bisexualbookshelf's reviews
691 reviews

Endpapers by Jennifer Savran Kelly is an introspective novel that follows Dawn, an artist and bookbinder, as she navigates the complexities of gender identity, bisexuality, and artist’s block. Set against the backdrop of post-9/11 Manhattan, Dawn's internal journey mirrors her external exploration of the city's streets and its queer history. Kelly weaves these threads together with a quiet, lyrical style, rich in emotional depth and philosophical musings.

Dawn's struggle with her gender is the heart of the story. Unsure of what it means to be a woman—or if she is one at all—Dawn often speaks of "the boy inside" of her, a metaphor for her fluctuating sense of self. Kelly captures the frustration and fear of not fitting neatly into society's binary categories, painting a deeply personal portrait of someone yearning to be understood for their gender fluidity, even as they are unsure of how to express it.

The plot is propelled forward when Dawn stumbles upon a hidden piece of queer history: a lesbian pulp novel cover sewn into the binding of another book, inscribed with a lesbian love letter. This discovery leads Dawn to investigate the lives of Gertrude and Marta, the women behind the letter, ultimately drawing a powerful parallel between the intergenerational queer experiences of hidden love, gender nonconformity, and survival. This quest, coupled with her exploration of her own identity, forms the core of Endpapers.

Dawn's relationships with her bisexual boyfriend Lukas and best friend Jae add layers to the story, allowing her to explore masculinity and intimacy in various forms. The dynamics between Dawn and Lukas, in particular, are fraught with tension, as Dawn feels boxed in by Lukas’s preference for her masculine side. Though their relationship provides fertile ground for Dawn's gender exploration, it’s clear from the beginning that their connection has become toxic. Unfortunately, Kelly doesn’t offer much insight into the positive foundation of their relationship, which made it hard to connect with or understand why Dawn continues to stay.

One of the novel’s standout features is its bisexual representation. Both Dawn and Lukas’s fluid sexualities are presented with nuance, and the exploration of biphobia within the queer community is handled with care. Dawn’s feelings of exclusion from both the straight and LGBTQ+ communities due to her gender nonconformity and bisexuality are poignant and relatable, underscoring a broader theme of belonging and the cost of hiding one’s true self.

However, the novel’s pacing can be uneven. The stream-of-consciousness narrative in the first half, while thematically aligned with Dawn’s inner turmoil, at times felt meandering and made it difficult to stay engaged. Additionally, a subplot involving an attack on Dawn, Lukas, and Jae, who is straight, by homophobic men, and Jae’s subsequent injuries, felt somewhat disconnected from the main narrative and left me questioning its place in the larger story.

Despite these criticisms, Endpapers is a thoughtful exploration of gender, identity, and the queer experience, offering readers a tender glimpse into one woman’s journey toward self-acceptance. With its rich themes and evocative prose, the novel is a testament to the power of queer solidarity across generations, even when the path to self-understanding feels elusive.

📖 Recommended For: Readers who enjoy introspective and evocative prose, those interested in exploring gender fluidity and bisexuality, lovers of character-driven stories set against historical backdrops, fans of Malinda Lo’s Last Night at the Telegraph Club.

🔑 Key Themes: Gender Fluidity, Bisexual Identity, Creative Block and Self-Discovery, Queer History and Intergenerational Solidarity, Belonging and Isolation.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the eARC! This book releases from Random House on September 17th, 2024 in the US. Unfortunately, I chose to stop reading the book at 47% due to extremely fatphobic and ableist language.

This is my second foray into Enriquez's work. I withheld my reservations about my first experience with her (The Dangers of Smoking in Bed) because I was new to Bookstagram, who loves her, as well as new to translated literature, which I understand has some nuances when it comes to diction. I was excited to explore Enriquez's latest collection and see whether or not I had the same issues. Turns out, I did.

First of all, a lot of these stories just didn't work for me. "My Sad Dead" was a really strong start, but after that, I got halfway through the book and didn't enjoy any of the other stories. 

The titular story, "A Sunny Place for Shady People," follows a journalist to Skid Row to report on a group that holds rituals honoring Elisa Lam. For those who don't know, Elisa Lam was a real person who mysteriously died in Los Angeles in 2013 (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Elisa_Lam). Elisa was bipolar and had likely been off her medication at the time of her death. As such, her death was ruled an accidental drowning, with many suspecting she was experiencing a psychotic episode due to her bizarre behavior in surveillance footage that is the last known sighting of her. However, not all the evidence points in this direction, and many people still suspect Elisa was the victim of foul-play. Either way, Elisa was a 21-year old neurodivergent Chinese American woman who died a tragic death, and Enriquez's use of her story in this book feels particularly exploitative.

The story that put the nail in the coffin for me was "Julie." In this story, the narrator's cousin Julie moves back to Buenos Aires after a childhood in the US. Julie started seeing "invisible friends" as the result of seances her parents hosted as social gatherings. Almost immediately, the narrator describes Julie as fat. Several scenes describe how Julie eats with her hands, shoveling fistfuls of food into her mouth at a time. The story describes Julie as "ob3se" multiple times, including in this quote:

For those who aren't aware, the word "ob3se" is considered a fatphobic slur by many because of its medicalized, stigmatizing history and how it pathologizes fat bodies. It is derived from medical language that often equates higher body weight with disease, labeling fat bodies as inherently unhealthy, without considering individual health differences. It is also frequently used in ways that reinforce negative stereotypes about fat people, such as being lazy, unhealthy, or lacking self-control. The Body Mass Index (BMI), which classifies people as "ob3se" or "overweight," is widely critiqued for being an inaccurate and incomplete measure of health. As such, many body liberation advocates prefer terms like "fat," which some have reclaimed as a neutral descriptor without moral or medical judgment. 

Beyond the fatphobia, Julie is assumed to be schizophrenic due to her "invisible friends," leading to some ableism and sanism about psychotic people. 

Despite these concerns, I tried to read the story that follows "Julie" and found it just as disappointing as the others. With this in mind, I chose to DNF A Sunny Place for Shady People at 47%. I am not familiar with all the nuances of translated literature, so I am unsure if this is a problem with Enriquez's writing or McDowell's translation, but I am unlikely to seek out Enriquez's work in the future. 

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the eARC! Intervals releases on September 24th, 2024 in the US from Fitzcarraldo Editions.

Intervals by Marianne Brooker is a harrowing yet profound meditation on death, autonomy, and the societal structures that shape our experiences of care. Brooker reflects on her mother’s decision to die after living with multiple sclerosis for a decade, using this deeply personal narrative to ask complex questions about what it means to die—and to live—under capitalism and austerity. The result is a heart-wrenching exploration of care, grief, and the inescapable pressures that mold our final moments.

The book begins with Brooker’s mother’s diagnosis of multiple sclerosis, which was initially mistaken for alcoholism, and then vertigo. Over time, the cost of medical treatment and care rendered her houseless, scraping by on welfare in a system designed to abandon the most vulnerable. Faced with mounting pain, poverty, and a deeply ableist healthcare structure, Brooker’s mother chooses VSED (voluntarily stopping eating and drinking), a decision that Brooker depicts as an act of self-determination in a world that offers little compassion or agency to disabled people. At just 26 years old, Brooker becomes both a caregiver and a witness to her mother’s death.

What makes Intervals so powerful is how Brooker intertwines her mother’s personal story with broader ableist critiques. She challenges the dehumanizing effects of capitalism, ableism, and austerity, examining the ways in which care, under these systems, becomes a burden. She draws upon thinkers like Judith Butler, Anne Boyer, Maggie Nelson, and Johanna Hedva to expand on themes of care and autonomy, critiquing the medical-industrial complex and the commodification of dying. Brooker’s reflections on the UK funeral industry, its capitalist motivations, and the medicalization of death illuminate the absurdity and injustice of how we handle life’s final chapter.

One of the book’s most compelling arguments is that a “good death” should not be reduced to clinical processes or institutional interventions. Brooker insists that community care, death doulas, and honoring one’s autonomy offer more humane alternatives. Her examination of care is also deeply relational—bearing witness, as Brooker poignantly argues, is itself an act of care, even when intervention is not possible or desired.

Brooker’s prose is reflective and lyrical, skillfully moving from the personal to the political with urgency and intimacy. Her writing confronts the painful contradictions of caregiving in a world that demands productivity over compassion, dignity over the inevitable messiness of death. She invites us to consider how we can better love one another, even in the most difficult circumstances.

Ultimately, Intervals is not just about dying; it is a call to reclaim care from the capitalist systems that distort it. By interweaving personal grief with radical political thought, Brooker challenges us to imagine a world where care and connection are not burdens, but vital parts of a more compassionate society. Thank you, Marianne, for bearing witness and sharing this story. It is truly revolutionary. 

📖 Recommended For: Readers who are drawn to reflective, philosophical prose; those interested in exploring the intersections of care, autonomy, and structural violence; anyone who values radical critiques of capitalism and the medicalization of death; fans of Maggie Nelson, Judith Butler, and Anne Boyer.

🔑 Key Themes: Caregiving under Capitalism, Autonomy and Choice in Death, Grief and Interdependence, Ableism and Austerity, Medicalization and the Funeral Industry, Community Care.

**Please note that while VSED is not considered suicide nor an eating disorder, readers who find this kind of content difficult to engage with may be triggered by Brooker’s mother’s story.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the eARC! This is out now in the US from CLASH Books.

Flowers from the Void, Gianni Washington’s debut short story collection, is a hauntingly immersive exploration of the macabre, rife with moments that will leave you unsettled long after you've finished reading. From puppet-masters to bodysnatchers, ghosts, and immortal teenagers, each story unfolds with an eerie sense of doom, often tinged with dark humor that offsets the creeping horror.

Washington excels at crafting deeply introspective, atmospheric narratives where characters are perpetually searching—be it for identity, belonging, autonomy, or simply a moment of peace. Yet, these searches rarely culminate in happy endings. Instead, Washington invites us into worlds where getting what we want doesn’t erase the past and transformation often comes at a harrowing cost.

One of the standout stories in the collection, “Under Your Skin,” follows biracial teen Phillip, who craves visibility in a world that overlooks him. When his strange white classmate Martin offers to beat him up to gain attention, Phillip finds himself in a dangerous arrangement that leads him to Martin’s peculiar family, headed by a mortician father searching for an embalming fluid that will prolong preservation. The tension is palpable, and Washington’s ability to blend horror with a deep exploration of identity makes this story both unsettling and thought-provoking.

Another favorite, “When I Cry, It’s Somebody Else’s Blood,” dives into the bizarre and grotesque, as an alien crash-lands on Earth and begins collecting human eyeballs out of curiosity. What begins as a grotesque fascination with human anatomy transforms into a philosophical musing on memory and identity when the alien places one of the collected eyes in its own head, unlocking the memories of the person it belonged to. The story is as chilling as it is poignant, showcasing Washington’s ability to balance absurdity with a quiet emotional weight.

The collection’s exploration of emotional and physical transformation continues in “Take It From Me,” where Imelda’s body physically falls apart due to the emotional toll of failed relationships. In this world, emotional pain has a visceral impact, and Imelda’s disintegration mirrors her fractured sense of self. However, through mysterious packages that deliver replacement body parts, Imelda begins to reclaim her agency, reminding readers of the resilience required to heal and rebuild after loss.

Washington’s writing is poetic and immersive, weaving between reality and the uncanny with a lyrical ease that makes each story feel deeply reflective. Her fragmented, introspective sentences, often brimming with metaphor, evoke the existential and philosophical questions that linger just beneath the surface of her tales. Themes of identity, loss, and transformation pervade this collection, with characters constantly grappling with the tension between loneliness and the desire for connection.

While some stories in Flowers from the Void may feel slow-paced, their cumulative effect is powerful. Washington’s deft hand at crafting atmospheres of creeping dread and poignant resolution makes this collection an ideal read for fans of horror that lingers in the mind long after the final page. If you loved the body horror of Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova, this collection is a must-read. Perfect for the Halloween season, Flowers from the Void will leave you both unnerved and introspective, wondering just how much of yourself you’re willing to lose in the search for belonging.

📖 Recommended For: Fans of atmospheric horror with a slow-burn, readers who appreciate introspective, poetic prose, anyone intrigued by existential questions and eerie transformations, lovers of macabre short stories, fans of Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova.

🔑 Key Themes: Identity and Belonging, Mortality and Immortality, Loneliness and Intimacy, Emotional and Physical Transformation, Fate and Memory.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the eARC! These stories release from WW Norton on October 1st, 2024 in the US.

The Only Sound is the Wind by Pascha Sotolongo is a hauntingly surreal debut that navigates the intricacies of love, belonging, and human vulnerability through 16 emotionally charged stories. As a Cuban American writer, Sotolongo brings a rich layer of cultural nuance to her characters, many of whom grapple with the weight of diaspora and assimilation. Her embrace of the Latin American “narrativa de lo inusual” tradition allows for a surreal edge in her storytelling, blending the ordinary with the uncanny in ways that feel both unsettling and familiar.

At its core, this collection explores the sacrifices we make for love and the ways in which we navigate the tension between solitude and connection. The stories frequently center on the complexities of relationships—whether romantic, familial, or with the self. Sotolongo's exploration of boundaries, inheritance, and identity feels deeply personal, particularly for those grappling with the pressures of assimilation and internalized racism. Many of the Cuban characters wrestle with body image and cultural expectations, revealing a quiet yet powerful critique of how white supremacy can seep into the most intimate parts of our lives.

One of the standout stories, “The Only Sound is the Wind,” depicts Ana’s eerie journey with her own clone, blurring the line between ownership and personhood. The story brims with existential unease as Ana and her clone grow closer, ultimately settling into an uneasily familiar companionship. Another favorite, “Sad Bird,” features a married lesbian couple whose quiet struggles with communication come to a head through a shared burial of dead birds. Sotolongo’s writing beautifully highlights how vulnerability is often the price we pay for deep, authentic love.

The surrealist undertones continue in “This New Turn,” where a woman gives birth to a dog, challenging societal norms around family and unconditional love. This story, with its tender portrayal of family bonds, evokes a sense of both absurdity and profound truth—pushing the reader to reconsider what it means to truly accept someone or something beyond expectation.

“Bloodletting” was perhaps the most memorable, portraying a codependent relationship disrupted by a stray cat who begins drinking the protagonist’s blood. This macabre yet compelling story touches on themes of sacrifice and emotional dependency, hinting at how we sometimes give too much of ourselves to the ones we love.

While the first half of the collection felt sharp and emotionally resonant, the second half lost a bit of its punch. The latter stories, while still enjoyable, lacked the same intensity, leaving me feeling slightly disconnected as I reached the end. Despite this, The Only Sound is the Wind remains a powerful debut, rich in introspection and lyrical prose. For readers who enjoy a mix of surrealism, cultural exploration, and deeply human stories, it’s worth reading just for how much I loved the first 6-8 stories, despite feeling a bit disappointed by the latter half.

📖 Recommended For: Readers who enjoy introspective and lyrical prose, fans of surreal and speculative fiction, those interested in stories about diaspora and cultural identity, anyone who appreciates narratives exploring the complexities of love and human connection, and admirers of Carmen Maria Machado and Puloma Ghosh.

🔑 Key Themes: Loneliness and Belonging, Diaspora and Assimilation, Unconditional Love, Boundaries in Relationships, Cultural Inheritance, Identity and Transformation, Surrealism and the Uncanny.

Thank you so much to the author for the gifted eARC! This one is out in the US on September 10th, 2024 from Hub City Press. 

The Girl Who Became a Rabbit by Emilie Menzel is an evocative meditation on the unruly, mutable nature of bodies and the ways they refuse to adhere to neat definitions. In this lyric poem, Menzel expertly captures the sensation of being tethered to a body that transforms in unexpected ways, often against one’s will. This is a work that pulses with the tension between the desire to control the body and the reality of its chaotic autonomy.

What struck me most about The Girl Who Became a Rabbit is Menzel’s deft exploration of the body as both a site of transformation and an emotional landscape. The imagery of bodies that fold in on themselves, that spit things out only to swallow them back, creates a visceral sense of discomfort and fascination. The bodies in this poem are in constant flux, a reflection of Menzel’s larger themes about the futility of trying to impose order on the disorderliness of physical existence. It’s a haunting depiction of the ways in which bodies refuse to be static, and Menzel’s language embodies that same fluidity.

Menzel’s lyricism is as fragmented as it is intimate. The poem unfolds in a stream-of-consciousness style that mirrors the non-linear, dreamlike way we experience our own bodies. Her metaphors are dense and abstract, yet they cut to the core of deeply familiar emotions: the desire for home, the yearning to make sense of one's self, and the longing for connection amidst the chaos of embodiment. Menzel's writing blurs the lines between the physical and emotional, weaving vulnerability into the very fabric of her language.

Underlying this poem is a profound meditation on the body as both earth and home. Menzel asks whether the body can serve as a refuge, exploring how our physical forms shape our identities and whether they can offer the solace of stability. Yet, the ever-changing nature of the body in this poem suggests that home, much like identity, is elusive—an idea that feels especially poignant for those of us who struggle to find grounding within our own skin.

This book, while brief, is an immersive, almost otherworldly experience. It reads like a modern-day fairytale—a reimagining of what a body can be, how it can transform, and what it means to live within one. Menzel’s ability to navigate themes of trauma, grief, and alienation through such lush, lyric language is nothing short of brilliant. The Girl Who Became a Rabbit leaves an indelible mark, raising profound questions about the limits and possibilities of the body. I can’t wait to see what Menzel does next!

📖 Recommended For: Readers who enjoy fragmented, poetic prose, those intrigued by the body as a site of transformation, anyone interested in deeply introspective explorations of identity, and fans of Bluets by Maggie Nelson.

🔑 Key Themes: Bodily Autonomy and Chaos, Transformation and Grief, Home and Belonging, Alienation and Connection, Trauma and Healing.

Thank you so much to the publisher for the gifted copy! This one is out in paperback in the US now.

A Grandmother Begins the Story by Michelle Porter is a beautifully layered novel that delves into the complexities of family, Métis heritage, and intergenerational trauma. Centered around a cast of Métis women, each grappling with their own struggles and desires for healing, the novel weaves together personal stories in a style that feels like a series of prose poems—delicate, rhythmic, and deeply introspective.

At its core, this is a novel about the ties that bind women across generations and the weight of inherited pain. Mamé, the family matriarch, has just crossed into the spirit world and is searching for her husband, resisting the pull of the pearly gates of Christian heaven. Carter, tough and guarded after surviving adoption and abuse, is reconnecting with her biological family and coming to terms with her Métis identity. Geneviève, Carter’s great-grandmother, has bravely decided to get sober right at the end of her life, while Lucie, Carter’s estranged grandmother, is asking for Carter’s help to die. Dee, in a striking narrative shift, is a bison—an embodiment of transformation and the land’s spiritual wisdom.

One of the novel’s greatest strengths is its inventive storytelling. The alternating perspectives immerse the reader in each woman’s world, allowing their voices to shine while gradually revealing the larger narrative arc. Porter’s decision to include animal perspectives, particularly through Dee, adds a unique dimension to the story, grounding it in themes of nature, continuity, and the land’s healing power. Through these lenses, the novel contemplates how stories—both personal and ancestral—shape our identities, influence our choices, and offer paths to healing.

Porter’s prose is luminous and evocative, blending poetic imagery with the raw emotionality of her characters’ journeys. There’s a dreamlike quality to the writing, where memories and the present blur, evoking the sensation of being told a story in fragments. The novel explores the idea that the process of storytelling itself—whether through tarot, family lore, or the spirit world—is a way of preserving cultural knowledge and passing on vital wisdom.

While the novel is ambitious in scope, some plot points could have benefited from deeper exploration. However, this did not detract significantly from my overall enjoyment. The thematic richness—touching on feminist struggles, the burden of caregiving, and the enduring presence of trauma—along with Porter’s experimental narrative techniques, left a lasting impression.

A Grandmother Begins the Story is a poignant meditation on what it means to come home to oneself, to one's family, and to one's roots. It’s a novel that doesn’t shy away from the messiness of healing but rather embraces it as part of the journey toward rebirth and renewal. For its lyrical prose, compelling characters, and fresh take on Métis storytelling, this book earns a solid 4.5 stars, and Porter has gained a new fan in this reader!

📖 Recommended For: Readers who enjoy poetic, lyrical prose; those interested in exploring themes of intergenerational trauma, Indigenous identity, and family; anyone drawn to stories centered on Métis culture and spirituality; fans of Billy-Ray Belcourt.

🔑 Key Themes: Intergenerational Trauma, Cultural Heritage and Storytelling, Healing and Rebirth, Family and Estrangement, Feminism and Caregiving.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for the eARC!

Toward Eternity by Anton Hur is a thought-provoking speculative fiction novel that intertwines the fates of its characters through the passage of a notebook, chronicling the rapid evolution of human society across generations. Set in a world strikingly similar to our own, Hur’s novel opens with the mystery of a missing nanodroid clinical trial patient in South Africa, introducing Dr. Beeko, a scientist continuing her late mother's work in nanotherapy—a revolutionary treatment that grants immortality by replacing all human cells with nanites. However, this seemingly miraculous process comes with unexpected complications as patients' “redundant selves” begin to resist the nanites, leading to re-emerging scars and altered personalities.

Hur’s exploration of language and its role in shaping reality takes center stage with the character of Panit, a nonbinary AI program that reads and analyzes poetry. Through Panit, the novel delves into the complex intersections of AI, language processing, cognition, and humanity. The narrative raises profound questions about what it means to be human, particularly when human consciousness and artificial intelligence begin to merge.

Yonghun Han, the first patient in the nanotherapy trials, reappears after going missing, his body now hosting a new consciousness that inherits his memories and language. Yonghun’s struggle with immortality, grief over his deceased husband, and the disquieting changes in his identity, echo the novel's central themes of death, immortality, and the delicate balance between creation and destruction.

Music, like language, serves as a powerful motif in Toward Eternity, especially through the character of Ellen, a cellist and the second nanotherapy patient. Ellen’s redundant self re-emerges in subtle changes to her playing style, paralleling how language and music can evolve, resist, and reinvent themselves. This resistance takes a darker turn as Ellen’s nanites begin duplicating her, leading to the appearance of doppelgangers that stalk her, a haunting metaphor for the novel’s exploration of identity and the body’s resistance to change.

The narrative takes a poignant turn as Panit is transferred into Yonghun’s consciousness-less nanodroid body. Mortal Panit grapples with love, loss, and the desire for a family. This desire is tragically thwarted by repeated miscarriages, and later by the revelation that their child has been cloned by the sinister corporation Janus.

Hur masterfully balances lyricism, philosophical reflection, and plot, weaving a complex narrative that challenges the reader to consider the nature of life, death, and humanity. The book’s structure, with its chorus of interconnected voices, and its meditative prose, will resonate with fans of both Martha Wells’ Murderbot series and Sequoia Nagamatsu’s How High We Go in the Dark.

Toward Eternity is a novel that’s easy to consume and hard to forget, prompting reflection on the stories we tell, the languages we speak, and the lives we lead. Hur’s book is a powerful meditation on the human condition, a story that, much like the characters within it, evolves with each reading. I really enjoyed reading a novel from a translator I admire and I’m looking forward to seeing what Hur does next!

📖 Recommended For: Fans of speculative fiction with a philosophical edge, readers who enjoy intricate worldbuilding and AI narratives, those interested in the intersections of language, identity, and technology, admirers of Martha Wells’ Murderbot series and Sequoia Nagamatsu’s How High We Go in the Dark.

🔑 Key Themes: Immortality and Identity, The Power and Limits of Language, The Intersection of Technology and Humanity, Grief and Memory, Resistance and Reinvention.

Claudia Piñeiro’s Time of the Flies is a haunting and morally complex exploration of womanhood, violence, and the undercurrents of feminine solidarity. Fifteen years after murdering her husband’s lover, Inés is released from prison, her life irrevocably altered. Now working as a fumigator, she’s obsessed with flies—creatures that have become both her muse and a symbol of her entangled past and present. Through Inés’s story, Piñeiro masterfully navigates the gray areas of morality, power, and the intersection of gender and violence in a society that pits women against each other.

One of the standout elements of this novel is the fierce loyalty among women, particularly between Inés and her best friend, Manca, whom she met in prison. Piñeiro’s women are not mere victims of their circumstances; they are complex, resilient, and, at times, unapologetically vengeful. Inés’s decision to help a client poison their husband’s mistress in exchange for the money Manca needs for cancer surgery is a striking example of how Piñeiro blurs the lines between justice and revenge. The narrative doesn’t shy away from the darker impulses of its characters, instead offering a harm reductionist, trauma-informed lens that invites readers to question social norms and the moral ambiguities women navigate.

The novel is also deeply introspective, with Piñeiro’s writing style characterized by its directness and irony. Her prose is raw and impactful, using short sentences to convey complex emotions and societal critiques. This is evident in Inés’s reflections on motherhood, particularly the fraught relationship with her estranged daughter, Laura. Piñeiro’s exploration of motherhood is not idealized but instead highlights the dualities and tensions between being a mother and a daughter—roles that often repel each other like oil and water. This nuanced portrayal resonates with the broader feminist critique woven throughout the narrative, questioning traditional notions of femininity, gender roles, and the consequences of social structures.

The novel also touches on themes of cultural dislocation, particularly how incarceration can alienate individuals from cultural changes. Inés’s struggle to adapt to the feminist gains of the past decade and a half while grappling with her own moral decisions adds another layer of complexity to the story. The dynamics between Inés and Manca, especially their care and solidarity, were beautifully portrayed, and the story ultimately shines as a powerful examination of feminine agency, loyalty, and the often blurred line between right and wrong.

Time of the Flies is a compelling and thought-provoking read, offering a master class in balancing character study with plot. Piñeiro’s ability to delve into the intricacies of feminine relationships, all while critiquing cultural norms, makes this a standout novel and a reminder of why we support women’s rights and wrongs. I’ll be thinking about Inés, Manca, and Laura for a long time!

📖 Recommended For: Readers who enjoy morally complex character studies, fans of feminist literature, those intrigued by themes of justice and revenge, anyone who appreciates stories centered on female solidarity and resilience.

🔑 Key Themes: Feminine Solidarity, Moral Ambiguity, Motherhood and Daughterhood, Feminist Critique, Intersection of Gender and Violence.

Maggie Nelson’s On Freedom: Four Songs of Care and Constraint is a philosophical exploration of the complexities and contradictions of freedom. Through four essays, Nelson challenges traditional notions of freedom, arguing that it is not a distant goal to be achieved but an ongoing practice embedded in our daily lives. Each essay delves into a different domain—art, sex, drugs, and the climate crisis—revealing the intricate dance between autonomy and dependency, self-governance and subjection, that shapes our experiences.

Nelson’s writing is dense and reflective, weaving together academic theory and poetic prose to engage deeply with nuanced ideas about freedom, care, and the human condition. Her exploration of freedom as a process, rather than a final destination, resonates profoundly. This concept is both liberating and challenging, as it requires us to continually negotiate the tensions and contradictions inherent in our pursuit of freedom.

One of the most striking aspects of Nelson’s work is her critique of moralism and the dangers of self-righteousness in social justice practices. She advocates for a more compassionate and context-sensitive approach to ethical behavior, warning against the oppressive potential of obligation, duty, and care when they slip into moralistic judgment. This resonates deeply with the principles of disability justice, where the focus is on care, interdependence, and the acceptance of vulnerability. Nelson’s reflections feel especially relevant in today’s social and political climate, where the rush to judgment often overrides the necessity for empathy and nuance.

Throughout the book, Nelson emphasizes that freedom is intertwined with constraint, suggesting that true freedom often involves the deliberate choice to restrain oneself. She also explores the idea of freedom as a form of care, arguing that the act of caring for others and ourselves is what ultimately sets us free. This perspective is particularly compelling when considering the climate crisis, where the need for care and constraint is paramount. Nelson reminds us that freedom is not an escape from responsibility, but a deeper engagement with the challenges and contradictions of living in a complex, interconnected world.

Overall, On Freedom is a thought-provoking and challenging read that pushes us to reconsider our assumptions about freedom and to embrace the complexities and contradictions that come with it. Nelson’s insistence on nuance and her refusal to offer easy answers make this book a valuable contribution to contemporary discussions on freedom, care, and justice. While some sections may be difficult to grasp fully, the insights and reflections Nelson offers are worth the effort. Maggie never misses!

📖 Recommended For: Readers who enjoy dense, reflective prose, those interested in philosophical explorations of freedom, anyone curious about the intersections of autonomy and care, and those engaged in social justice and ethical living.

🔑 Key Themes: Freedom as an Ongoing Process, Autonomy vs. Dependency, Moralism and Compassion, Vulnerability and Interdependence, Utopian Thinking vs. Practical Action.