Moto Hagio was truly ahead of her time. Her artwork is stunning, and its beauty both complements and contrasts the dark themes she explores in this st Moto Hagio was truly ahead of her time. Her artwork is stunning, and its beauty both complements and contrasts the dark themes she explores in this story. Describing the story as heavy would be an understatement—it's intense and disturbing. What happens to Jeremy is horrific, but Hagio never sensationalizes his trauma. Instead, she shows the insidious nature of his abuser's psychological and emotional warfare, convincing Jeremy that he is somehow to blame and should be ashamed of being sexually assaulted.
In contrast to the story's disturbing content, Hagio's imagined Boston feels almost picturesque. Her vision of England also feels fairy-talesque, drawing inspiration from various eras and images associated with the UK. I found it amusing that no one remarks on Jeremy's American accent, or that we are repeatedly told the UK is colder than Boston.
I first read this when I was but a sad sprog, and it left a lasting impression on me (i even created a playlist that i could listen to while reading this). Hagio shows profound empathy in exploring Jeremy's psyche, alleviating the story's relentless darkness through beautiful imagery—often of landscapes—and touching interactions that serve as reprieves in a story centred on abuse.
A word that would adequately capture this series is haunting, so read at your own discretion. ...more
edit re-read n3: truly a gem. review to actually come this time
this was a random purchase @ the airport a few weeks ago so i was taken aback by how muedit re-read n3: truly a gem. review to actually come this time
this was a random purchase @ the airport a few weeks ago so i was taken aback by how much i enjoyed this. a precursor to the sad girls penned by ppl like rooney & moshfegh. review to come sooner rather than later....more
“This is what exploration had opened up the door to. Not only widespread slaughter, but the necessary accompaniment of gorging.”
Unapologetically solip
“This is what exploration had opened up the door to. Not only widespread slaughter, but the necessary accompaniment of gorging.”
Unapologetically solipsistic and deeply manipulative, Katherine, the central character of A Carnivore's Inquiry, makes for an awful human being and a deeply entertaining narrator. A predecessor to Ottessa Moshfegh and Mona Awad’s protagonists, and many of the young women from the 'She's Not Feeling Good at All' subgenre, Katherine is a ceaselessly sardonic and relentlessly remorseless narrator with a predilection for histories and representations of cannibalism.
“I was one of those people who made up for what she lacked in talent with her father’s money.”
Katherine is 23 and has arrived in New York after an extended trip to Italy. She is young, attractive, and from wealth. However, she has no interest in reconnecting with her father, a man she thinks rarely of, and never with any particular fondness. Her mother has been in and out of institutions all her life, and glimpses into Katherine’s childhood reveal just how unstable she was. But Katherine is not prone to melancholy, or at least, if she thinks of the past, it is not her past that she longs or feels for, rather, she is fascinated by tales and accounts of cannibals, cannibalism itself, and nurtures a troublesome, perverse even, admiration for colonialist and their violence and usurpation against native communities. She’s often awed by accounts of violence, of madness, and of death, recounting and reimagining many of these episodes, often adopting the point of view of the person who inflicted violence upon others, or went mad, or was put in a situation where cannibalism was the only means of survival.
“I find it hard to feel bad for Hansel. It’s the witch I feel for.”
Katherine sets her sights on an older man, a fairly well-off writer Boris. Her momentary interest in Boris seems a consequence of boredom and a monetary desire. Soon she grows tired of Boris, a rather pathetic yet nasty person, who makes the mistake of thinking himself cleverer than her. Katherine convinces him to buy a house in rural Maine, a town that happens to have a killer on a loose. Far from bothered by this, Katherine seems comforted by the idea of this killer. Eventually, she finds herself travelling to Mexico City, and later returning to New York where she comes across some unwelcome familiar faces. As her restlessness sees her hitting the road, she forms unlikely friendships with random men she meets on her travels. All the while, bodies keep piling up wherever she goes.
“[I]n our culture there was a weird enthusiasm for cannibalism. Cannibalism was a big thrill as long as we weren’t doing it.”
While we know from the start that something is off about Katherine, we don’t really know just how unreliable a narrator she is. She often says and does exactly what she wants when she wants, has no trouble striking up conversations with strangers and is not put off by people not liking her. Her disregard for social niceties and norms makes her a character that is always able to surprise you. Her blithe responses to the odd, occasionally disturbing, circumstances she finds herself in are pure gold. Yet, despite knowing and being confronted with her strangeness, she retains a hypotonic quality. Her ambiguous nature drew me in, as I found myself eager to learn what was truly going on. Who is responsible for these deaths? Why is Katherine obsessed with cannibalism? What is at the root of her ennui?
“After a few hurdles, my life would achieve a stunning, appealing normalcy.”
Adroit, dark, and wickedly funny, A Carnivore's Inquiry is a riveting tale. The plot, however meandering, reflects Katherine’s restlessness. Aloof, duplicitous, and hungry for experience Katherine uses those around her as she pleases, both for materialistic gain and to pass away time. The novel’s historical and artistic discourses brought to mind the work of María Gainza, as here too we are given in-depth insights into art pieces and historical figures. I found A Carnivore's Inquiry's exploration of taboos, cannibalism, and violence to be sharp and subversive. I appreciated how Sabina Murray upends traditional power dynamics and challenges notions of normalcy and likeability. Her commentary on consumerism, colonialism, power structures, the ‘elite’, NY’s art and literary scene, femininity, and privilege was sly and thrilling.
“The needs of appetite justified everything.”
A Carnivore's Inquiry makes for a unique read, a rare treat. Not only is A Carnivore's Inquiry rich thematically but stylistically. Murray constantly keeps her readers on their toes as she shifts from genres (gothic, thriller, satire) and tones (playful, grotesque, introspective). Katherine’s voice is the book’s strength, as readers are bound to find her both fascinating and abhorrent. Her interactions are always interesting, as they often veer into the realms of the absurd (more than once david lynch came to mind).
“I seem to have touched a nerve,” said Ann. “Thank God for that,” I said. “I was beginning to wonder if I was still alive.”
My only quibble really is in regards to the Italian (chingiale should be cinghiale, seiscento should be seicento, and then gittoni should have been gettoni). And yeah that Silvano was utterly ridiculous (of course, he is a fascist) but he ended up adding to the novel's vibe of surreality.
I think this would definitely appeal to fans of Moshfegh, Awad, and Danzy Senna as well as readers who are on the lookout for novels exploring 'The Female Malaise' or that centre on alienated & alienating young women.
Clever, enigmatic, and atmospheric, A Carnivore's Inquiry is a novel that I look forward to rereading. I liked this so much that I am even planning on revisiting The Human Zoo, also by Murray, which I read with little fanfare last year (hopefully this time around it will win me over).
re-read: a truly ingenious novel, thematically rich and written with impressive confidence. within the novel colonialism and cannibalism are deeply intwined, the monstrous desire to conquer is presented as a hunger, one that our narrator and anti-heroine feels deeply. similarly to Guadagnino's Bones and All the novel questions inherited monstrosity, especially in a mother/daughter dynamic. i loved the hazy quality permeating much of this novel, which really adds to Katherine's ambivalence. ...more
Hirayasumi is a wonderful slice of life manga that will definitely appeal to fans of the iyashikei sub-genre. There is a lulling, comforting even, qua Hirayasumi is a wonderful slice of life manga that will definitely appeal to fans of the iyashikei sub-genre. There is a lulling, comforting even, quality to the Shinzo's storytelling, from his characters to his art style. With little preamble the manga explores every-day experiences of its central characters, giving insight into their lives and the characters themselves (what to they believe in? what makes them happy? what are their anxieties? do they desire, from life, from each-other?). Shinzo portrays their routines in such a soothing yet compelling way that I found myself unwilling to interrupt my reading.
Ikuta Hiroto, one of our protagonists, is a self-described freeter who is in his late twenties and leads a content carefree life. He has no interest in having the kind of life that his peers and his society expects of him, and he is satisfied working part-time and drifting along. He eventually inherits a house that belonged to a neighbourhood granny, who he had struck an unlikely friendship with. He is joined by his cousin, 18-year-old Natsumi, an aspiring mangaka, who has moved to Tokyo to attend university. Natsumi however feels out-of-place in the city, and struggles to make friends.
I cannot praise this manga enough. It was a balm to my soul. I liked everything about it. From Shinzo's reflections on modern work culture, to his exploration of loneliness and hope. There was something so refreshing and nonjudgemental about the way he depicts his characters (their personalities, their struggles) and I found the focus on, often unexpected, friendships to be delightful....more
An ingenious and effervescent collection of surreal stories that will definitely appeal to fans of Kevin Wilson, Helen Oyeyemi, and Hiroko Oyamada. L An ingenious and effervescent collection of surreal stories that will definitely appeal to fans of Kevin Wilson, Helen Oyeyemi, and Hiroko Oyamada. Ling Ma has a knack for blending realistic dynamics and issues with absurdist ones, and, in doing so, for subverting our expectations. Ma’s storytelling is playfully irreverent and I was captivated by the fantastical scenarios she presents us with in this collection. In the first story, 'Los Angeles', which very much reminded me of Hilary Leichter's Temporary, our protagonist shares a house with her many ex-boyfriends. Her current partner seems to accept the arrangement but when the exes start to find new places to live our protagonist struggles to adjust. The second story, 'Orange', which actually features a character from the previous story, sees a woman reflecting on a past abusive relationship and sees her determined to find where her ex, who now stands accused by many women of abuse, has gone into hiding. There is a short story that explores a friendship which includes a fantastical drug that can make you invisible. Another short story sees a professor discover a passageway to someplace else in her office’s closet. In yet another, we follow a writer who is in an MFA program and is writing about her mother’s early days as an immigrant in the US. Ma imbues real-life scenarios and issues with a dose of the surreal, making for some incredibly extraordinary and engaging stories that explore the absurdities of modern life and interrogate notions of identity, connection, and belonging. I found Ma’s style deeply engaging and the direction of her stories surprising. I look forward to re-reading this collection soon!...more
“Was this the decisive moment of my life? It felt as if the gap that had dogged me all my days was knitting together before my eyes—so that, from this point on, my life would be as coherent and meaningful as my favorite books. At the same time, I had a powerful sense of having escaped something: of having finally stepped outside the script.”
In Either/Or we are reunited with Selin as she continues to navigate the trials and tribulations of adulthood. Now a sophomore student at Harvard, Selin has plenty to keep her occupied: her studies inspire her to question the choices she and others have made, the direction of her life, the meaning of love, sex, and connection, the limitations of language, and, of course, her relationship with Ivan, the Hungarian student whose mind remains to Selin, and by extension us, as unreadable as ever. Did she care for her at all?
There was something abstract and gentle about the experience of being ignored—a feeling of being spared, a known impossibility of anything happening—that was consonant with my understanding of love.
Selin’s propensity for long asides is as present as ever and I loved losing myself in her inner monologue. Her long acts of introspections do often come across as navel-gazing (curiously enough the narrative itself mentions navel-gazing), but I never felt bored or annoyed by it. If anything, Selin’s solipsistic inclination for self-interrogation made her all the more realistic. That she refers to books, music, films, and authors to make sense of herself and others results in a deeply intratextual narrative that will definitely appeal to literary students. While Selin isn’t wholly enamoured by academia, we can see how her studies and the books she reads inform the way she understands her world and those who populate it. She often draws parallels between her own life and those of historical and fictional figures. Some of the authors/artists/etc. she mentions include: Kazuo Ishiguro, Fiona Apple, Charles Baudelaire, Pushkin, Shakespeare, André Breton, and of course, Soren Kierkegaard’s Either/Or.
“There was something about crying so much, the way it made my body so limp and hot and shuddering, that made me feel closer to sex. Maybe there was a line where sex and total sadness touched—one of those surprising borders that turned out to exist, like the one between Italy and Slovenia. Music, too, was adjacent. It was like Trieste, which was Italian and Slovenian and also somehow Austrian.”
Of course, at times these books and figures only add further confusion, so Selin is unsure whether she’s idealizing herself and others so that her life can resemble those she encounters in fiction. More often than not knowledge fails her, so she’s unable to decipher not only the motivations of others but her own true feelings. Her writerly aspirations too preoccupy her and so do the changes that come about in her life. Selin’s intense friendship and rivalry with Svetlana is threatened when the latter finds a boyfriend. Her roommates too have plenty of things that keep them occupied so Selin finds herself going to parties where she meets less than ideal men. Yet even as Selin forms sexual relationships with them, she longs for Ivan and obsesses over what his infrequent emails leave unsaid.
“It seemed to me that the elements whirling around me in my own life were also somehow held in place by Ivan’s absence, or were there because of him—to counterbalance a void.”
Either/Or shares the same structure with The Idiot so we follow Selin month by month during her academic year before tagging alongside her as she once again goes abroad for the summer. In Turkey she finds herself forming unexpected connections but remains somewhat remote to them.
Sardonic and adroit Either/Or makes for a fantastic read. While Selin does change over the course of her sophomore year, she also remains very much herself. She can be reserved and slightly baffling at times, and yet she’s also capable of making some very insightful or relatable comments. She’s intelligent, somewhat naive, and has a penchant for overthinking and obsessing over minor things. Her deadpan sense of humor and little idiosyncrasies make her character really pop out of the page. I could definitely relate to her many many uncertainties, as well as her fixation with understanding the person who never seemed to reciprocate her feelings.
The one that started “Days like this, I don’t know what to do with myself” made me feel certain that I had spent my whole life not knowing what to do with myself—all day, and all night. “I wander the halls . . .” That was exactly it: not the streets, like a flâneur, but the halls. Oh, I knew just which halls.
As I mentioned already over the course of her second year at Harvard Selin grows into a more self-assured person while also remaining strangely static. Her mental meanderings often included reflections on things such as desirability, belonging, love, heartbreak, self-fulfilment, choice & chance, and I found her perspective on these things deeply compelling. At times her mind is preoccupied with mundane thoughts, at times she loses herself in philosophical and existentialist questions about human nature. Batuman’s inclusion of the minutiae of her protagonist’s life (such as inserting a tampon: “I tried again to put in a tampon. ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING WAY.”) made Selin’s reality at Harvard all the more vivid. I could easily envision the different environments she occupies, as well as the people who inhabit those places. This combined with the mumblecore dialogues and Selin’s recursive inner monologue, which borders on being a stream of consciousness, give Either/Or quality of hyperrealism. That is, even when confronted with moments of surreality or scenes of a comedic nature, I believed completely in what I was reading. A sense of 90s nostalgia permeates her story which adds to the narrative’s overall atmosphere and aesthetic.
“It was the golden time of year. Every day the leaves grew brighter, the air sharper, the grass more brilliant. The sunsets seemed to expand and melt and stretch for hours, and the brick façades glowed pink, and everything blue got bluer. How many perfect autumns did a person get? Why did I seem always to be in the wrong place, listening to the wrong music?”
I loved this novel so thoroughly that I was sad to reach its inevitable conclusion. I hope with all my heart that Batuman will write a third instalment where we will follow Selin during her third year at Harvard. If you enjoyed The Idiot chances us you will, like me, love this even more (perhaps because batuman is expanding on the 'universe' she already established). If you are a fan of the young-alienated-women subgenre you should definitely consider picking these series up.
My eternal gratitude to the publisher for providing me with an arc....more
“All the lovers in the night .” The phrase had appeared out of nowhere. Through the faint light of the room, I looked over the words, which came together in the strangest way. On the one hand, they felt new to me, like something I’d never heard or seen before, though I also felt like maybe I had read them somewhere, in the title of a movie or a song;
Previously to reading All the Lovers in the Night, I’d read Breasts and Eggs, Heaven, and Ms. Ice Sandwich, by Mieko Kawakami. While I was not ‘fond’ of Breasts and Eggs, I did find her other books to be compelling. As the premise for All the Lovers in the Night did bring to mind Breasts and Eggs, I was worried that I would have a similarly ‘negative’ reading experience. Thankfully, I found All the Lovers in the Night to be insightful and moving. Even more so than Kawakami’s other works, All the Lovers in the Night adheres to a slice-of-life narrative. Yet, in spite of this, the story is by no means light-hearted or superficial. Kawakami approaches difficult topics with this deceptively simple storytelling. She renders the loneliness and anxiety of her central character with clarity and even empathy.
“I couldn’t think of a single thing about me that would be worth sharing. My name is Fuyuko Irie, a freelance proofreader, thirty-four years old. I’ll be turning thirty-five in the winter. I live alone. I’ve been living in the same apartment forever. I was born in Nagano. Out in the country. One of the valleys. I like to go out on a walk once a year on my birthday, Christmas Eve, in the middle of the night.”
Thirty-something Fuyuko Irie leads a solitary life working from home as a freelance copy editor. Her inward nature led her former colleagues to single her out, and she was made to feel increasingly uncomfortable at her workplace. Working from home Fuyuko is able to avoid interacting with others, and seems content with her quiet existence. Fuyuko receives much of her work from Hijiri, an editor who is the same age as her but is very extroverted and possesses a forceful personality. Hijiri, for reasons unknown to Fuyuko, regularly keeps in touch with her and seems to consider her a friend. Perhaps their differences cause Fuyuko to begin questioning her lifestyle. Compared to her glamorous friend, Fuyuko sees herself, to borrow Jane Eyre’s words, as “obscure, plain and little”. But venturing outside the comfort of her home has become difficult for Fuyuko. To work up the courage she begins drinking alcohol, even if her body doesn’t respond well to it. She eventually begins going to a cafe with an older man. While the two speak of nothing much, they seem happy to exchange tentative words with one another.
I can see that this is not the type of novel that will appeal to those readers who are keen on plot-driven stories. However, if you are looking for an affecting character study, look no further. Through Fuyuko’s story, the author addresses how Japanese society sees and treats women who are deemed no longer ‘young’. Marriage, motherhood, and a career seem to be the requirements for many Japanese women. Those like Fuyuko are considered outside of the norm and because of this, they find themselves alienated from others. Fuyuko’s self-esteem is badly affected by this to the point where she feels that she has to go outside her comfort zone, even if the only way to do so is through inebriation. At a certain point, I was worried that Kawakami would make Hijiri into the classic fake/mean female character who is portrayed as aggressive, promiscuous, and a woman-hater to boot. Thankfully that was not the case. While Hijiri is not necessarily a likeable person Kawakami doesn’t paint her as a one-dimensional bitch and her relationship with Fuyuko isn’t sidetracked in favour of the romantic subplot. And yes, on the ‘romance’...I will say that this man wasn’t as nuanced as Fuyuko. I found him slightly boring and generic. I did like that the relationship between the two forms has a very slow build-up to it and the ending will certainly subvert many readers' expectations. Anyway, overall I rather enjoyed this. I liked the melancholic mood permeating Fuyuko’s story, the descriptions of Tokyo, the mumblecore dialogues, the way Kawakami articulates Fuyuko’s discomfort, anxiety, etc. Now and again there were even moments of humour and absurdity that alleviated Fuyuko’s more depressing experiences. I also appreciated the novel’s open-ended nature, which added an extra layer of realism to Fuyuko’s story. While some of Fuyuko’s actions aren’t given a ‘why’ or closely inspected, as we read on we begin to understand more fully her various state of mind and how these affect her behaviour.
“I was so scared of being hurt that I’d done nothing. I was so scared of failing, of being hurt, that I chose nothing. I did nothing.”
While the dialogues did have a realistic rhythm, the secondary characters (who usually did most of the talking given that our main character isn't a talker) did tend to go on very long and weirdly specific monologues that seemed at times incredibly random or oddly revealing. This is something I noticed in other works by Kawakami. Secondary characters go on endless rants or whatnot while our main character gives little to no input. It seems a bit unusual that Fuyuko would come across so many people who are willing to go on these very long monologues that reveal personal stuff. Even so, I did find the majority of the dialogues to be effective.
“If I thought about things long enough, I would always lose track of my own feelings, which left me with no choice but to proceed as usual, without taking any action.”
All the Lovers in the Night is a work of subtle beauty and I look forward to revisiting it again in the future.
re-read: the narrative possess a quality of impermanence that is truly rare in literature. i love the attention that the author gives to Fuyuko's various environments and the incredibly tactile descriptions. the way the author writes about light reminded me of Yūko Tsushima. i loved re-reading this and i really appreciated how the author prioritises female relationships in this narrative. the relationships and interactions between the various women within this narrative are by no means positive or easy but they speak of the kind of images and norms that their families, communities, and society have inculcated into them. additionally, the author shows how women can perpetuate misogynistic views and attitudes (casting judgement on how other women dress, their sex lives, their marital status) as well how all-consuming and toxic female friendships can be. Fuyuko's unwillingness to conform to widely accepted ideals of womanhood and her (partly) self-imposed isolation brought to mind Charlotte Brontë's Lucy Snowe. additionally, the way kawakami navigates her loneliness and creativity reminded me of Lily King's Writers & Lovers. despite the issues addressed within the narrative—sexual assault, alcoholism, misogyny, alienation—Fuyuko's voice has this lulling rhythm that made it easy for me to become immersed by what i was reading. while in my original review i criticised the novel for its 'monologues' this second time around i actually found these far more credible as it was easy to see why people would open up to Fuyuko. sad and wistful, All the Lovers in the Night ultimately struck me as luminous character analysis that captures with bittersweet accuracy the realities of leading a lonely existence, missed connections, and the long-lasting repercussions of traumatic experiences....more
Given its abysmal overall rating, it should not come as a surprise that A Separation is not the type of novel that will have a large appeal. While it bears many of the same elements and stylistic qualities as Intimacies, which is Katie Kitamura’s latest novel which I did not particularly care for, here, well, they kind of work. Similarly to Intimacies, A Separation is narrated by a nameless and nondescript female character. We never learn anything substantial about their backstories and their personalities remain blank. For some reason, in A Separation, this narrating voice works. Whereas reading Intimacies felt to me like an utter waste of my time, A Separation proved to be a much more thought-provoking novel.
A Separation follows a woman who is separated from her husband, a serial cheater. They have not officialized their separation and not only are they legally still married but his parents still believe they are together. When he goes missing on a research trip in Greece his mother pressures our narrator to go find him. Our narrator, who is now in a new relationship, acquiesces hoping that she will be able to get her husband to agree to a divorce. Once there however she realizes that he has truly vanished. She obverses the staff in the hotel, speculating on the whereabouts of her husband, wondering how and why he has seemingly disappeared, leaving his possessions behind. I was transfixed by the descriptions of the landscapes and people encountered by our main character. The uneasy scenario our mc is in resulted in a taut atmosphere. Her ambiguous narration proved hypnotic and I felt transported alongside her to this remote region in Greece. While the uncertain nature of her journey and her husband’s unknown whereabouts resulted in a gripping storyline, this was not a fast-paced or plot-driven story. This is a very introspective and reflective work that explores themes of unity and separation, absence and presence, longing and loss, foreignness and belonging, deception and clarity. I loved the mood of this story. The drawn-out waiting for our mc does may bore some but I found this wait to be enthralling. The tension between her and the other characters (the employees, the husband, her mother-in-law) captivated me. Her piercing narration was particularly rewarding. Not only does she express herself in such an adroit, articulate, and alert way but I found her speculations and observations to be razor-sharp. The author juxtaposes her clarity of vision with her intrinsic vagueness. We learn virtually nothing about her history or who she is. Her crystal-clear narration is in fact rather deceptive as all the while she keeps herself hidden. This ambivalence certainly complemented the precarious atmosphere of her stay in Greece. While I did find much to be admired in this novel it is not the type of reading that will leave a long-lasting impression on me. It did succeed in making me a fan of this author even if I did not care for her latest novel. I can see why many gave A Separation a low rating. Nothing much happens and for all her navel-gazing the narrator remains a stranger to us. It is the type of novel that at the end may very well make you say "what was the point of all that?". But, if you are in the right mood for a more muggy exploration of a fractured marriage and the limits of language, that succeeds in being both elusive and incisive, well, look no further. Subtle, erudite, and meditative, A Separation will certainly appeal to fans of psychological fiction....more
Weirdly enough, at first, I rather disliked this book but, the more I read, the more I found myself warming up to its protagonist Willa Chen. I initially picked this book up because of its ‘nanny’ premise as Lucy by Jamaica Kincaid and Nothing To See Here by Kevin Wilson are all-time favourites of mine. After reading the first few pages I was reminded of Luster by Raven Leilani but here I found the narrator quite irritating. The prose too tries too hard to be snappy and edgy, both through its imagery and its, often flowery, metaphors. I am not too keen on narrators who present themselves as wronged on all fronts, and, for quite some time, Willa struck me as self-victimising, especially when it came to her parents. Her passivity too was a source of frustration but, as I continued to read, this unwillingness and inability to act on her part endeared to me. She’s so used to minimising or straight up dismissing her experiences and encounters with racism and sexism that her immediate response to someone saying something offensive is to doubt herself (is she overreacting? is she misperceiving their words/actions? are they just being ignorant or malicious?).
Willa is one of those main characters who is in her early twenties and leading a rather directionless life. Her divorced parents have gone on to have ‘new’ families and she rarely is in touch with them. Willa feels conflicted about her Chinese American identity. She often doesn’t feel or is made to feel, neither Chinese nor American enough. Willa’s sense of otherness and aloneness are further exacerbated by her disconnection from her parents, in particular her father. After a lukewarm college experience, Willa ends up working for the Adriens, who are a wealthy white family based in Tribeca. Willa looks after their only daughter, Bijou. Similarly to the narrators of Luster and Lucy, Willa feels drawn to Nathalie, Bijou’s mother. Willa tries to act as the nanny the Adriens’ want but tries as she might to fit in with them she cannot reconcile herself to their extremely privileged lifestyle. They, in turn, seem wholly unaware of Willa’s true family history, partly because Willa herself omitted and or lied about quite a few details, partly because they are rather self-absorbed. They also make unfortunate remarks about Willa, at times patronising her or making her feel small and obscure. The novel strings together many every-day moments from Willa’s life as Bijou’s nanny so we get quite a lot of scenes revolving around cooking or that take place during mealtimes. I liked the tensions that the author is able to create in these seemingly ordinary environments (such as the kitchen). There are many instances where Willa messes up or makes some (sometimes downright idiotic) mistake that make me feel both embarrassed on her behalf and rather sympathetic towards her. The author captures the confusion and anxiety many people feel in their twenties. Time and again Willa is made to feel as if her job as a nanny is not a ‘real’ job or that she has yet to become a fully-grown adult. While the Adriens’ are often oblivious of Willa’s real feelings and when with them Willa does put a front, she does become infatuated with their family. Her routine as a nanny offers comfort, in fact, it shields her away from actually confronting her parents and or her future. Of course, as I said, the Adriens’ home is not a perfect refuge. Willa is often confused by Nathalie’s confiding in her, only to, later on, treat her like ‘house staff’. She also comes into contact with their relatives, and they turn out to be pretty vile. She endures humiliating jabs and or dismissals at her expense and has to put up with looking after sexually inappropriate young boys. The worst of the bunch is Nathalie’s younger brother whose microaggressions make Willa feel understandably ill at ease. I can see how many readers will find Willa infuriating. She rarely acts or speaks up for herself. Her fear of rejection and abandonment are such that she retreats inward, keeping her true self hidden from others. Her general confusion about her identity is exacerbated by her Chinese American heritage. Time and again she’s asked questions on the lines of ‘what are you’, which serve only to alienate her further from others. Willa makes plenty of stupid choices along the way (do not read if you can’t stand second-hand embarrassment) and rarely thinks things through. Even so, I ultimately found her to be an endearing character. She’s so lonely and alone that you can’t quite bring yourself to judge her as you would someone with a ‘solid’ support system. And, boy oh boy, the discomfort she feels around others, especially Nathalie’s brother was so well-conveyed. His looks plus the way he accompanies his offensive comments with plenty of ‘I’m just joking’ smiles and laughs, well, they succeed in making Willa doubt herself. Willa's story arc was truly compelling and I appreciated just how self-critical she comes to be by the end. I did find myself wishing for her to confront certain people but I guess that we don't always have the opportunity to do that in real life. I will say that not all of the characters were as nuanced as Willa. Bijou’s father is more or less a non-presence. Bijou, well, she didn’t strike me as a, particularly believable child. I get that the author was being satirical, but she sacrifices authenticity in her attempts to poke fun at this type of wealthy, white, & wannabe-sophisticated American family. Quite a few chapters take place during Willa’s childhood and they struck me as a bit artificial. This type of narrative structure (alternating between now and then) is a bit overdone and here it wasn’t wholly necessary. I think that readers who enjoyed YZ Chin's Edge Case and Alexandra Chang's Days of Distractions and are looking to read more books exploring the realities of being a young Asian American woman in contemporary America should definitely check this one out. Additionally I can see this book appealing to fans of Brandon Taylor, Rachel Lyon, and even Lily King.
re-read: as I suspected re-reading this made me like it a lot more. I loved Willa's introspective nature, the way she articulates her loneliness and sense of otherness, and the remote yet intimate quality of her voice. I also appreciated the flashbacks a lot more this time around and I found the moments they explored to be quite fitted to whatever was just happening in the 'now'. The ending was both believable and satisfying although part of me still wishes that we could have seen Willa become less passive....more
Richly observed and heartbreakingly candid Crying in H Mart provides a powerful account of a complicated mother-daughter relationship. In her memoir musician Michelle Zauner writes with painful clarity of when at age 25 her mother was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. Zauner’s recollection of her mother’s terminal illness, her rapidly deteriorating health, and eventual death is heart-wrenching. Zauner conveys with devastating precision the grief, confusion, and hurt she experienced in the wake of her mother’s diagnosis. Interspersed throughout her memories of her mother’s illness are glimpses into her childhood and teenage years. In looking back to her youth Zauner examines her strained relationship with her mother, her evolving relationship to her Korean American identity, and the crucial role that food, in particular Korean food, played in her upbringing and adulthood. Food becomes a tether to her mother and her Korean heritage (speaking of which, there is this wonderful video starring Zauner & Maangchi ). Zauner’s immersive storytelling, which is brimming with piercing insights into love, loss, and language, is utterly captivating.
Despite the harrowing subject matter, I found myself unwilling to interrupt my reading. In navigating her grief and her shifting perception of her mother Zauner presents her readers with some truly beautiful reflections on motherhood and daughterhood. I admire Zauner for being able to write with such lucidity about her grief and her mother’s illness. Zauner’s introspections also are worthy of praise as she is unflinching in her critiquing of her past-self. Zauner's examination of her often uneasy relationship with her mother underscores each episodic chapter within her memoir. In her recollection of her mother Zauner stresses how easy it is to mistake less 'conventional' demonstrations of love and affection as 'lesser'. Reading Crying in H Mart made my heart ache. Frank yet lyrical this is the kind of memoir that will leave a mark on its readers.
ARC provided by the publisher in exchange for an honest review.
re-read: this was just as heart-wrenching this second time around. Yet, there is something about Zauner's voice that I find so compelling that makes her memoir into an ultimately uplifting book. There were many instances where I was moved to tears: from reading of the tragic reality of helplessly witnessing your own mother's deteriorating health, to those instances where food becomes a binding force. I loved the way Zauner wrote about the power of food, in particular those recipes that are part of our childhood or that remind us of our culture or of a specific person. I was reminded of the important role that food played in my family growing up, in particular during my stays with my grandparents. Even if I wasn't familiar with the foods and ingredients populating Zauner's story the vivid way in which she wrote about them—their aromas, their compatibility to each other, the places where you would find these—made it all too easy for me to visualise them. This memoir is a powerful ode to food and the bond between mothers & daughters, specifically Zauner's immeasurably complex and fierce relationship with her mother....more
“I thought a polished appearance and stellar behavior would be the passport to belonging. And when I inevitably failed at perfection, I could at least wilfully do everything in my power to be kicked out before anyone left me.”
Bursting with sharp humor and insight Yolk is a bighearted and profoundly honest novel. Never have I ever felt so understood and seen by a book. I have become used to eating disorders, bulimia especially, either being made into punchlines or sensationalised (i am looking at you Milk Fed). So, understandably I have become weary of reading books with main characters who have an ED. And then, lo and behold, Yolk.
There is so much to love about this novel. First, our narrator, Jayne Baek. She's a listless twenty-year-old Korean-American college student who lives in an illegal sublet in New York. She shares the apartment with Jeremy, a polyamorous white guy she sort of had a relationship with. Not only is Jeremy scrounging off Jayne—over the course of a few months he only paid his half of the rent once—but he also gets her to help him with his 'projects'. Although Jayne hangs out with other people, she keeps others at length, partly out of fear of being rejected, partly because she doesn't want people to inspect her life too closely. Out of the blue, her older sister June shows up. June has a high-paying finance job, lives by herself in a swanky apartment, and, unlike Jayne, seems to have her shit together. The two sisters are not on the best of terms and in spite of living in the same city they have not seen each other for two years. Although Jayne isn't keen on making amends with her sister, her world is upended by the news that June has been diagnosed with uterine cancer. What follows is a heartfelt tale navigating the fraught relationship between Jayne and June.
Jayne's voice is incredibly authentic. She could be petty, silly, and cold. She's also deeply insecure. Jayne wants to desperately leave her childhood and teenage years in Texas behind and tries to do so by barely keeping in touch with her family. She's never been able to fully transcend the linguistic, cultural, and generational divides between her and her parents, which has caused her to feel at a remove from them. When June barges into her life Jayne isn't all that happy. On the one hand, she finds June dorky, embarrassing even. On the other, she's ashamed—of lousy Jeremy, the crappy apartment she's living in, her 'lack' of success, and her ED. Because of this, June and Jayne's 'reconciliation is not smooth. Rarely have I come across such a realistic portrayal of siblings. When it comes to sisters especially creators/authors usually are rather lazy in terms of their characterization: one of them is good the other one is bad, or one of them is beautiful and the other is a 'plain jane', or one of them is outgoing and the other one serious (you get the gists). Choi does not confine June and Jayne to such narrow roles. They are both struggling in their own ways, they are capable of getting under each other's skin (in record amounts of time) as no other person can yet their shared upbringing, or history if you will, also means that they 'get' each other. The dynamic between them felt incredibly authentic. From their arguments, which vacillated between being playful and serious, to those quieter moments between them. Speaking of arguments, Choi writes some of the most realistic arguments that I have ever read. Usually, arguments in books/tv shows/films have this scripted quality to them (they either don't seem very spontaneous or they seem to build up gradually reaching a crescendo that ends with the people involved going their separate ways or breaking up or whatnot). Here instead the fights between June and Jayne are far more true-to-life. Sometimes they can momentarily defuse the tension between them, or sometimes their arguing reignites after a moment of calm. Choi excels at dialogues in general. I particularly loved the banter and flirting between June and Patrick.
While the narrative does focus a lot on the love/hate bond between June and Jayne, Yolk is very much about Jayne and her relationship with herself and her body. I really appreciated the way Choi handled Jayne's ED. While readers know that she has an ED, we only know know towards the end of the novel. I thought this was both clever and extremely thoughtful on Choi's part. Clever because it is indicative of Jayne's self-denial. While Jayne knows that has an ED she doesn't want to really think about what this means. I used to rationalize my ED by treating my bulimia as a necessary step towards 'thinness'. I knew deep down that what I was doing was definitely not healthy, but I trained my brain into thinking that it was just another part of my daily routine. So, Jayne's denial really resonated with me. I could also really relate to Jayne's attitude towards perfection as I too have the bad habit of abandoning things if I don't get good enough results. The romance between Jayne and Patrick was this great combination of cute and realistic. Their chemistry was sweet, and I loved their moments together. Jayne's narration is full of cultural references which made her environment(s) all the more real. I did struggle with the fashion brands as I happen to be fashion-backwards.
Yolk is a real beauty of a novel. It was funny, moving, whip-smart, and brutally honest. If you are looking for a more mature YA novel that explores sisterhood, mental health, love, heartbreak, and Korean-American identity, look no further (I just finished this and I already want to re-read it).
Confession time: I actually didn't think that I would like this novel. A few years ago I tried reading Permanent Record but I wasn't vibing with it and ended up DNFing it and writing a high-key mean review (which I have now deleted and feel really shitty about posting in the first place). Choi please accept my apologies. As Madonna once said: Je suis désolé, lo siento, ik ben droevig, sono spiacente, perdóname....more
Hiroko Oyamada has spun a beguiling tale and the comparison to David Lynch is certainly spot-on. In The Hole mundane exchanges and places acqu 3¼ stars
Hiroko Oyamada has spun a beguiling tale and the comparison to David Lynch is certainly spot-on. In The Hole mundane exchanges and places acquire a surreal quality while the author's easy prose is brilliantly juxtaposed against her story's growingly eerie atmosphere. After her husband's job transfer, Asa moves outside of the city with him. The two settle in the countryside, in a house owned by his family that happens to be just next to their (Asa's in-laws) home. After years spent working precarious or temporary positions, Asa suddenly finds herself with plenty of time to spare. She looks half-heartedly for jobs in the local area but to no avail. At times her feelings of boredom and frustration—at having nothing to do or no one to talk to—brought to mind Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wall-Paper. Asa's few interactions with her mother-in-law and her husband's grandfather are unsettling. The creepy feeling is enhanced by the fact that there is nothing glaringly wrong with these exchanges but one is nevertheless left with a sense of unease. Things take an even more peculiar turn when Asa catches sight of a weird animal and ends up in a hole.
Oyamada provides no resolution for the odd things Asa sees, hears, or feels. To me, this made the story somewhat unsatisfying not as frustrating as henry james' Turn of the Screw (here my read was very much 'supernatural') but nevertheless rushed. I liked Oyamada's vivid imagery and setting (I could basically hear the cicadas and feel the sticky heat on my skin). I also appreciated that the story worked as a metaphor about the pressure Japanese society places on women. If you are a fan of stories that blend realism with the bizarre, plus a dash of the uncanny, you might want to give Oyamada's The Hole a shot. ...more
luce (cry baby)
>
Books:
re-reads
(131)
