between women's fiction, literary fiction, food writing, and horror. I read Piglet for two main reasons. One, I read a couple of rave reviews. Two, more importantly, that cheeseburger on the cover looks incredibly tempting.
This was too hard. She had come too far, she had isolated herself from so many people, detaching herself from her support network in favour of a sense of superiority: perfect coupledom, bliss. And for what? How much of this life could be true when it had been built around a lie?
What do you do when your fiance confesses to you that he betrayed you in the worst way two weeks before your wedding? Maybe Piglet's the kind of girl who's always dreamt about being married, being part of a whole in some sense, or maybe this is her way of finally getting away from her Derby roots, making something of herself. Either way, she's going through with this wedding, what others think or say be damned.
On the surface, it seems like Piglet has it all. She has a rich, good-looking, successful fiance, she has loving, loyal friends, a great job that she's both good at and actually likes, she even gets along well with her in-laws. She's a bit embarrassed by her Derby family, but she deals with that by almost never interacting with them. I mean, she has a new life, one that she wanted, and one that she made for herself. More importantly, she has a talent. She works magic with food, which makes her the consummate hostess, the apple of everyone's eye when she's cooking and hosting. She is a modern young woman, and perfectly happy being one. After all, what more could she possibly want.
No one in her family would have predicted this for the little girl who ate everything—now, somehow, superior: the host; the dispenser of food, of finance.
As we walk with Piglet on this journey, seeing the world through her eyes, however, we learn a couple of things. Piglet has a complicated relationship with food. She tends to binge-eat when stressed, and she cooks as a foil for her insecurities. When she cooks, when she hosts, she no longer feels lacking in any way. She is the moment, and her cooking, the object of everyone's praise. She has value when she cooks, when she provides the perfectly roasted chicken, or a warm, comforting bowl of pasta. We also learn why she feels this way. Her parents are complicated in the way that only parents can be. It's clear that they love her, but they also want her to be a specific version of who she is--more like them, more like Franny, her sister.
Piglet's perfectly curated life begins to fall apart when her fiance tells her his big, dirty secret, and we see the carefully woven threads of her facade begin to unravel, slowly at first, and then with more urgency. She tries, at first, to keep smiling through the pain, at least in public, lest they judge her for not being perfect. She was proud, in a way, that she could still smile as the delicious life she had been savouring turned maggoty in her mouth. To her credit (or perhaps not), both Piglet and Kit, the fiance try to maintain this patina of perfection, savouring in the perceived superiority of their relationship, their picture perfect house, the gorgeous Oxford wedding, and of course, never raising their voice because whatever will people say?
Piglet isn't a book that values exposition, unless it has to do with food. I think it's an interesting writing choice, because there are scant few descriptions of anything in the book, but of food. In this context though, it works. Like a photo with a singular subject in focus, surrounded by a blurry background. Food in all its forms, it is evident, is Piglet's coping mechanism. When she wants to show the world (and prove to herself) just how absolutely perfect her life is, he makes a roast chicken dinner. When she's stressed, she goes to Waitrose and picks up ingredients for a carbonara. When her life is falling apart, she goes to an Indian restaurant and orders everything on the menu. In the two weeks leading up to her wedding, after her fiance breaks his silence, Piglet's binge-eating reaches the level of Dante's third circle of hell. It should be pathetic, comical even, but in Piglet's case, it walks the line between horrifying and sympathetic. Horrifying, because I've been there. My unhealthy coping mechanism for years was food--I would either stress eat, or eat nothing at all. Horrifying, because I think it is supposed to be, like some kind of twisted mukbang fetish. Sympathetic, because she isn't being greedy, like her father says. She doesn't "want more". She just wants to be happy, at least temporarily, if nothing else.
I think her choice to make croquembouche, which is a notriously difficult dessert to make, with its different elements and intricate sugar work, for her own wedding, is an interesting metaphor for Piglet's life. “Look,� she had said to him as she picked a bun from the stack and placed it into his mouth. “Look at what I can do.� Even once it's been made, croquembouche is finicky. Its success in staying upright depends not only on the quality of the dessert-the ingredients, the timings, the specific elements; but also the environment outside-the heat, the humidity, the weather. Towards the last couple of days leading up to her wedding, Piglet concentrates on making the perfect croquembouche towers for her centrepieces. Because, if she pulls it off, if she makes the perfect wedding cake, then maybe, just maybe, it will bode well for her marriage. A perfect croquembouche could be the the solution to a perfect marriage. Or maybe it's because the rest of her life is falling apart, and she needs to prove to herself that she can still do this one thing, that maintaining her composure whilst she finishes up her wedding centrepiece the morning of her wedding is what she needs to prove to herself, and to others that she is indeed worth it. That she has actually made something of herself.
“Crock-um-bitches,� Franny said. “Whatever. They don’t matter. People only care about you.� Piglet opened her eyes, looked at her sister. “That is sweet, Fran, but if I don’t finish these, I don’t think I can get married.�
Piglet is the story of a young woman trying to figure out if she wants to fit in, fit into her wedding dress, fit into the box that's expected of her, fit in with her colleagues, her in-laws, fit into her husband-to-be's life, while still remaining a part of her parents', fit in with a father who would have preferred a son. Piglet is the story of a woman who has been sold the pipe dream of being able to "have it all", or at least a version of it, who tries to cling on to the vestiges of the life that is expected of a promising young woman such as herself. Piglet is the story of a woman that is neither here, nor there, but also here, there, and everywhere in the spaces in between.
I recently read Good Material by Dolly Alderton, which I did not like it at all. Although Piglet deals with similar themes, everything in this book works comes together, like a good tasting menu. Hazell makes some deliberate writing and storytelling choices that makes Piglet's story compelling, and Piglet herself, charming enough to sympathise with, whether or not you like her. Because, I for one, hope she found some peace....more
Are these the signs of a bestseller in the making? I wonder. They must be. Why doesn’t anyone tell I wonder what June would say about this review.
Are these the signs of a bestseller in the making? I wonder. They must be. Why doesn’t anyone tell you, right off the bat, how important your book is to the publisher? Before Over the Sycamore came out, I worked my ass off doing blog interviews and podcasts, hoping that the more sweat I put into publicity, the more my publisher would reward my efforts. But now, I see, author efforts have nothing to do with a book’s success. Bestsellers are chosen. Nothing you do matters. You just get to enjoy the perks along the way.
Who gets to tell stories? Whose stories get told? Who gets on the best-seller list? The has been having its come to god moment over the past few years, what with surrounding books like American Dirt, , and .
I've been a reviewer for fun for somwhere around a decade at this point, and I've been on the sidelines of, and occasionally party to some of the smaller controversies that have played out here, on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ. And boy, have I learnt a lot. I get it, I know the publishing industry is absolutely brutal. Some books make it, and some just don't. Some authors become literary darlings, and others fade into obscurity. A lot of the time, it isn't about effort, or skill, or talent. It's about circumstances, luck, and telling the right story at the right time. June is right about that. What she's very wrong about though, is that more often than not, the "right" stories are told by white, predominantly cis-, male authors. By that argument, you may say, well, Anu, then isn't June right, that women, even white women, have it hard? Yeah, but also no. White women may have it harder than white men, but it is obviously nothing compared to what authors of colour experience. It's why "own voices" and the stories thus told by these voices are so important.
So of course Athena gets every good thing, because that’s how this industry works. Publishing picks a winner—someone attractive enough, someone cool and young and, oh, we’re all thinking it, let’s just say it, “diverse� enough—and lavishes all its money and resources on them. It’s so fucking arbitrary. Or perhaps not arbitrary, but it hinges on factors that have nothing to do with the strength of one’s prose.
Yellowface is one of those books that is so much fun to read, but also tells crucial, if rather harrowing tale about what I have come to learn is the brutal, solitary world of writing and publishing. After all, Writing is such a solitary activity.
June Hayworth, aka Juniper Song is a failed writer. Her first novel tanked, and her only friend, Athena Liu is the voice of the generation. So, when Athena dies in a freak accident, June decides to take Athena's latest manuscript, the one no one has heard about, and publish it as her own. She makes edits, rewrites whole chapters, and changes her nom-de-plume to Juniper Song--exotic, and ethnically ambiguous for a name if there ever was one. And lo and behold, this latest book becomes a bestseller, and June becomes the literary darling of her dreams.
What starts off as a literary exercise for June ends up becoming her most dangerous, and to some extent best kept secret. As she finds herself wading deeper into Athena's magnum opus about a deeply sensitive topic, June throws caution to the wind, and any semblance of morality she had left out of the window. The more she makes this story "her own", the more she begins to scoff at any disapproval levelled at the book and at her, both within her own head, as well as from her critics, justifying whitewashing the novel, justifying taking advantage of a grieving mother, justifying her choice to rebrand herself and not "come out as White".
For a while, June is able to enjoy her newfound fame. She gets new, professionally taken author headshots. Her editor actually knows her name, and importantly, listens to her and respects her. She ends up making what I like to call fuck-you money. She becomes a literary darling. She makes friends with famous authors. She's part of the zeitgeist. She is the zeitgeist.
Obviously, she isn't without her denigrators. Straight off the bat, some people, especially Asians and Asian Americans are suspicious about the timing of the book, its content, and her relationship with Athena. When asked to consult with sensitivity readers, to ensure that her book isn't offensive to the Chinese, June refuses, and vehemently at that. When the editorial assistant who recommended that she get a sensitivity reader leaves a rather scathing 1 star review of her book on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ (meta, isn't it?), June goes as far as to get the assistant fired.
The juxtaposition of June's internal monologue, her slow descent into madness almost, with the sheer brutality of the publishing world and the toxicity of social media gives the book an almost gothic horror vibe. The lonely, wronged author high up in her ivory tower fobbing off her evil detractors.
The reason Yellowface works is because Kuang is very adept at toeing the line between the satirical and the serious. Where June could have been a caricature, she's a well-fleshed out character. Her backstory, her complicated relationships with her family, her fizzled out ambitions, the stories she wrote as a teenager, even her relationship with Athena add dimension to what would have been an otherwise very one-dimensional character. None of this actually makes June likeable, or even someone I can sympathise with, but it does make you uncomfortably question whether you yourself are capable of doing something like this if pushed too far. In a way, June sees her actions as justified, because Athena did a bad thing first.
For someone who only appears in the first chapter of the entire book, Athena's larger-than-life personality, her actions, and her fame loom over the story like a ghost stuck, unable to move on. Of course, it isn't possible to tell June's story without Athena's. But the reason that this works is because Athena has dimensions too. A prodigy of the publishing world she may be, but Athena had a dirty habit too, one that potentially made her into the star that she was.
Yellowface works because it exists entirely in the grey spaces within the black and white of our world. There's no hero, nor a villain. There's nobody to root for, nobody to label the boogeyman. It is truly excellent in a skin-crawling, uncomfortable sort of way. For the most part, at least. Where Kuang does a really good job of writing a poignant, darkly comical story, she fumbles the ending. It feels forced, trite, and cartoonish. She tries a little too hard to tie up loose ends, and at this, she fails. It feel anticlimactic and unnecessary. I think maybe, just maybe, the book would have worked better if she'd left the ends loose.
What more can we want as writers than such immortality? Don’t ghosts just want to be remembered?...more
I really, really like The Office. It's one of my go-to comfort comedy shows, and I can't really tell you *how* many times I've watched it from start tI really, really like The Office. It's one of my go-to comfort comedy shows, and I can't really tell you *how* many times I've watched it from start to finish. It may seem like too many times, but for me, it really feels like I've not watched it enough times. I got a Peacock subscription so I could watch the extended episodes. I'm up-to-date on the Office Ladies podcast. I just also had to read the book.
It is by no means a paragon of great literature, but it is heartwarming and comforting and funny, which is what you need sometimes. ...more
Best described as what would happen if violently collided with Cloud Atlas and they had a love-child.
How High We Go... is a deftly Best described as what would happen if violently collided with Cloud Atlas and they had a love-child.
How High We Go... is a deftly written, intricately woven story, and a good thing too, considering that at the heart of it, it tells the story of a global pandemic, climate change, and general human tragedy. But also, it tells the story of the aftermath. And that's kind of where the beauty of the book lies, in a way. The world around me is dying, as I write this. There is a global pandemic, and man-made climate change is worse than ever. There's also a full-blown war going on. I genuinely can't say with much conviction that things will get better tomorrow morning. On the other hand, I also have a reputation for being "stupidly optimistic". So for the stupidly optimistic side of me, the humanity of this book was like a balm.
The story itself is a la Cloud Atlas; broken up into chapters, but all adding up to tell an overarching story. Also like Cloud Atlas, its characters are ... connected. Kind of. It intersperses the tragedy of pestilence and destruction with the indomitable and stupidly optimistic hope of human achievement and goodness. Don't get me wrong, but even stupidly optimistic people lose their hope in humanity sometimes, and this book is for those moments.
How High We Go... does an admirable job of contrasting the mundane, everyday realities of living in a pandemic, like the logistics of burying one's loved ones, with the bleak, detached business decisions people take, like profiting off of euthanasia parks and eulogy hotels. Just when you feel like you're teetering on the edge of the hopelessness of it all, the book pulls you back with warmth and hope. Because, maybe humans are like cockroaches, we survive everything, but I think there is something to be admired about the ambition and resilience of it all.
In the real world, people comfort themselves with ignorance, politics, and faith, but here in the domes only hard numbers matter.
The first almost 75-80% of the book was sheer perfection. It tragically falters a little towards the end, collapsing a little bit under its own weight, but that's easily forgiven. Sequoia Nagamatsu tries to tie up the loose ends in a tidy, slightly impractical bow, which I unfortunately saw coming. I'm not saying that this takes away from the otherwise excellently done book, but also, it does, a little bit. On the other hand, for a debut novel, it's remarkably well written. Can I tell if it's a debut? If I look hard enough; there's an earnestness in the writing that I've come to associate with debuts, among other reasons. But we humans, the thing that makes us resilient is that we accept that everything and everyone is flawed, and move on. And that's exactly what I'm going to do here....more
The great American novel is my favourite kind of novel. We know this. I just really admire both the breadth and depth oNow that is entertainment.
The great American novel is my favourite kind of novel. We know this. I just really admire both the breadth and depth of possibilities in the genre. Oscar Wao is up there among the best. I mean, don't believe me, just ask the Pulitzer powers that be.
As the title so nicely states, it's the story of Oscar Wao's life, which though not wondrous, is definitely brief. Oscar is a nerdy virgin who has exactly two aims in life--to not be a virgin, and to be the Dominican JRR Tolkein. He lives with his mother and sister in Jersey, and if we are to believe in curses, he is definitely cursed. Or well, his family is. But then again, fear is the mind killer, so maybe to fear a fuku is to not live at all.
Like all sagas do, and like all great American novels do, Oscar Wao spans generations, and ties everything together with a nice little curse. Oscar's mother is from , but specifically, from Trujillo's Santo Domingo, from when the government was corrupt, and the people were disappeared. And although she moved from the Dominican Republic to the United States, she made sure to carry the family fuku with her.
Maybe, and alas, Oscar was cursed from the beginning (refer to the aforementioned fuku). After all, we can all remember his first and most tragic break up, at the ripe old age of eight. Everything was downhill after that anyway (except his weight, that went up). From Maritza to Ybon, to say that Oscar was drawn to a certain kind of woman would be an understatement. , was to be loved.
Written in a variety of voices, with Spanglish interspersing the English, the general quality of prose in the book ranges from crass, offhanded comments about sex to transcendent musings about life and love, and it takes a really good writer to be able to do that seamlessly. One would be remiss in forgetting, of course, the plethora of references to The Lord of the Rings, Doctor Who, fear being the mind killer, and oh, The Lord of the Rings. My best friend (and the world) used the words "magical realism" to describe some of the book, but I prefer calling it whimsical instead. The novel is also a study in literary symmetry, which is done subtly enough, but oh, so well. Oscar Wao is funny, happy, sad, and beautiful, all at the same time. It's also flawless. I mean, I couldn't fault it if I wanted to. And believe me, I always want to.
*I wanted to do footnotes, but I went ahead with in-text references instead. I do research in a university, footnotes aren't fun for me to write anymore, but reading them is still fun....more
“Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for “Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.�
I don't know about the rest of it, but I am tax'd for speech, that's for sure.
Shakespeare-themed works of fiction are old hat. We have remakes, rewrites, fictionalised histories, plays, even musicals. I've read two just this year. They should be overdone, but they're really not. I love a good Shakespeare tribute, and this was very good.
As anyone who's familiar with it knows, the Shakesperean play is one of his "problem plays". Honestly, I don't even like it very much. But then again, I'm not Miranda Fitch. Anyway, it's a bit pointless to read this book without knowing much about the play, although Awad, through her main character, does a fairly good job of explaining the nitty gritties of how the whole thing goes. But, and I may be reading too much into this, but I think one of the reasons I enjoyed the book so much was because it kind of follows the structure of the play. Then again, as I said, I actually may be reading too much into it.
All's Well is a Shakespeare-referencing, anxiety-inducing acid trip. There are ups and downs and ups and downs and things that happen in between that I can't really explain. I don't even think Mona Awad can explain it. No, this is actually a valid criticism of the book, in that I genuinely think that she does a bad job of making me understand what is happening sometimes. Especially through the last 15% of the book. Which, coincidentally, is also the part that reads like an acid trip on steroids.
I didn't really know very much about what I was getting into when I started, except the Shakespeare bits. Honestly, I was a bit underwhelmed at the start; I'm a bit done with middle-aged White women having existential and/or mid-life crises. Although, to be fair, once it picked up (and it picks up quickly), I felt bad for even thinking this (and not just because of the whole curses thing).
Awad has said that her intention was to draw attention to the pain (actual, physical, sometimes chronic pain) that women sometimes go through, which is ignored or downplayed by the people around them. Honestly, it does a really splendid job at doing that. Completely whack-a-doodle, but splendid nevertheless. I want to say that any former ignoramus is probably definitely going to pay more attention to a woman complaining of being in pain, if for no reason other than because they don't want to be cursed.
One would be remiss in expecting anything less than a book chock-full of references to Shakesperean sundries in what I am assuming is some bastardised version of a tribute book. So, yeah, there's lots of little Shakespeare Easter eggs for anyone who wants them. I'm honestly not even sure I got them all. (Yes, there's Macbeth. Lots of Macbeth.)
It was a little creepy, a lot wild, and a hundred percent fun. Yeah, it's not perfect, but it's also the weirdest take on Shakespeare I've ever seen. Gold star, Awad....more
This is a very good book for a number of reasons, although some of it is really just not for me. Obviously reviewing a review or an opinion is a lot hThis is a very good book for a number of reasons, although some of it is really just not for me. Obviously reviewing a review or an opinion is a lot harder than reviewing like a straight-up book, but I can try.
The biggest thing that Emily Nussbaum achieves in this book is that she does a really good job of destigmatising "television for women". This is a very important argument to make, and it's a bit personal to me. I really like "television for women". I also really like romantic comedies, and chick lit. There are the obvious fluffy, feel-good elements to such shows or books or movies, but Nussbaum makes a very compelling argument that a show like is more than a show about having sex in the big city. It's a show that was also hugely empowering for many women at the time, because it showed women having succesful careers and enjoying sex. Which, honestly, is even rare to this day.
This argument in particular, even if the rest of it had been utter trash, would have been enough for me to recommend the book. I read chick lit because it's cathartic. It's not always high literature, but it can be. Let's not forget, back in the day, Pride and Prejudice was also criticised for being too much like a fairytale. Nussbaum also raises the question of why people think of it as art when a man (particularly, an older, straigh, White man) writes about having sex with a much younger woman, while no matter how good it is, a woman writing about falling in love or having sex is considered decidedly more lowbrow. Not to get too PC about things, but I think it's a point we should all think about.
Nussbaum also talks about cancel culture (versus consequence culture), and what that means for art. Unless the act is so egregious (think Harvey Weinstein or Kevin Spacey), I don't particulary believe in cancel culture. I think it can become rooted in some form of mob mentality, especially on social media platforms, and as someone who studies social media movements, that makes me both curious and uncomfortable. Having said all that, I also agree with Nussbaum when she says that separating the art from the artist depends on the art itself, and the artist themselves, that it's more of a personal choice than a hard and fast rule. Although, I never ever really liked Woody Allen or his movies anyway, and I feel personally vindicated now, for being told I just "didn't get" his art.
Political and social arguments aside, Nussbaum has a great voice. She really did watch her way through the television revolution, and she was one of the first, true television critics. It's a truly fun journey through , and , and , and . Her reviews are a love letter to television as a medium, a platform, a form of art - all of it, and that's why this book works. What we see on television, or for that matter, in any form of art, is always going to be a reflection of society at that time. It could be obvious (and bleak), like in , or ; or satirical like or ; or a fantastical wet dream, like in (my personal favourite); or still, it could be an eyewash, like every single police procedural during the heat of the Black Lives Matter protests....more
If we are lucky, the end of the sentence is where we might begin. If we are lucky, something is passed on, another alphabet written in the blood, sIf we are lucky, the end of the sentence is where we might begin. If we are lucky, something is passed on, another alphabet written in the blood, sinew, and neuron; ancestors charging their kin with the silent propulsion to fly south, to turn toward the place in the narrative no one was meant to outlast.
My cousin, who's a literature student and far better read than I am, said to me before I started this that Ocean Vuong will "make you bawl like a baby". She was right.
To put it briefly, On Earth... is gorgeous. Obviously, because of Vuong's reputation as a poet, it would be remiss to not fixate on his skills as a poet, as poetry bleeds into prose. But who decides what is poetry and what is prose? Is it the writer, or is it the reader? Can something be both? Neither?
On Earth... is messy. It is an epistolary novel with non-linear storytelling, if we're going to be pedantic about it. But for the story that On Earth... tells, and the way that it's written, I would call it messy. Messy like life itself.
Memories are messy. When we remember things, we don't remember them in the exact chronological order that they happened, in exact, precise details. We remember parts of what used to be and of who we used to be, and we make the best of what we remember. If we had to write down our lives from memory, we would all be accused of engaging in "non linear storytelling".
You asked me what it’s like to be a writer and I’m giving you a mess, I know. But it’s a mess, Ma—I’m not making this up. I made it down. That’s what writing is, after all the nonsense, getting down so low the world offers a merciful new angle, a larger vision made of small things, the lint suddenly a huge sheet of fog exactly the size of your eyeball.
--
Who will be lost in the story we tell ourselves? Who will be lost in ourselves? A story, after all, is a kind of swallowing.
When I was younger, much younger, in school, I remember telling a classmate that I had a crush on a girl. This classmate was quick to correct me, "you mean girl crush, right? Right?" Right. So, for the longest time, that's how I phrased my attraction to women. It's okay if it's a girl crush, because it's just a girl crush. An easy way to distance oneself from the messy realities of who we're attracted to, and who we are.
It took me years to actually come to terms with my queer identity, to accept that it was okay for me to attracted to people across gender identities. To accept that I didn't have to phrase my identity in a way that was palatable to other people, and I could just be. To accept that it wasn't just a girl crush, and it wasn't just going to "go away".
Others could be gay, bisexual, queer.... I had no problems with that, obviously. Be who you are. But me, I wasn't any of that. I was attracted to boys, men. Like I was supposed to be. Like was expected of me. I was okay with others being who they are, as it turns out, but not with me being who I really was.
Before the French occupation, our Vietnamese did not have a name for queer bodies—because they were seen, like all bodies, fleshed and of one source—and I didn’t want to introduce this part of me using the epithet for criminals.
--
Inside a single-use life, there are no second chances. That’s a lie but we live it. We live anyway.
Little Dog talks about his different identities - American, Vietnamese, bipolar, gay, queer, writer, son, lover. He talks about it all at once, and each separately. Because sometimes, we can separate the different things we are from who we really are, and other times, we are all of these things all at once.
I'm a brown, queer woman, an immigrant living in Little Dog's country. The country he adopted, not the one he was born in. I'm not saying it's the same thing, or that our experiences are the same. But I'm saying to read his story is comforting in spite of the tragedy, because he makes it okay for me to be all of these things at once, and each separately.
--
That was the day I learned how dangerous a color can be. That a boy could be knocked off that shade and made to reckon his trespass.
At university, I majored in sociology. One of the papers I had to read for class (and I cannot remember who wrote it) was about how colours became gendered - how blue became a colour for boys, and pink became a colour for girls. I remembered, during the course of reading this paper, how much I myself had tried to distance myself from the colour pink as a child. To be very honest, I don't necessarily think I had any opinions on the colour at that age. But all girls I knew liked pink, and they didn't particularly like me. So I pretended to hate pink, because "I wasn't like the other girls". In hindsight, I'm pretty sure this made them like me less, but to me, it was an act of rebellion, albeit a misguided, misplaced, misunderstood one.
--
Our mother tongue, then, is no mother at all—but an orphan. Our Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended, ashed. Ma, to speak in our mother tongue is to speak only partially in Vietnamese, but entirely in war.
I wear my English, and my education like a mask in certain social situations. I do it because in these situations it's the only thing that I have that I can use to be seen as an equal, as someone who is worthy. I rebel in small ways that I can, like including my name in my mother tongue as well as English in my email signature. Like talking to my mother on the phone in my mother tongue because for that time, in that moment, this language is mine again. And I don't have to pretend to "fit in".
If you're a person of colour living in a "Western" country, code switching is a form of survival. No matter that we're all multi-lingual, and that in and of itself is an asset. Knowing English and being able to communicate in English, in English that is accepted is the only badge that matters.
I code switched. I took off our language and wore my English, like a mask, so that others would see my face, and therefore yours.
--
I think the most heartbreaking part of the story for me, and there are so many, is when Little Dog talks about following Gramoz because he gave him a pizza bagel. How else to repay the boy who gave me my first pizza bagel but to become his shadow? Because Little Dog didn't really know how to communicate how he felt yet. Because I think it was such a combination of earnestness and innocence at a tender age. Because I think it was the first instance, I think of Little Dog trying to come into his own.
--
There is loss and death in this story. There is also love and sex in this book. There is violence and there is life. There is mental illness and there are moments of tenderness. There is homosexuality and homophobia. There is freedom and self discovery. There is art and language and beauty.
We try to preserve life—even when we know it has no chance of enduring its body. We feed it, keep it comfortable, bathe it, medicate it, caress it, even sing to it.
In the movie Before Sunrise, which is actually my favourite move of all time, Celine says "isn't everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?" And I think that's true for the stories we tell. They're all a way for us to be seen, liked, loved.
--
The truth is none of us are enough enough. But you know this already.
I'm not trying to make Little Dog's story my own. I'm just trying to say that it's something that I felt in my heart, my soul, my bones because I've run away, I've questioned who I am, and I'm still doing those things. I'm trying to say that On Earth... made me bawl like a baby, for good reasons and for bad. I'm trying to say that I loved his story. I'm trying to say that if you read it, you too will understand why I feel the way I do.
To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted....more
“NoemÃ, just because there are no ghosts it doesn’t mean you can’t be haunted. Nor that you shouldn’t fear the haunting. You are too fearless. My f“NoemÃ, just because there are no ghosts it doesn’t mean you can’t be haunted. Nor that you shouldn’t fear the haunting. You are too fearless. My father was the same way, and he paid dearly for it.â€�
The thing about gothic horror that I like the most (and there's a lot about gothic horror I like) is that "horror" means different things to different story, different times, different authors. I like Mexican Gothic because it reads like a pastiche to these stories, times, authors, whilst also telling its own story.
The pacing is excellent - it starts off slow, like any classic gothic horror novel would, with the world building and character writing. Before you know it, however, you're knee deep in a world of creepy, old men; evil, younger men; and the faithful woman of the house fighting to protect the family secret because she just has to. But also, twists and turns you saw coming a mile away (and some you didn't)....more
The Scots have a talent for invoking a very specific kind of imagery in their books, their writings. If I had to pick a book written by a Scot from a The Scots have a talent for invoking a very specific kind of imagery in their books, their writings. If I had to pick a book written by a Scot from a pile of books, I probably would be able to, using this imagery as a test. It's a little dark, a little dreary, but not without heart.
Fittingly, I read Shuggie Bain on Mother's Day. I honestly didn't mean to, it was a happy coincidence. I was trying to find A Swim in a Pond in the Rain at my local library, and when I couldn't, I borrowed Shuggie Bain instead. What a happy coincidence it was!
The book wins for the simple reason that it doesn't try too hard. It doesn't aspire to be the greatest literary work of this generation. It aspires to one thing, and it is heart. It doesn't try the old literary adgae of tragedy porn. Really, it doesn't try at all, and for that reason, it is brilliant. Nothing is overwrought or overdone, and it didn't have to be. I think that's the beauty of it.
People have compared Shuggie Bain to A Little Life, for all the tragedy and sheer sadness of the book, but the reason I love the former whilst I hated the latter is because in the end, the book is just a love letter to the author's mother. Or at least, I hope it is....more
Have you ever read the infamous ? If you haven't, this book Thanks Netgalley and Random House for the eARC!
Have you ever read the infamous ? If you haven't, this book is a good reason to do so. Mostly because it represents what would happen if we do, in fact, let them eat pollution.
How Beautiful We Were is Imbolo Mbue's stunning second novel about a fictional village in Africa, Kosawa, and everything that happens to it after the government sells oil rights from that village to a big American oil corporation, Pexton. The story is told by different people in the village, in particular, focusing on Thula Nangi and her family. As people that know me are aware, I am a big fan of any form of non-traditional storytelling, when it's done well. Here. it's done well.
Having multiple narrators, and narratives works well in this story because it offers multiple perspectives into the same issue. The obvious problem with this is that there is some definite repetition of what happened at a particular time, although I do think that in this particular case, that problem takes care of itself. The story isn't supposed to be a recollection of events that happened in chronological order, but rather a litany of how each of these people felt about each event, and then all of them. It is a study in the overt ways, and the subtle ways that patriarchy, racism, and plain ignorance affects the people of the village, just as much as it is a story of what life used to be there, and what it has become. Mbue took a gamble here, with this kind of story-telling, because it could have not worked in really bad ways. It could have been tedious; in fact it barely does skim that line in certain cases, but Mbue is a good enough writer and a strong enough storyteller to be able to pull back before it does.
It takes a leaf out of Jose Saramago's method of using some vagueness to articulate how commonplace these fictional events can actually be. (I'm sure other authors have done this, but I attribute it to Saramago because of how well he does it.) Kosawa could be just about any village in any country in Africa, and Pexton could be just about any big corporation on the hunt for resources. This intentional vagueness works in favour of the story, because Kosawa, and Pexton both work as characters themselves. It's not just the people of Kosawa we feel sympathetic for, but the village itself, for all that it's suffered with its land and water and forest. It's not just the people of Pexton we feel outraged towards, but Pexton itself, hiding behind the loopholes of the law, and sucking the life out of both people and places.
Was money so important that they could sell children to strangers seeking oil? As it turns out, it was. I've worked in development. I can offer theories and statistics about the poverty paradox as well as anyone else. How Beautiful We Were is a work of fiction, so it goes beyond the theories and statistics. It offers spirit, soul, and substance. But best of all, it works because it offers nuance....more
It is my belief that the House itself loves and blesses equally everything that it has created.
Before I start to review Piranesi, I want to mentioIt is my belief that the House itself loves and blesses equally everything that it has created.
Before I start to review Piranesi, I want to mention two things. One, I've read Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell even though I'm "currently reading" it according to my Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ. I want to write a fitting review for it, and the moment I mark it as "read", it's going to nag me till I do. I'm constrained in terms of time at the moment, so there's that. Two, and more importantly for this book, I think it is an unequivocal fact that some people are just born to write, and Susanna Clarke is one of them. Her writing is stunning, spectacular, leaves me speechless, and I would build an altar to it (her writing) if I could.
May the House in its Beauty shelter us both.
I have this theory about writers, which is that I tend to appreciate writers who don't churn out a new book every other day. I don't know if that entirely makes sense, but I've read some top-notch debuts, only to be thoroughly disappointed by the second book, if for no reason other than that it felt rushed. With Piranesi, however, Clarke does something entirely different than Strange and Norrell, but equally marvellous.
� the House provides for and protects its Children.
Strange and Norrell is a gorgeous piece of writing. It is elaborate and evocative, and the tongue-in-cheek footnotes only add to the richness in writing and storytelling. It's like an intricately carved sculpture that you must spend days, months admiring and taking in. Piranesi, on the other hand, is an entirely different kind of good writing. It's simpler, for one, but in a way that suits it. Clarke does a really good job here using different tones and words to both emphasise on the one hand Piranesi's innocence and, shall we say, scientific inquiry, and on the other, the vastness, beauty, and mystery of the House. I think what I'm trying to say here, badly, is that Clarke has this talent for choosing words and phrases and paragraphs that suit a particular book or story, and she is flawless in doing that.
I realised that the search for the Knowledge has encouraged us to think of the House as if it were a sort of riddle to be unravelled, a text to be interpreted, and that if ever we discover the Knowledge, then it will be as if the Value has been wrested from the House and all that remains will be mere scenery.
Piranesi is both a very difficult and a very easy book to talk about. I can gush about how good a book it is, but it is tough to actually talk about the book without giving much up. I think the only think people need to know about it is that it's really, really good. I think that knowing very little about the book before thoroughly enjoying it is very fitting in the context of the book as well. It is written in a sort of epistolary format, in the form of diary entries made by Piranesi, of his days, adventures, and his reverence to the House, the World. It seems like a simple enough story, but it's one of those books you finish in one sitting. It sucks you in, and you aren't particularly functional until you're done with it because you can't really think of anything else.
The World feels Complete and Whole, and I, its Child, fit into it seamlessly.
I think, in the context of Piranesi, it is important not to dwell too much on the questions, but rather on the moments in the journey that Piranesi takes us on. You know how they say that it isn't about the destination, but the journey? I don't particularly advocate for that line of thinking, except if it is in the context of this book. So, join Piranesi as he explores the House, learns about its inhabitants, and well, in some ways, rediscovers himself. Despite its façade of fantasy, Piranesi veers into the realms of the mysterious, the philosophical, and even the wholesome.
The Beauty of the House is immeasurable; its Kindness infinite....more
Poor Economics is revolutionary. That is a fact, and we should all agree. I want to get into the nuance of RCTs in development a little bit here, and Poor Economics is revolutionary. That is a fact, and we should all agree. I want to get into the nuance of RCTs in development a little bit here, and mostly, that's why it's not a five star book. Also, this isn't a fun review. I may not have used diagrams here, but let's face it, we are talking economics here, and some would call it dry. This is going to be a long, rambly, clunky review of a rather elegant book. Also, I have so much more to say about this, I'm going to be editing and re-writing parts of this for days to come.
After having spent many years reviewing books most of whose subject material I had little expertise in, this is one of those cases where I finally, actually know what I am talking about, so bear with me. I have a Masters in International Relations, and I've studied development economics and econometrics. I used to work in development. I've done the whole survey-farmers-to-figure-out-what's-wrong thing. Obviously I'm no Abhijit Banerjee or Esther Duflo, and I need to preface my entire review by saying that I'm a huge fan of their work. But, because the development world is messy and complicated and all of that, I don't think any two people in the field will completely agree on everything. Except the following statement. No one in the aid debate really disagrees with the basic premise that we should help the poor when we can. So basically, this review is me agreeing that we should "help the poor", whilst disagreeing with some parts of this whole methodology to fight poverty.
There will be a poverty trap whenever the scope for growing income or wealth at a very fast rate is limited for those who have too little to invest, but expands dramatically for those who can invest a bit more. On the other hand, if the potential for fast growth is high among the poor, and then tapers off as one gets richer, there is no poverty trap. To begin with, I think the book does a really good job explaining the Sachs-Easterly argument on aid, and poverty traps in general. (Fun fact on the Sachs-Easterly argument: Sachs and Easterly are friends in real life and have been known to spend the holidays together, with their families!) I myself fall more on the Sachs end of the spectrum, although I should emphasise here that it is, in fact, a spectrum. I understand entirely that both views are neocolonialistic, but pretty much all (or at least the vast majority of) international development is. I disagree more with Easterly because he's basically saying that Aid is free lunch, and I think there's more nuance to the argument than that. (view spoiler)[I know the book speaks about Dimbasa Moyo, but I've only heard a couple of her interviews and lectures, and only read excerpts from her book, so I don't really feel qualified to talk about that. Yet. (hide spoiler)]
This is why it is really helpful to think in terms of concrete problems which can have specific answers, rather than foreign assistance in general: “aid� rather than “Aid.� If there is one piece of advice I had to give to someone who wanted to work in the glorious mess that is international development, this would be it. I think, and there are more development professionals now who would agree with me than not (I hope) that this is linked more to the Sachs-Easterly argument than one would think. The reason why most people argue against aid is that they're thinking about Aid, rather than aid. Add to it the general lack of consensus on *how* to provide aid to even a particular group of people in a unique situation. There's also a little bit of theory of change thinking involved here, without trying to "predict the future", but rather, realising that every situation is unique with a unique set of circumstances.
The lack of a grand universal answer might sound vaguely disappointing, but in fact it is exactly what a policy maker should want to know—not that there are a million ways that the poor are trapped but that there are a few key factors that create the trap, and that alleviating those particular problems could set them free and point them toward a virtuous cycle of increasing wealth and investment.
If we think economics is messy, social economics is messier, and there's the question of trying to juxtapose social behaviours with, you know, numbers. And you know, technically speaking, if we can use RCTs for medical trials, should there really be a moral argument against using them in poverty alleviation? Yes and no. The book mostly gets into the yes part of the argument, and I'm going to come to that in a bit. The no side of the argument, however, comes from this: I'm not sure that the people these RCTs are being conducted on understand full well what is actually happening. However, on the other hand, I think there is significant merit to the methodology itself. For one, revolutionary as it sounds, considering narrower questions and trying to find solutions to these questions rather than "solving poverty" is not really revolutionary. And you know, it works. At least, it works better. For another, there's a nuance to the methodology that looks at how, why, and what kind of decisions are made by a particular group of people in a particular situation which is refreshing. A one-size-fits-all solution to all the developing world's problems is so 2000.
Another problem, for me, arises when a single human life is looked at as an asset. I have always had qualms with economists assigning a dollar value to human life (it's at $10 million at the moment, I think, but feel free to fact check me on this). Here, it is not so much the putting a dollar value on someone's life, but rather the argument that people should be lifted out of poverty because maybe they had real contributions to make to the society that sits a little wrong with me. I understand the rationale behind the argument; I just think we need to change the rationale. I think that fighting poverty should be independent of the value of a human life. Banerjee and Duflo do state this point a few times in their book, but it reads a little like it was only mentioned as an after-thought. Again, I understand why they look at the argument in the way that they do, I just wish that that weren't the case, kind of like how I wish "world peace" was actually achievable. Besides, it's not their fault either, that this is how development aid, or even generally, the world works. I also admire the humility that went into admitting that economists look for simplistic solutions.
For someone like me, people like Abhijit Banerjee and Esther Duflo are heroes. That doesn't mean that they aren't flawed. However, Poor Economics is both radical, and helping us rethink the way to fight global poverty. Should it really matter that I disagree with them on a few counts? Probably not....more
Kinda cute, kinda rambly, but wholly wholesome! I typically don't enjoy teenage/YA romance reads because I definitely have qualms with teenagers findiKinda cute, kinda rambly, but wholly wholesome! I typically don't enjoy teenage/YA romance reads because I definitely have qualms with teenagers finding the loves of their lives at the ripe young age of 16, but this was ... good. Really good. Obviously a seventeen year old did find the love of her life at the age of seventeen (hah!), but it was also realistic with the whole, you know, coming out of the closet thing that went with it.
Being a Black, queer woman in small-town Indiana is not easy, I don't think, knowing what I know of the state. And yeah, Johnson represents that pretty damn well (I also read that she based it off of a lot of her personal experiences). The other side to it involves some really, really good and supportive friends in a very bigoted, slightly Mean Girls-esque world, and I was here for the wholesome.
That, and, a very good friend gifted it to me for my birthday....more
Do you know how we all have things we take for granted in our lives? Camping is one of those for me. I enjoy camping and backpacking and hiking. A lotDo you know how we all have things we take for granted in our lives? Camping is one of those for me. I enjoy camping and backpacking and hiking. A lot. Not engaging in these activities for the past couple of months has been quite frustrating for me. I've been saving up for this 40 litre L.L.Bean backpack too, for a while. And I've been telling anyone who would listen to me that probably one of the first things I do after this lockdown is all done, is go hiking or backpacking. Why are you waxing poetic about camping and backpacking, Anu, you may ask. Well, honestly, this book made me realise *how* much I take camping for granted.
On the other hand, Red himself is recovering from an abusive relationship. He doesn't think that the love of a strong woman will help him through it. Instead, like the rest of us mere mortals, he goes to a therapist. He's defensive, scared even, of relationships, but again, like Chloe, he isn't defined by his mental issues. This is not, I repeat, this is not one of those "two-broken-people-come-together-and-rescue-each-other-with-love" situations. Chloe continues to take her pain medication, and Red continues to see his therapist. Neither character is defined by their issues, and that's what makes this book so great.
Further, neither character's issue was, for lack of a better word, glamorised. Chloe takes medication to regulate her pain, but because everyday is different, there's different medications for different levels of pain. Which I think is very realistic. As opposed to other books that I've read recently that peddle a single drug as a cure-all for a particular illness. Similarly with Red, he has his good days and bad days with trauma. It's just a lot more like the days real people experience, with chronic illness and mental health.
Chloe has a near death experience, and decides that she wants to "get a life". She makes a list of things she wants to do in this regard, and one of the items on this list, is camping. She agrees to help Red design a website for his art if he helps her tick items off this list. And so was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Chloe and Red get to know each other better, not just superficially and sexually, but on a deeper, human level. I enjoyed that as well. However, I did feel like the ending of it was a bit rushed, and we could've done without the whole minor misunderstanding. I get that this is a rom-com/chick lit trope, but should it really be, I ask.
All in all, definitely deserving of four, maybe even four and a half stars....more
I don't think I've read a more riveting book than Say Nothing in a very long time. I finished almost all of it in a single sitting. Obviously the songI don't think I've read a more riveting book than Say Nothing in a very long time. I finished almost all of it in a single sitting. Obviously the song to accompany this book should be . It is definitely more about the Provos and the Irish war for independence than Jean McConville's murder itself, although the murder sets the stage for the rest of the book. In using the murder as a hook for the modern history of Northern Ireland and the IRA, Radden Keefe could have sensationalised the murder, but he does a good job of not. The murder itself, in fact, sort of fades into the many other murders and general acts of terrorism committed by the IRA, although it is given a semblance of a conclusion. Much like for the McConville children themselves.
Who should be held accountable for a shared history of violence? It was a question that was dogging Northern Ireland as a whole.
I'm clearly not Irish, but as a citizen of a former British Colony myself, I have (older, much older) family members who spent time in jail in British India, and participated in India's movement for independence. I've heard stories of violence and non-violence and things that make it a little unbelievable that only some 70 odd years ago, my country was not an independent country, but a colony. The other thing that comes with being from a family that used to be involved in the freedom struggle is the fascination with other freedom struggles. It's a weird kind of solidarity the oppressed feel with others oppressed. Obviously I'm not comparing the two, nor condoning violence, but in essence, I can understand wanting to be an independent nation. Except, Northern Ireland (or North of Ireland) never got the the chance to be one. It's fascinating reading a book where there aren't many (or any?) innocent parties, and where each party has a very different idea of what is right and what is wrong. I believe it's honestly a mixed bag, and a lot of times, separating the good from the bad becomes very difficult. Perhaps this is why I read more fiction - it's easier to remove yourself from the themes of the book or the particular nuances of a character. When it's a real story with real people making human decisions, which had real consequences in the world, who are you supposed to root for? And more importantly, who are you not?
I don't really have much else to say about the book; after all, it is a historical recollection of things that really happened, and Radden Keefe is much better at telling that story than I am. It is both comprehensive and compelling, and Radden Keefe's research is beyond par, sometimes, a tad much, even, I would say. This is fascinating, in that I think it goes to explain all of the circumstances surrounding why some 0f the leaders of the Provos did the things they did, and believed the things they did. The juxtaposition of the politics with the violence is both interesting and important, I think mostly because many of the members of the IRA, or even their sympathisers, believe that both were necessary to get the message forward. There's also a strange kind of appreciation for the arts and poetry within the revolutionary movement, which I actually find believable, as I do the kind of moral boxes that the Provos (especially the Price sisters and Brendan Hughes) draw for themselves. Everything's fair in love and war, and this is, at least for the IRA, a little of both.
‘But I think the violence isn’t just a moral thing. It’s not just a moral choice at this stage. It’s a kind of reflex, and there’s a great deal of establishment violence, as well.� The interviewer asked him if political change could happen without violence. ‘I don’t know,� Rea said. ‘Does it ever?�
Everything is messy, the war itself, and my reactions to the book with it. Read the book if you're okay with reading about violence and gore, read the book if you like history, or even really, read the book if you're just a curious person....more
Ah, young love! Makes me bawl like a baby every time (when it's done well, obviously). They call Sally Rooney one of the first truly "millennial" writAh, young love! Makes me bawl like a baby every time (when it's done well, obviously). They call Sally Rooney one of the first truly "millennial" writers, and I get it. Sort of. For one, her characters are millennial in the sense of how they behave and what they do. For another, it's a very realistic representation of what life and relationships are actually like, rather than what they should be. In that sense, Normal People is not, in any way romantic. I mean that in the truest sense of the word, not in the way we use it today to describe stories of true love and whatnot.
I should also mention that I read Fates and Furies at around the same time, and while in many ways that was better written, I was not as enthralled. What makes Connell and Marianne's story compelling is not that it's a love story for the ages, it's that it represents the kind of relationship we've all had; not in an all-consuming way, but rather in a way that changed us as people, made us grow. Or at least, this is true for me. Normal People works not because it tries to move away from stereotypes, but because it leans into it with enough flair to make you relate to the story. Yes, most everyone's a romantic, and maybe this is why we love love stories. But at the same time, Rooney acknowledges that not all happily ever afters have to end with people ending up together. And that's okay, because our relationships help us grow and change as people. It's also okay because sometimes, life gets in the way of the fairytale. That doesn't necessarily make the relationship a bad thing, or something we shouldn't aspire to.
It also helps that women are infinitely better (in my experience) at writing men (and boys) than men are at writing women (and girls). This especially works in the book's favour because there's a lot of sex in it. Rooney does a stunning job in balancing what is supposed to be mindblowing sex with the intimacy that comes with being with someone you truly love. The tone of the story is very stream of consciousness, often changing between Connell's and Marianne's perspectives. I like stream of consciousness writing in very particular instances, and for the purposes of this story, it works really well. It's almost breathless, as if they actually were talking to one another, and trying to find the right words to say what they mean, how they feel.
The story is more than an all-consuming love story between a boy and a girl - which has been done to death, really, but I'm always fascinated by writers who can take that formula and make it their own. At the same time, Rooney's political views - her opinions on capitalism, working, and even references to The Golden Notebook bleed into the book in a way that works really well for the story. In many ways, it's a commentary on class, and in more than one way too. Obviously, Marianne is rich, and Connell's mother is decidedly working class. But also, Connell is popular in high school, and Marianne is the outcast. Marianne can afford to not fit in, and Connell has to. An excellent example of this, I think is whenever Connell and Marianne have to talk about money, which they don't really do very much of. I think the subtle ways that it affects their relationship whenever Connell has to ask Marianne for something, has been done expertly. Because, although Marianne is generous to a fault, and especially so with Connell, he never really feels comfortable asking her for anything, fearing what it might mean, and how it may change their relationship.
On the other hand, Connell has, in his own way, complete power over Marianne, because in a world that was almost always cruel to her, he was the first person who wasn't. This veers into toxicity sometimes, but stops short of actually being toxic. Or so, I think. It's absolutely riveting to read about how these two characters who wield so much power over each other, end up assuming the other wants nothing to do with them anymore. In a way, it actually evens out the power dynamic between the two, and maybe that's why they work. It's a lesson on how two perfectly lovely people can make perfectly normal mistakes and hurt each other along the way, because that's what we do, in real life. Most of us, at least. I think Normal People, for all of Marianne's commentary about not being normal, is the most normal love story I've read in a long time.
The combination of Connell's self-doubt and his need to please everyone, with Marianne's insecurities and her lack of care for what anyone thinks about her work to create a kind of perfect storm for their relationship. It's really difficult to not fall in love with both of them, as characters, in spite of the rather obvious mistakes they seem to make. Connell hurts Marianne pretty badly, but he's so kind and gentle, I can't help but forgive him and his youthful indiscretions. I also deeply appreciate Rooney for actually making Connell apologise to Marianne, as opposed to implying it.
There's also the bit where I can relate to Marianne in more ways than one. I understand her whole unpopular in school to really popular in college to normal popular in real life journey pretty well. Too well, in fact. I also deeply understand and appreciate her not really caring about what people think of her, but also caring about what some people think of her, almost subliminally. I understand her disdain for capitalism and the nature of "work", but that to have such opinions and live by them, you need to come from an enormous amount of privilege. Most of all, I understand why she's so forgiving, and doesn't really hold grudges. It's nice to relate to a female character that's not written as a manic pixie dream girl, just there to save the male character. Usually, the slightly fucked up, very empathatic, intelligent girl is only there to find the man find his way, but Marianne is so much more than that.
Normal People is almost Salinger-esque for me, in more than one way. I read The Catcher in the Rye at a very particular moment in life, and it affected me profoundly. I love the book and in many ways, it saved me. Having said that, I'll never read it again, because sometimes, a book comes to you at a particular moment in life, and it does its job, but you can never read it again because you'll never feel that way again. Both about the book and about life itself. Maybe this is why I find a particular form of young angst compelling. But either way, Normal People is the same for me. I binge-read the book, and then immediately binge-watched the show. I can never read this book again, nor watch the show again, because the experience in that moment was so profound and perfect, I will never feel that again, no matter how many times I try to. It's like the perfect high, in a way.
Normal People made me go through the stages of grief more times than I can count, but it'll stay with me forever, whether I come back to it or not. Kind of like Marianne and Connell themselves. It's very real, and very normal, and sometimes, we need that. Maybe that's why everyone loved it, because everyone could see a little of themselves or their experiences in the book. If you've loved, or lost, or loved and lost, read Normal People, and truly experience what it means to be normal. Oh, and then, watch the show too....more
This was an exceptionally good book, and I was genuinely surprised by how good it was. Although it's been marketed as women's fic/chick lit, it's realThis was an exceptionally good book, and I was genuinely surprised by how good it was. Although it's been marketed as women's fic/chick lit, it's really more Eleanor Oliphant than Bridget Jones. I don't know why, but I went into this with very high expectations, and Evvie Drake surpassed them all.
I found out after I read the book that Linda Holmes writes for NPR, which makes perfect sense, because she is an excellent writer. Her attempts at humour are not crass or over the top, but subtle and provide genuine laughs. My personal favourite exchange: “I’m only good at grilled cheese,� he said. “And Pringles. I’m also good with Pringles.� “Just cans of Pringles, or, like, you cook with Pringles?� “Just Pringles. I buy them, I open the package, and then I stuff them straight into my face.� “Ah. Got it. That’s how I make Oreos,� she said.
Similarly with pop-culture references, they're not forced. The references come naturally, as part of a normal conversation between two adults, which is how it should be. Plus, as someone who loves both public radio in general, and NPR in particular, I would like to take this moment to appreciate the shout-out to Fresh Air. In fact, quite a bit of the book is an ode to public radio and podcasts, and I'm not complaining. What do an aloof widow and a "head-case" with the yips have in common? Their love for public radio. And thus, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Evvie and Dean's relationship is healthy, intelligent, and mature even, especially for two otherwise rather fucked up (normal?) people. The "romance" part of the plot, thus, moves slowly, and both Evvie and Dean's personal stories get the same kind of attention that their love story does. This is where Holmes's writing truly shines, because it's a perfect amalgamation of humour, sensitivity, and plain good conversation. Evvie and Dean are not forced together, and actually only start a relationship after they've truly known and understood each other for some time. At least, known and understood each other as best as it's possible for two people to do.
Even as individual characters, Evvie and Dean were incredibly well written. I've read over a thousand books in my lifetime, up until this point, and in those books have been many characters I've related to. Except, I have never related to a fictional person as much as I have related to Evvie, ever, and I don't think I ever will. Even to the extent that her relationship with Andy, her best friend, actually mirrors mine with my best friend, whom we'll call Andy II for the purposes of this review. Obviously I'm not a widow, (view spoiler)[and none of my partners have been abusive (hide spoiler)] but the personality is exactly the same.
Evvie, for whatever reason, is a fixer. She has been hardwired to take care of people. This is obviously a good thing, except when it isn't. She's obviously genuinely loving and caring; you can't fake that kind of affection, but it's also a way for her to avoid dealing with her own issues. She keeps things bottled up because she think it's the best way to deal with them, and I think mostly because of that, she's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The thing about keeping things bottled up, however, is that at some point, the bottle will overflow, and eventually break. Unlike me, however, Evvie never used alcohol to cope, although very drunk Evvie reacts to things in the very same way very drunk Anu used to. As someone who absolutely deals with this precise blend of problems, and exact kind of wiring, I was very impressed with the way her character was written. It was very realistic, and it never once showed Evvie as a 'bad' person because of her issues. I was equally impressed by how candid Holmes was about Evvie needing, and using therapy to help her get over her issues, later in the book.
“You’re not going to make everybody happy all the time.� “I want to, though.�
Evvie and Andy have a very realistic friendship as well, and the way that I know this is that their rough patch was rough because of genuine problems from both sides. And, because a rough patch didn't mean that they stopped loving or caring for each other - that it was just that, a rough patch. Again, without going into too much detail, Andy II and I have the same kind of relationship that Andy and Evvie have - he's a man, I'm a woman, and we haven't known each other for too long, but we know each other well enough that it seems like we've known each other forever. Our friendship has gone through almost the exact kind of rough patch, which we eventually resolved by talking about it and kind of settled on a new normal. Holmes is a hundred percent right however, about just *how much* it hurts to no longer be someone's first phone call, especially if it's platonic, and you can't point your finger at why it hurts so much. It is kind of wholesome that Andy understands Evvie in a way that absolutely no one else will actually be able to. And again, I get it.
“Just don’t try to fix him. I know how you are.� “How am I?� “You’re very…caring. Literally. You took care of your dad, you took care of Tim, you took care of me when Lori left. I just don’t want you to take in strays for the rest of your life. You’re the kind of person who winds up with a two-legged dog that you pull around in a cart.� “That’s not a kind of person.� “It’s absolutely a kind of person. It’s a person who ends up running a doll hospital and putting tiny little toothpick splints on birds with broken legs.�
Dean, in my opinion, was the trickiest character to write. All of the other romance books I've read that feature a sportsperson/jock as a hero fail pretty badly at not making him a caricature of a jock. I think it's because they try very hard to not make him sound or look like a jock, and usually, that has the opposite effect. And I think, Holmes is successful in making Dean sound like a real person who has interests and a personality outside of being a sportsperson. i think it's because she imagined him, and wrote him as a person first, and a baseball player later. In other words, his entire character is not "I'm a famous baseball player and I don't know how to do anything beyond it".
Although much of his life has been defined by being a baseball player (not always a famous one), Holmes emphasises that he's smart and sensitive outside of it. Even his rage at no longer being able to pitch well is human, and not comical "flip the table" anger. When he does get visibly frustrated, it's because the circumstance warrants it. I also absolutely loved how he didn't fly into a rage about Tim. He was angry, but he was also understanding of Evvie's situation, and most of all, he didn't make it about himself.
Dean studied chemistry at Cornell and listens to public radio and true crime podcasts. He's curious and likes learning new things. He has a bit of an obsession with vintage pinball machines. He likes investing in anything eco-friendly and he cares about the environment. If that doesn't get your panties in a bunch... He's also almost shy and awkward in certain situations, and that's actually really nice to read. I truly adored how he sort of concluded that he was bad at the whole sexting thing. He learns, also, to understand his relationship with baseball better, without throwing a hissy fit over it. He grows as a person, and honestly, his relationship with Evvie does too. They're both imperfect characters with flaws, and for once in a book like this, I can believe that they're going to disagree on things, but they're definitely going to be happy together.
All in all, extremely good book. 10 stars on 1o. A hundred stars, if I could give them. Excellent characters, good plot, and truly amazing writing. This book brought me pure joy and I'm so glad I read it. Special shout-out to Somerville, MA, which was my home for two years (I technically lived just outside the border of Somerville, in Medford, but we were closer to Somerville).
P.S. if there are any "s"-es missing anywhere, it's because Andy II spilt soda on my keyboard, and the "s" does not work like it's supposed to anymore....more
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