our mc, the (quasi)estranged daughter of wealth, runs her own fashion brand and is possibly in line to inherit the family empire...sounds familiar?dnf
our mc, the (quasi)estranged daughter of wealth, runs her own fashion brand and is possibly in line to inherit the family empire...sounds familiar? initially, this nod to Crash Landing onto You amused me. however, Zen Cho's latest novel quickly devolves into a bland rehash of romcom and K-drama clichés. what's most disappointing is the complete absence of Cho's trademark witty humor and playful satire. Cho's prose feels flat and uninspired compared to her usual works.
it pains me to admit that The Friend Zone Experiment feels like an attempt to cash in on the romcom trend. while i understand its potential for commercial success over Cho's fantasy novels, i had hoped for her to inject more of her style into the genre. instead, we're served one cliché after another—like a beautiful MC who doesn't realize her own attractiveness ("conscious about her jaw," but somehow "no less lovely now—more so, if anything").
despite the characters' wealth, Cho's attempt to immediately garner sympathy for our 'relatable' MC (who has launched a successful brand and owns a flat in London... in this economy?) feels rushed and contrived. then there's this perplexing moment: "She had wondered over the years if he was gay and that was why things had gone wrong when she’d fallen for him. But she wasn’t wearing a blouse under her jacket, and there was something about the way Ket Siong’s eyes were carefully avoiding her neckline that made her think that wasn’t it." i don't even know where to begin with this. it was a choice, one that would not be out of place in a Wattpad story, but i am dissapointed to see an author who previously centred her stories on queer characters write something so banal.
this novel falls short of Cho's usual brilliance (boring characters, predictable story, flat writing) and lacks the charm and depth i have come to expect from her...more
While I typically appreciate coolly restrained storytelling, mood-driven narratives, and melancholic slice-of-life stories, Blue Light Hours doesn’t sWhile I typically appreciate coolly restrained storytelling, mood-driven narratives, and melancholic slice-of-life stories, Blue Light Hours doesn’t succeed in pulling any of these off. The writing feels overly trimmed down, stripped of its intended meaning and substance. It brings to mind a review discussing contemporary fiction of the Rooney variety: “The results, allegedly, are blanched, lifeless novels, characterized by minimalism of description, coolness of tone, humorlessness of style, and wobbliness of genre—not quite fact, not quite fiction.” While the author of this review goes on to praise Rooney and novelists like her for her “supremely intelligent critique of our discourse,” I cannot do the same. In fact, I agree with the criticism directed at these books. They are ‘less’, less funny, less emotional, less compelling, just less.
These types of novels seem affectedly apathetic, even clinical, but not in a lethally precise way, such as Brandon Taylor's style, but rather robotic, as if they could have been written by AI. Despite their attempts to present reality unvarnished and resist plot and character arcs, they strike me as incredibly artificial and labored, which makes them pretentious, despite their efforts to be authentic and real. In Blue Light Hours, the interactions between the mother and daughter, while not inherently off-putting given my fondness for mumblecore-esque books, lack authenticity. Despite attempts to portray natural, unadorned dialogue, the exchanges between them feel studied. The rhythm of their conversations is discordant and stilted, failing to convey a sense of their relationship or history together. Instead, reading their back-and-forths felt like watching amateur theatre, with the characters reciting lines without conviction.
Additionally, the prose occasionally ventures into twee territory, reminiscent of Instagram poetry ( millennial ennui vibes: “I lived alone, I rarely spoke, I ate badly”), detracting from the overall experience. Despite my desire to connect with the theme of a young woman navigating college life away from home, the book failed to convey the narrator's longing (be it for home, for Portuguese, or for her mother) that I anticipated.
The latter section, with its perspective shifts and clinical references to 'the mother' and 'daughter,' further highlights the book's tendency towards style over substance. While the summary promises a poignant exploration of the mother-daughter relationship across borders, there was nothing in these pages. Sure, now and again the author captures a certain mood, thanks to descriptions of the weather and changing seasons, but these did not make the book particularly atmospheric or immersive. Writing-wise, I can't help but compare it unfavorably to Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au and Dove mi trovo (aka Whereabouts) by Jhumpa Lahiri. Theme-wise, there are plenty of other novels that managed to explore these themes with either more depth or style: American Fever by Dur e Aziz Amna, The Pachinko Parlour by Elisa Shua Dusapin, Tell Me I’m an Artist by Chelsea Martin, The Idiot & Either/Or by Elif Batuman, Lucy> by Jamaica Kincaid, and Villette by Charlotte Brontë.
Reading this left me feeling completely indifferent. It didn't elicit any positive or negative emotions; it was like glancing over a grocery list or a bus schedule. I felt absolutely nothing. While it might be better than feeling annoyed or disliking something, at least when I read something that causes those (negative) emotions, I know it's had some effect on me.
I could see this novel working for readers who enjoy the work of Rooney, Aysegül Savas, or Bronwyn Fischer. As with any of my other negative reviews, take it with a pinch of salt, and if you are undecided about whether to read this novel, I recommend you check out some more positive reviews. ...more
Despite its 1990s publication, The Membranes surprisingly doesn't come off as dated. Sure, the futuristic concepts it plays around with have since beeDespite its 1990s publication, The Membranes surprisingly doesn't come off as dated. Sure, the futuristic concepts it plays around with have since been thoroughly explored elsewhere (be it literature or other forms of media). Yet Chi Ta-wei's world-building retains a refreshing and innovative quality. However, this potential is ultimately sabotaged by vast amounts of exposition. The delivery of said exposition made these exposition dumps all the more obtrusive. The narrative adopts a scholarly tone, which, though suitable for speculative fiction, here rendered the storytelling didactic and disconnected. Rather than feeling immersed in Momo's story, the exposition interrupted the action of the story and turned her into more of a case study than a character I am to believe in and or care for. The exposition interrupted the momentum of the story, at times coming across as an intrusive prolonged intermission (“All right. At last this complicated backstory has reached a turning point. Here’s where things get interesting.”).
The novel's conceit was intriguing, no doubt, but its execution necessitated more of a sleight of hand. A more subtle, nebulous approach (reminiscent of authors such as kazuo ishiguro and emily st. john mandel) would have lent Ta-wei’s 'what if' scenario a deeper resonance and complexity.
The novel is set in the late 21st century, when, to escape climate change, humanity has been forced to relocate to the bottom of the sea. In the ‘underwater’ T City Momo works as a dermal care technician, and despite being pretty renowned in her field, she keeps a low profile. This is partly due to her estranged mother being a powerful, famous even, figure. Momo hasn’t seen her since she was a child, and the two are now strangers. We learn that as a child Momo was sick and of the childhood friend she made during that time. Things however don’t quite add up, and the narrative explores that mismatch between Momo’s experiences and her memories, between her mind and her body. As I said, the novel, brief as it is, was overshadowed by exposition, which is delivered in such a stiff way as to come across as awkward. The language here, and I’m not sure if this is due to it being a translation, came across often as that of an academic paper. This was most likely intentional, nevertheless, it just took away focus from Momo and her environment. There is a lot of navel-gazing, which is not quite as revealing as actually exploring Momo’s psyche. The narrative spends too much time going over these Freudian scenarios, in which Momo desires to be touched as her mother seems to be touched by her ‘friend’. The childish language in these scenes made the novel’s exploration of Momo’s sexuality and gender somewhat simplistic and not as provocative or challenging as it needed to be.
Still, I recognize that my disappointment may stem from my having come across this concept elsewhere and from being the type of reader who finds exposition-heavy narratives to be a huge turn-off. I do appreciate Ta-wei's exploration of queerness, and recognize that The Membranes resonated with plenty of other readers...so, if this novel happens to be on your radar I recommend you give it a try....more
the author's meta inserts felt really out of place. story-wise this was managed to be surprisingly boring and i had a hard time believing in margo's s the author's meta inserts felt really out of place. story-wise this was managed to be surprisingly boring and i had a hard time believing in margo's story concept for her collaboration with other OF workers. full review to come....more
i am baffled by the hype surrounding this book; not only has been blurbed by several 'big' authors, but apparently it's also slated for adaptationdnf
i am baffled by the hype surrounding this book; not only has been blurbed by several 'big' authors, but apparently it's also slated for adaptation into a BBC drama. i have questions...
to use an overused term, this book is mid. inoffensive, if you will. it's doing nothing new, and it is written in the kind of witty (usually) British voice that seems rather derivative of authors like Diana Wynne Jones, possibly even Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman. but the wit here is missing their spark. nor does the book have the same delightfully satirical tone Zen Cho's historical fantasies. the storytelling here feels lacklustre & vanilla.
right from the outset, the book's attempts at self-awareness about the tropes of its genre ("anyone who has ever watched a film with time-travel, or read a book with time-travel […] will know that the moment you start to think about the physics of it, you are in a crock of shit. How does it work? How can it work?") backfire, as we are offered a generic explanation of time-travel along the lines of "[D]on't worry about it. All you need to know is that in your near future, the British government developed the means to travel through time".
what made absolutely 0 sense to me was not so much the time-travelling and the lack of explanation around it, but the identity of these 'expats' (would they really 'rescue' someone who was in the midst of a war? surely they would consider them unsuitable, or too much of a risk, given that they are bound to have some form of ptsd and might believe that they have been captured by the 'enemy), and their 'bridges'. we're led to believe that their bridges undergo careful selection and multiple interviews, yet our protagonist seems entirely ill-suited for the task at hand. it would have been more logical for someone with an understanding of the expat's era to care for them. moreover, the notion that these time expats wouldn't be institutionalized but instead released to live with their bridges seems implausible. and would they really place them in London? surely it would have made more sense to find safehouses in the countryside, as opposed to smackbam in the middle of modernity. despite the considerable resources invested in extracting them, they're entrusted to a single individual who promptly forgets their surveillance duties, allowing them to wander the city alone?
it's nonsensical. while i'm willing to suspend disbelief regarding time travel, if i'm to buy into this 'ministry', it should feel less slapdash.
i skimmed ahead and saw how the romance subplot would unfold...if anything the romance made the story all the banal. why can't we have significant non-romantic relationships between male and female main characters? must it inevitably result in a romance, even here? the optics were dubious, akin to a therapist and their patient embarking on a romantic relationship.
given all the buzz around this novel, i recognise that i am an outlier and chances are that it will be a hit for most readers (i just happen not be one of them). i recommend giving this novel a shot and forming your own opinion. YMMV and all that jazz....more
between A Good Happy Girl and Worry, it's official, i am feeling a gross-grimey girl fiction (aka the She's Not Feeling Good at All subgenre) fatidnf
between A Good Happy Girl and Worry, it's official, i am feeling a gross-grimey girl fiction (aka the She's Not Feeling Good at All subgenre) fatigue. you know the drill by now: she's messed up, has daddy or mommy issues, doesn't know how to wash, doesn't want to wash, wants to be more or less treated like a dog by her dubious sex partners because of guilt, trauma, ennui, neglect. bodies are abject, bodily fluids abound, our main character thinks about outlandish things because she's just so messed up and weird, and her malaise is all consuming, warping her worldview and self-perception. chuck in some supposedly provocative scenes that are actually there for shock value and ta-da. you have on your hands a Sad Girl book. the author here switches things up by making the mc a lesbian (usually they are in the realms of heterosexuality) and becoming involved with a married couple who in very Mona Awad fashion seem interchangeable. but at the end of the day this dynamic, of a single/lonely woman becoming involved with an older/more affluent couple is uninspired. Jean Rhys was doing it nearly 100 years ago in Quartet. many of these gross-self-sabotaging-sad girl books strike me as cash grabs. pulpy yet profoundly uninspired, this book is not bringing anything new to the She's Not Feeling Good at All table....more
at this point, i am so familiar with the Sad Girl canon that i find myself inclined to propose an addition of my own...
picture this: a 20-something that this point, i am so familiar with the Sad Girl canon that i find myself inclined to propose an addition of my own...
picture this: a 20-something that’s-literally-me woman revels in her own grime and has not washed in the last 6 months (she finds all bodies to be abject). she collects her own fingernails as a quirky yet gross hobby and spends her days posing as a child on social media to chat with pedophiles, because she's 'just so messed up’. she masturbates to pictures of serial killers or war footage, because yes, she's fucked up and finds human depravity arousing. she only eats foods that start with the letter P and has not seen her reflection in the last 3 years. her favorite pastime? dissociating from reality, of course. her bff? an anorexic named Marie-Françoise (EDs are funny aren't they? get it? ah-ah), who exclusively wears pink and speaks in a nauseatingly babyish voice (they absolutely hate each other). oh, and let's not forget her beloved pet, possibly a dog or even something as out-there as a one-legged albino pigeon, whom she believes is the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte. and yes, of course, she has Mommy or Daddy Issues, sometimes both, and when she has sex with her on-off again bf she pretends that she likes being slapped. and to add some extra 'edge', toss in a few scenes designed solely for shock value—think animal cruelty and copious descriptions of bodily fluids. and to finish off, a supposedly wry social commentary that is as 'fresh' as a slice of stale bread.
actual review:
i'm all for books about 20s women mired by ennui and bickering sisters (such as Blue Sisters by Coco Mellors, Candelaria by Melissa Lozada-Oliva, Yolk by Mary H.K. Choi, and Sunset by Jessie Cave), but Alexandra Tanner's Worry is a soulless entry to the She's Not Feeling Good at All subgenre. if i asked AI to write a book in the vein of authors like Ottessa Moshfegh, Mona Awad, and Melissa Broder we would get something along Worry...which is unfunny and unoriginal. the mc’s inner monologue is incredibly derivative of the genre, her interactions with her sister try to go for a grittier grosser take of the sisters from fleabag but fail to. frankly, it's giving Boy Parts (so if you like that one i guess this one is for you too).
additionally, like too many other contemporary novels, Worry pokes fun at social media. if you are to mock online communities, go for it, however, don't include so many threads or comments in your book of said community because they will just age your book and interrupt the flow your narrative (do i care to read about a fictionalized character's brainrot? not really. or to read pages of comments that might as well be taken directly from facebook, X, and or tiktok? no.).
this is satire at its lowest form (a not so distant cousin to the atrocious 'satire' of family guy)....more
The initial allure of The Safekeep faded quickly as the narrative, poised to be a tale of psychological suspense, delivers a conventional, and occasioThe initial allure of The Safekeep faded quickly as the narrative, poised to be a tale of psychological suspense, delivers a conventional, and occasionally trite, story. The novel’s tense atmosphere quickly gave way to a sentimentality that felt unearned and out-of-place, disappointingly milquetoast (better suited to a generic period-drama if you ask me).
In the summer of 1961 in the quiet Dutch province of Overijssel, Isabel, living alone in her late mother's country home, finds her daily routine disrupted by the unwelcome arrival of Eva, her brother Louis’ latest girlfriend. Despite her protestations, Louis, the ‘official’ owner of the house, forces his decision onto Isabel before setting off. Eva is very much an unwanted guest and behaves in a way that sets Isabel’s teeth on edge. Isabel, already prone to paranoia and possessing a rather sanctimonious outlook, abhors Eva. She seems to believe that Eva’s girlish, laid-back nature is a front and soon suspects her of stealing when several items go missing. Now and again they spend time with Isabel’s other brother, who to her disapproval is living with a close male ‘friend’ of his. Nothing much happens beyond a series of domestic scenes in which Isabel is depicted as a repressed, slightly neurotic woman who, like many repressed fictional characters before her, lets out her frustration and anger by stuffing her face into a towel or a pillow or whatnot and screaming. Or giving Bateman-spiraling-over-a-business-card energy. I’m not against conceal don’t feel type of characters, (eg. the lucys authored by Brontë and Kincaid or one of Shirley Jackson’s girlies), or ones who become fixated or obsessed with someone they are also suspicious of (These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever, Apartment by Teddy Wayne), but Isabel, who is neither complex nor intriguing enough for me to feel any sort of way towards her, fails to evolve beyond a one-dimensional character. Her contradictions and inner conflicts lack depth and come across as contrived and uninspiring. The promised exploration of her 'forbidden' attraction feels forced and fails to make her a compelling or fleshed-out character. Eva, the object of Isabel’s desire, was even less interesting. Her character consists of a series of thin impressions, making her into a barely-there sort of presence. This is surprising given that she is meant to be the catalyst to Isabel, the reason behind the ‘unravelling’ of her studied outer self. We are probably meant to find Eva to be the more approachable character, but I found her for the most part to be forgettable, although occasionally she did strike me as irritating. Her hidden agenda felt disappointingly moviesque, especially the way her backstory is presented to us…it was very giving historical melodrama, which may work for many, but does zilch for me.
The novel initially promises to be something more in the realm of psychological suspense, a story where we follow the type of character that is rather off-putting. Isabel is unyielding, rather misanthropic, and believes herself to be the subject of many slights. I was fine with her being this type of character, after all, two of my favorite novels are Giovanni’s Room and Madame Bovary, both of which focus on morally reprehensible characters…but then along the way Isabel’s arc ends up being surprisingly sentimental.
There were so many scenes in The Safekeep that should have made me feel a certain degree of something but I just didn’t buy into them. Supposedly charged moments and tense discussions didn’t land, often because they seemed overly dramatic in a way that felt unearned, forced even. I didn’t buy into Isabel’s obsession with Eva, mostly because Eva is for the most part portrayed as very wishy-washy. I’m not against narratives where one character is projecting their feelings onto another character, or letting their paranoia tinge their understanding of another person (their personality, their ‘true’ motivations), or where the central relationship is very much push/pull, but here...the supposed tension, or chemistry, between these two women felt simultaneously rushed and overdone. I would have preferred more of a slow burner, but they go from nothing to 100% in a way that took away from the novel’s initial atmosphere of ambivalence. I was surprised by how banal the plot was. The main characters were dramatic in a way that brought to mind The World Cannot Give by Tara Isabella Burton, a novel I don’t care for in the slightest. The side characters were very one-note, and Isabel’s brother's story was presented to us in a way that made me think of so many period dramas (in other words, cliched).
It’s frustrating because van der Wouden’s writing is top-notch and those first chapters were very absorbing. Her descriptions of the house and its contents, as well as the way she describes the characters’ expressions and body language, were very well done. Her writing style exudes a cool, polished quality reminiscent of Barbara Vine, Sarah Waters, and Magda Szabó. On paper, The Safekeep explores compelling themes. Against the backdrop of the 1960s, the narrative has the opportunity to unveil the societal expectations and constraints placed on women. Isabel's adherence to conservative values leads her to perceive her burgeoning attraction to Eva as morally 'wrong.' Additionally, her prejudices extend to those outside her racial, cultural, and class spheres. The novel does allow us to see how Isabel's narrow mindset becomes a self-imposed trap, hindering her from experiencing true fulfillment, living in the shadow of her mother and resentful of her brothers' freedom. The central themes of inherited guilt and reparations are also pivotal to the narrative. However, the way these issues are handled struck me as somewhat schematic, leaning towards a simplistic and moralizing tone.
Alas, the novel’s initial tense atmosphere just...fizzles out. I’m all for books where fraught character dynamics are at the centre stage, but here Isabel and Eva lacked substance, consequently, their friction and their developing relationship left me feeling very uninvolved. Maybe the reason I was so unbothered by this novel is that I read it not long after reading Winter Love, an overlooked lesbian classic narrated by someone not that dissimilar from Isabel herself (Han Suyin's narrator is aloof, unpleasant even) who embarks into a love affair with a married woman. Or I just have come across this type of dynamic and atmosphere in several other novels (Sweet Days of Discipline by Fleur Jaeggy, The Inseparables by Simone de Beauvoir, and Passing by Nella Larsen, Belladonna by Anbara Salam, books by Danzy Senna, Patricia Highsmith). van der Wouden's is a clearly talented writer, it's a pity that her novel falls victim to a lacklustre execution.
Still, in spite of my negative review, I encourage prospective readers to give van der Wouden's debut a shot. I may have simply been unable to enjoy it due to my overexposure to this type of genre. If you liked Claire Fuller's Bitter Orange or Ian McEwan's Atonement, or if you happen to enjoy the historical fiction penned by authors like Rose Tremain, there's a good chance you will find van der Wouden's debut to be a satisfying reading experience....more
i can put up with works that are very intent on being cerebral, metaphysical even. but, there is a limit to the amount of verbosity i can 'digednf 10%
i can put up with works that are very intent on being cerebral, metaphysical even. but, there is a limit to the amount of verbosity i can 'digest'. Spring on the Peninsula is the type of peacock novel that takes every opportunity to flaunt just how clever & highbrow a literary work it is. each laboured sentence fails to deliver any substantial meaning or leave a lasting impression. readers who don't mind the type of academic texts that make it a virtue to be inaccessible, might find Shin's novel a stimulating read. i, however, find it abstruse & pretentious, lacking the depth of intelligence it purports to possess....more
Kaveh Akbar’s Martyr!, one of my most anticipated 2024 releases, fell short of its premise. Despite its potential, Martyr! struck me as a novel that wKaveh Akbar’s Martyr!, one of my most anticipated 2024 releases, fell short of its premise. Despite its potential, Martyr! struck me as a novel that was taken out of the publishing oven far too early. The result is a rather half-baked novel that failed to truly elicit any strong emotion on my part. Despite the novel’s polyphonic structure, the various perspectives in Martyr! sounded less like a choir and more like a monotonous voice, one that inadvertently pulled me out of the reading experience. I found myself acutely aware of its constructed nature, and I felt frustrated by the book’s singular tone. To be sure, there were a couple of reflections here and there that felt perceptive, nuanced, and certainly relatable (especially when it comes to expressing the experiences/mind-set of someone who is depressed, suicidal, and/or addicted). But that was sort of it. We have this main character who despite being in possession of various ‘quirks’ (from his childhood habits to his rather ‘unique’ job at the hospital that sadly made me think of Todo sobre mi madre, a film i fucking hated), is ultimately a springboard for various discourses. The novel is most effective in the “sessions” between Cyrus, our protagonist, a newly sober Iranian-American queer man approaching 30, and Orkideh, a terminally ill performance artist who in a very Marina Abramović move is living out her final days in the Brooklyn Museum. These sections made me think back to María Gainza’s Optic Nerve, and so during these interactions, I found the artspeak and academic references to be apt, whereas, in the remainder of the novel, these felt either didactic or out-of-place.
Cyrus’ chapters are intercut by chapters from his family members: his father, who died while Cyrus was in college, his mother, whose death is in many ways the catalyst for Cyrus’ fixation on martyrdom, and his uncle, traumatized by his experiences in the Iranian battlefields where dressed as the Angel of death, he comforted his dying countrymen. I almost immediately questioned the author’s choice to adopt a 1st pov in their chapters, whereas Cyrus’ are told through a 3rd pov. Their voices, sounded like what Cyrus would think they would sound like. I wished that the author could have been a bit more unconventional when it came to the structure of his novel. The storytelling could have been more experimental, for instance, something along the lines of Mary-Alice Daniel's A Coastline Is an Immeasurable Thing (a memoir that manages to balance an intimate coming-of-age with various historical accounts), Namwali Serpelll’s labyrinthine (which presents readers with different versions of the same events/episodes), or Kim Thúy’s fragmented forays into the past. A more atypical structure would have complemented Cyrus’ troubled nature to his childhood and family history, as well as his sense of dislocation. For example, we could have had Cyrus either imagining and writing about the experiences of his parents and uncle or providing secondhand accounts of their lives. After all, he is a writer, a poet, who is writing a work on martyrs that is heavily influenced by his own experiences of death and grief. Or it could have gone for a story-within-story type of framework, a la Elizabeth Kostova, or committed more fully to being a family saga, after all, that type of narrative doesn't prevent one from exploring more ‘literary’ topics or providing thought-provoking reading material (eg. Elif Shafak, Louise Erdrich, Hala Alyan, Margaret Wilkerson Sexton). But Martyr! never quite finds its footing. The use of multiple perspectives is done by rote. And I wouldn’t have minded as much if these various voices had depth, but they struck me as self-referential, mere exercises in style. The author tries to jazz things up by including sections where Cyrus imagines conversations between real-life people, like his mother, and fictional characters, like Lisa Simpson. Not only is this idea not particularly original (exploring a character’s psyche by having them engage in imaginary dialogues with famous figures). Maybe if the author had captured the essence of these fictional figures, I would have been more willing to overlook the contrived nature of these sections, but as it was Lisa Simpson is recognizable as such only because of her pearls and a possible reference to music. These chapters were distractingly gimmicky and further solidified my disinterest in the overall story. As I said early on, the novel did have potential, especially when it came to its topics & themes: martyrdom, death, grief, contemporary American politics, Western military interference in the Middle East, Iranian history, misperceptions of Islam, generational trauma and silence, the relationship between one’s identity and one’s art as well as the difficulty in challenging dualistic either/or way perspectives of one’s identity (when it comes to race, nationality, faith, and sexuality). In many instances dialogues or segments surrounding humanities subject areas rang hollow, at times even performative, as these added little to important issues, or advanced no new perspectives or argument, for instance when it came to using a postcolonial lens to reevaluate the Western canon. Like, we have this bit where two characters, who almost always sound like the same guy, talk about how racist The Bell Jar is, mentioning this one episode from that novel (the novel has several overt instances of racism). They then mention other controversial figures, like Susan Sontag, but the discussion there.. felt truncated, mere name-dropping. One character concludes childishly that everyone should do as he does. I wanted more from a scene like this, and certainly, I wanted this scene to feel like a realistic back-and-forward between two people. If you follow my reviews here on GR, you know by now that most of my favorite novels are centered around alienated, self-sabotaging, navel-gazing characters (eg. Are You Happy Now by Hanna Jameson, Yolk by Mary H.K. Choi, You Exist Too Much by Zaina Arafat and The Arena of the Unwell by Liam Konemann). And I also have a high tolerance when it comes to rambling internal monologues, or very academic novels (for instance Elif Batuman’s duology). But with Martyr! I did not feel that I was reading a compelling or in-depth character study. Cyrus was a means through which the author could initiate and discuss various topics. Cyrus’ internal monologue struck me as slightly formulaic, affected even. The ideas and images we found there were often overly wordy, in a way that took me out of the reading experience. It made me think of a certain type of very self-conscious academic writing, the kind of writing where something ‘simple’ is worded in such an unnecessarily convoluted way as to lose sight of its original meaning/purpose and can come across as just plain pretentious. While the novel does touch upon interesting issues, certain dialogues, especially the ones between Cyrus and his best friend, or Cyrus and his sponsor, seemed, schematic, and slightly dry. There is this plot reveal that struck me as sentimental and out-of-place, the type of plot point that would have been more suited to a more book-clubby book, or something from Hollywood. The author's depiction of his female characters left me with the impression that he was playing it 'safe'. Their personalities seemed to blend together, and while they were allowed some flaws, the author held back from making them as chaotic or lively as their male counterparts.
As I said above, the novel would have benefited from having a more ambiguous type of storytelling, as it would have suited the novel’s themes: Cyrus' tendency to mythologize his past and family history, the uncertain nature of the act of retrospection, and so on. I have just read several books exploring these themes and, compared to those, Martyr! comes across as rather derivative and generic. Which is a pity, especially for a novel that includes a quote by Clarice Lispector...
There were instances, often on a sentence level ("hairless in a way that makes my skull louder, the angles of my jaw"...i understand wanting to emphasize the uncle's, shall we say, fragmented psyche but his chapters were, predictably, full of these clunky stylized sentences), that needed more thorough editing (did we really need Cyrus to tell us how a wikipedia page is usually subdivided? And, at the risk of being pedantic: it's Venice Biennale, not Venice Biennal). A lot of descriptions were just...trying too hard (exhibit a: "his face all chin and jaw, cavernous dark eyes like weeping poppies"; exhibit b: "the narrowing angles of her jaw and neck like a diving crystal dangling from an invisible string").
It was by no means a bad read but it was a forgettable one. I was too aware of the author’s presence to feel invested in the story or its characters. The snippets of poetry that we get (written by Cyrus for his book) didn’t feel as striking as they were meant to be. All in all, Martyr was a bit of a misfire. Cyrus is the type of alienated and obsessive young(ish) man going through what could be broadly described as an existential crisis that I have come across before in literature (Hari Kunzru's Red Pill, David Santos Donaldson's Greenlanad, David Hoon Kim's Paris Is a Party, Paris Is a Ghost) and despite his experiences throughout the novel he ultimately ends up adhering to a predictable story arc (featuring convenient coincidences, moments of truth, and so on) that struck me as disappointingly vanilla.
I don’t think that I’d read more by Akbar, but you never know. If this book is on your radar I recommend you give it a try despite my negative review or at least check out more positive reviews if you are making your mind up about it....more
This novel seems to aim for a vibe reminiscent of Gabrielle Zevin's Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and I believe it will appeal to fans DNF 40%
This novel seems to aim for a vibe reminiscent of Gabrielle Zevin's Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and I believe it will appeal to fans of that book or of The Animators by Kayla Rae Whitaker, as well as readers who enjoy authors like Meg Wolitzer or Ann Napolitano. I hate to dnf a book so far in, but I can tell that my feelings for Memory Piece won't change. I'm not drawn to the writing, which is passive, heavily reliant on telling rather than showing, and at times impersonal (not restrained in the way Jhumpa Lahiri's is, but more generic).
The first section of the novel follows Giselle, who aspires to become a performance artist. While the novel appears to articulate why she wants to do this, it doesn't convincingly or deeply explore her motivations, let alone why she chooses to express her creativity through these performance pieces. We're presented with shallow artspeak that could easily have been lifted from artybollocks. Ko's portrayal of New York and its artsy milieu lacks the bite, or even substance, of say Ottessa Moshfegh or Rachel Lyon. One of Giselle’s pieces had the potential for further exploration, but the narrative summarises it in a couple of dull paragraphs.
There's a lot of this: periods of Giselle's life are condensed to a few sentences, or at most a couple of paragraphs. While this may allow the author to cover longer periods of time concisely, it comes at the expense of establishing Giselle's character, her arc, her relationships, and her various environments. It seemed to me as if Ko was cramming too much into too little space.
The novel also heavily relies on 80s/90s nostalgia, which is fine, but not when we learn more about certain trends than about the impact of AIDS, which is reduced to an afterthought in a paragraph mentioning that the 'hippie-grunge thing was over'. This felt glib to me. The few episodes we are actually 'shown' seem to exist solely to make a point, such as when a woman asks Giselle to walk with her, leading Giselle to make a banal observation on the matter (which felt wholly unnecessary given the novel’s target audience…).
Not only were Giselle’s pieces pretentious, but they also served to consolidate my negative impression of performance art. Her art seemed to lack depth, as if she was merely selecting the most extra thing to do without much thought behind her choices (as profound as ai art). Yet, I am supposed to find her and her art intriguing? Sure…
There is nothing subtle about Ko's storytelling, and I mostly felt detached, if occasionally irritated by the content of her story. I wish I could have liked this novel, but it wasn't meant to be. If you enjoy book-clubby books, this might be right up your street. Or, if you were a fan of Zevin's bestseller, do not give this one a miss....more
considering everything that is going on in italy atm i thought that this was a very underwhelming novel on gender-based violence. the mvague spoilers:
considering everything that is going on in italy atm i thought that this was a very underwhelming novel on gender-based violence. the mother-daughter dynamic was banal, as the daughter not only is made to work as a stand in for her whole generation but she given that bratty-ungrateful-rude personality that i have come across time and again in books that are written by adults and tailored to adults (i guess teenage girls and young adult women are not in fact in possession of personalities). considering that this is di pietrantonio we are talking about...well, it makes the whole thing even more of a disappointment. i found the way the author handles serious issue such as violence against women and trauma simplistic and verging on the sentimental in a way that made me think she was holding back. much of this short narrative is wasted on emphasising how insular a community the narrator grew up in. misogyny and complicity are touched upon but in an unsatisfying way as ultimately the novel decides to make the culprit someone who is not local, feeding into the narrative, very popular in certain Italian spheres, that immigrants are 'violent', 'rapists', 'sub-human'. that the narrator recounts the traumatic experiences of other women also felt like a cop-out, as her imagination only takes her so far in imagining what it must have been like. generational differences are painted without any subtlety, and i was amused by just how cliched the narrator's daughter was. we never gain an understanding of who she is or what she is going through. even those flashbacks into her 'before' end up consolidating this image of her as the stereotypical bratty teen who lashes out against her 'poor' mother. the book is full of platitudes on motherhood and adolescence, and the narrative fails to articulate its central themes.
these are very much my personal entirely subjective opinions (which i am sure will undoubtedly annoy some readers, who will think of my complaints as a sign of my being 'too' politically correct or as 'influenced' by angloamerican culture but hey ho, tough titties) so i encourage prospective readers to check out some more positive reviews out....more
this book is the definition of a 'perfectly fine' read, one that will undoubtedly satisfy fans of authors like Katherine Arden, Bridget Collins dnf 15%
this book is the definition of a 'perfectly fine' read, one that will undoubtedly satisfy fans of authors like Katherine Arden, Bridget Collins, or Naomi Novik. however, i am too jaded to fully appreciate its Disneyesque 101 fairy tale elements, especially when paired with such milquetoast storytelling (unlike say books by Zen Cho, Elizabeth Lim, Holly Black, or Juliet Marillier, which have some zing to them).
the familiar tropes—a downtrodden main character who although physically and personality-wise unremarkable is in possession of a 'strange' gift, the domineering employer, the mean aunt, the cautionary "be careful what you wish for" storyline—simply fail to hold my interest.
in comparison to the dynamic prose of Bardugo's Ninth House, the writing here lacks the punch and vibrancy i crave.
maybe it will work for those who have just started getting into historical fiction aimed at adults and haven't read much by authors like Kate Forsyth, Joanne Harris, Sarah Dunant. i can definitely see The Familiar appealing to readers who preferred Bardugo's style in her Grishaverse books over her Alex Stern ones.
if you are interested in this novel, i recommend seeking out reviews from readers who have actually completed it as my review is based on only a small percentage of the book.
In recent years, there has been a surge in the publication of 'weird' short story collections, and unfortunately, Chung's Green Frog is a lacklustre aIn recent years, there has been a surge in the publication of 'weird' short story collections, and unfortunately, Chung's Green Frog is a lacklustre addition to this trend. The ‘quirky’ tone and the use of absurdist and surreal elements felt almost formulaic as if Chung was following a checklist or creative writing prompts rather than genuine narrative experiences rather than genuinely experimenting with her storytelling.
The choice of the opening story was particularly baffling; it’s basically a series of instructions, not a story at all. To place this as your ‘opener’...it’s an odd choice. It was almost off-putting in a way. Usually collections like these open with a banger (and then fizzle out). But still, I moved past it hoping that the following stories would at least deliver on the themes promised by its summary. Sadly, they didn’t. Not only did they lack substance, but the style they prioritized felt derivative and not particularly compelling. Characters fail to register their presence on the page, and the story’s ‘quirks’ were entirely gimmicky. The only truly memorable one was the story about an amorphic praying mantis, but this story is really cut short and doesn’t really do anything (thematically or stylistically). They just washed over me. Neither bad, nor good, but certainly surface-level and forgettable. This is a pity as they promised to blend real-life struggles, specifically of Korean American women, with fantastical elements. However, I found the author’s exploration of bodies, desires, and memories to be tedious.
While I didn't love Chung's debut, it had an earnestness that I couldn't help but admire. In comparison, Green Frog feels rather contrived. Maybe if you have just started reading weird short stories you might find yourself able to appreciate Green Frog in ways that I was unable to....more
Having really liked another novel by Thorne I wanted to like this one too...but I just can't look past the author's bland horror and her depictiondnf
Having really liked another novel by Thorne I wanted to like this one too...but I just can't look past the author's bland horror and her depiction of Italy...
Approximately 20% in, and the horror elements feel like tired clichés, served without any pizzazz. Yet, the novel seems to operate under the belief that it is self-aware, even 'smart,' in its usage of tropes. Take, for instance, a scene where Anna, our mc, sees a figure inside the house and knows she's not 'seeing things' because “she understood angles, perspective. This shape was inside the house.” We also get creepy children, and Anna realizes only later that said children are not her nieces because they are speaking in Italian...all of this happens way too early on. Thorne is spoon-feeding us the horror instead of letting it simmer. While I understand that haunted houses/places have been thoroughly explored in the horror genre, Thorne fails to build suspense, relying instead on a series of very 101 horror elements/scenes. Sometimes, making your characters aware of a place’s wrongness from the get-go can work, but Thorne is no Jackson and lacks the skill to pull this off (in the first pages, we get a trite horror line: “Someone’s in here, Anna thought. Listening.”).
And the characters, oh, where do I begin? This type of obnoxious rich American family is everywhere in the media, and despite the promises of satirical depth, Thorne's take on the wealthy is as shallow as a puddle. The so-called "black sheep" protagonist, supposedly 'real' and unlike the rest of her shallow family, is banal, devoid of any real substance. Certainly, she does not make for a convincing problem child nor is she as interesting/relatable a figure as the narrative wants us to believe.
My biggest issue lies with the author's portrayal of Italy and her usage of the Italian language. It's baffling how little effort was put into researching or consulting actual Italians (yes, ideally more than one) for authenticity. What is it with American authors doing the bare minimum research when setting books abroad? At least consult a few people from the country/culture you are intent on representing your book in before you start writing nonsense or just piling on the stereotypes...
→ Thorne, I don't know who told you that "molto bene" is used in the way you think it's used, but they did you wrong (“She hit the galleries on Friday. L’Accademia. The Uffizi. Molto bene. Overwhelming in the best way.”...?)
→ The protagonist tells us that her Italian 'accent' is good (“Her actual facility with Italian wasn’t nearly as good as her accent.”) when surely it should be pronunciation?
→ A few pages in and we already have stereotypes such as Italians being bad drivers, and Italian men being don juans (leering at women/making inappropriate advances)
→ The description of the villa tries hard to convey an understanding of architecture and interior design but it comes across as name-dropping (“alfresco dining”...). Sure, the narrative tries to be sort of self-aware, as the villa is described as “[M]ore Epcot Italy than the real thing”, but it ultimately fails to pull this off as it immediately flexes its art history knowledge: “And yet there was something idiosyncratic about Villa Taccola. The whole house suggested pentimenti,”. And I failed to be amused by a bathroom being described as “you know, a bathroom—” (why bother including this? is this a house tour? 75 questions with vogue?). Thorne's grasp of Italian art and architecture consists of an overuse of the term "Romanesque".
→ And let's not forget the baffling detail of Anna serving herself a "cold prosecco" – because apparently, warm and/or room temperature prosecco is a common occurrence for this moneyed woman who claims to be an enthusiast of Italian culture.
→ Anna's Italian is so good supposedly that when she goes for a drink in a restaurant, she is given an Italian menu (her companions are given English menus)...I do not believe that for a second. Saying a few words in Italian won't magically make Italians give you an Italian menu. I don't get given Italian menus. The waitress somehow compliments her on her translation skills (“Anna translated for the others as best she could, rewarded with a “molto bene” and a wink from the waitress, ”)...but how would she know whether Anna's translation was good or not if she spoke little/no English? And if she did speak English she would not be talking in Italian to Anna, despite the latter (claiming) to know enough Italian to get by.
→ We have a scene of Anna, her brother, Benny, and his bf going into ‘Monteperso’ and passing a tabaccheria/BAR with “four sour-faced Italian men of indeterminate age leaning on the building and smoking cigarettes, seemingly in silence. They all turned to stare at the car as it approached, unsmiling. Benny gave a neighborly wave. They didn’t react. Not even to shift weight.”; 1st of all, if there are no tables outside, would they really be standing outside a tabaccheria to smoke? They would go to a bar with tables outside or a bench or whatever. Also, they would definitely be talking to each other. 2ndly, they wouldn’t be so blank-faced. if anything, if it's an area with little tourism, the locals would look puzzled by the sight of tourists/non-locals; the only instances where they would look more antagonistic is if the tourists in question were to be POC (but Anna & co are white so...here it makes 0 sense other than going for that 'there be strangers' horror trope); 3rdly…waving? What the fuck do you expect? For these elderly men to wave back? When I worked in Venice, I found waving tourists obnoxious, often they seemed uncaring of their surroundings (pushing people aside or getting too close to others), and excepted what…the locals to entertain them? Is this a zoo? An amusement park? Do the locals 'owe' you anything?
→ And don't even get me started on the overuse of "pentimento". It reminds me of how people (especially dabblers of artspeak) like to misuse/overuse 'chiaroscuro'. I understand that the word pentimento sounds cool to non-Italians, and the whole concept will certainly have an ‘edge’, but goodness me don't use it as a metaphor to describe things that have nothing to do with it. Sure, you can use art terms as metaphors for other things, but here, Thorne does it so much it just comes across as obnoxious, and especially ridiculous to an Italian speaker....more
i guess this one is for the true crime podcast girlies.
look, despite not having enjoyed Austin's previous novel, i approached Interesting Factsdnf 25%
i guess this one is for the true crime podcast girlies.
look, despite not having enjoyed Austin's previous novel, i approached Interesting Facts about Space with the best intentions. i really wanted to like it because i too am a neurodivergent lesbian loser with questionable tattoos who as a child was afraid that flushing the toilet would awake some sort of monster (when i came across that particular tidbit from enid's past i felt very seen). still, i could not get behind Austin's prosaic style, which consists in short chunks of text that amount to either whimsical one-note characters saying quirky things or clinical descriptions about, i don't know, washing up a plate, blinking, or whatever ("I try to scrub caked-on food off a fork. I apply a large squirt of dish soap directly to the utensil."). while i can sometimes can get behind this type of functional storytelling, Austin's prose lacks that edge that makes this detached style work (for me) in say Brandon Taylor's books. the mc, Enid, is yet another (tired) reiteration of the twenty-something mess that has become the standard in much of contemporary fiction (there are so many examples that they deserve their own subgenre: she is not feeling good at all). and Edin just reminds me far too much of the mc from Austin's previous, just swap in that one's obsession with death for a fixation on space. i'm sure that there is an audience for this book, i'm just not it. i hope this book will find its way to readers who'll be able to enjoy it in all of the ways i wasn't able to....more
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