Your grave turned into a bookmark we couldn’t get past. That we kept going back to. You.
I didn’t dislike this but I will say that the commentary on grief outranked almost every “horror” element of this book for me. The discussions of how death can be warped and used as selling points in media and in politics were especially interesting, and the anger that Thiago felt as a result of that was uncomfortable yet so steeped in the truth of how ugly grief can be when it manifests.
When I first started here, there was a detailed manual that taught me how to be a store worker, and I still don’t have a clue how to be a normal person outside that manual.
I thought I’d like this a lot more, to be honest. The topics explored made me excited about reading it (what it means to be a member of society, a woman, a worker) but, God, this book is repetitive. So repetitive that it becomes boring, so repetitive that it made it feel like the author was banging me over the head with “the point.” What sucks even more is that the dialogue in this is also just as repetitive as the narrative. Maybe if the narrative alone was repetitive I wouldn’t have really minded it because that would make sense for Keiko as a character; she masks how socially awkward she is by following a very rigid social code so repetition and her looping behaviour is indicative of that. But, even the other characters were fucking boring. All the conversations between Keiko and Shiraha, for example, were the exact same from their first interaction right until the very last.
I’m honestly just happy that this book was short so I didn’t have to sit through any more pages of it but, even then, I think this would’ve worked better as a short story rather than a novella.
To narrate our horrors, what’s the point of science if not to narrate our horrors? El Cuco thought, What’s the point of technology if not to narrate our horrors? What’s the point of languages, screams, keyboards, wells if not to narrate our horrors?
I read this in one sitting. One whole sitting, sat here on my bed, reading this cover to cover, thoroughly disturbed and uncomfortable throughout all of it, yet this is easily a five star read. On a line to line level, on a whole novel formatting level, on a character-voice level, I thought this book was masterfully written. The topics covered in this book are wholly indigestible and the author doesn’t even attempt to make them easy to get down—the prose is crude, vulgar and unflinching.
At its core, under all that vulgarity, this book is about language. How do you put language to your own suffering, your own trauma? Do you write it, code it, draw it, or do you simply sit down and talk it out? Even then, even once you’ve found your outlet, will that language ever fully be able to translate that pain? Will the reader, player, voyeur, or listener ever truly be able to understand what it is you’re saying? Does that even matter? Or, is putting language to your suffering less about others and more about yourself, more about getting that suffering out of you in order to better cope?
And where do you find/learn this language, these words that you use to explain your experience? What and who do you learn it from? Your parents—even when they refuse to name your trauma? Your teachers—even when they, too, are restricted by their syllabus? Literature, movies or art—even when you’re too poor to afford books, DVDs or art show visits? Or, do you go to the internet, where language and art is uncensored, where piracy allows the free flow of information, of language, where your search for the right words draws you deeper and deeper still?
The creation of your “I” began with violence, and there wasn’t anything beautiful about the process, or maybe there was, but how would they ever understand it? How would they ever understand you if they couldn’t even pronounce you?
I once told Irene that what that man had done to them was a monstrosity, and she looked at me like I was a child. ‘He’s a man, not a monster,’ she said, and I understood what she was saying so clearly that I never brought it up again. Do you get what she was trying to tell me? Well, tío, that they weren’t victims of a monstrosity, but of a humanity.
This book is a lot; the author goes places that I wouldn’t even be willing to go with a gun. Not only does she touch on online voyeurism, religious trauma and gender dysmorphia, but she refuses to shy away from topics of child abuse (in all of its forms), pornography (what it can do for you, what it can do to you), all while interrogating what society views as “proper victimhood.” I really don’t think this book is for everyone. Hell, I don’t think I’ll ever recommend this to anyone, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t immediately finish this book and say, “finally… finally a book that will sit with me past the last page.”
I am only a mother on paper, because motherhood is a life sentence (but I don’t feel like a mother anymore). Like what happens to the fruit fly in the YouTube videos, you go in through a little hole thinking you’re headed for something sweet and then you’re trapped and you can never get out.
Didn’t really care for all the fly chat despite genuinely understanding why Inés is so obsessed with them. Those sections of the novel dragged to the point of me wanting to dnf the book SEVERAL TIMES. Anyway, I enjoyed the exploration of womanhood and motherhood, or perhaps, more accurately, womanhood VS motherhood. I really really really loved the chorus chapters interspersed throughout the book and this was the strength of the book in my opinion.
She loves her parents, she does, but it’s a prickly, complicated love, and suddenly Helen is swept up in a hopeless feeling that maybe all she’s capable of is prickly, complicated loving. Maybe even with Grant Shepard permanently, safely in the rearview mirror, she’ll never be able to love simply and without disclaimers.
Loved it. Loved it. Loved it. Messy relationship plagued by inescapable grief and a history that can’t just be cast aside with apologies! There were times where Grant and Helen acted so very ugly towards one another in a way that was so real and so steeped in the ugly truth of grief, and I was left reading this, impressed that the author was willing to go there. Survivor’s guilt is not an easy thing to deal with and I really did enjoy the exploration of that—not just in the main relationship, but also through Helen’s relationship with her parents. I think my only criticism is that I didn’t love the sudden onslaught of time-skips near the end of the book, but I’m not letting that get in the way of how much I enjoyed everything else. That 70% breakup? I was fucking sobbing, like I was genuinely about to vomit.
If I knew there was a stand-up comedy element of this book, I probably wouldn’t have read it tbh. I hate when a book tells me someone is meant to be funny and I just… don’t laugh once. That being said, I pretty much enjoyed everything else about this book. I get why people label this “women’s fiction” as opposed to it being a romance because, truly, the romance is just not the main priority of this novel. Instead, you’re following Georgina as she battles infidelity (on multiple fronts), job insecurity and the feeling of being behind while in your thirties. I would’ve loved to see more from Georgina and Luca after the grand love confession… I think that’s my biggest criticism.
She used to rub lavender behind my ears before I went to school and in this way I felt that She too was always watching me.
This book suffers real bad from being marketed as one thing and actually being something else. Based off of the synopsis, I genuinely expected Noelle (our main character) to be having (or maybe it would be more accurate to say using) sex to either heal from her religious trauma, or confront said trauma and the repressed emotions its brought about. Instead, this book really doesn’t do that. Sure the exploration of religious trauma is there but that’s all done through very dialogue-heavy scenes of Noelle and Moses (our apparent vampire) just walking around Scotland, talking. I think this book has an unflinching character dissection of Noelle—she’s equal parts a victim and a villain, which was interesting to navigate—but I don’t think it was enough to endear me to this book. Honestly, my unmet expectations really got in the way here LMAO… maybe I’ll reread it in the future when I’m in the specific mood for Weird White Woman literature.
There is a time, she thinks, at the start of any relationship, when the process of falling in love softens a personality, like wax in a warm room. And so two people in love change, just a little, pushing their wax figures together, a protuberance here smoothed down but creating a dip there. It doesn’t last long, the time when love can gently change who you are, and in the relationships that she’s visited over the last six months, the moment has long passed.
I enjoyed this book as like a fun filler read but outside of having a whacky premise, there’s not much else going on here. Outside of knowing that Lauren is single prior to all this happening, we don’t really learn anything concrete about her as a person and why this sudden predicament is a learning experience for her and her in particular. There’s surprisingly no character exploration with Lauren which is interesting because this whole novel is literally about her and her interpersonal relationships. I won’t hold it against the author that no explanation for the why behind the attic husbands was given (this is magical realism, after all) but if you’re going to keep the magic vague the least you can do is steep it in solid character development, solid theme exploration, some sort of overarching message to take away at the end. This book is about human connection, about relationships and the way in which they can change us, but even these themes weren’t tackled with much oomph because of the restart button she has with each and every husband that she encounters. The moment we started dealing with any sort of conflict with some depth, Lauren would send them up the ladder.
I’m a little confused by the ending as well. So, what’s the moral of the story? To settle? LMAO God forbid.
The prose is pretty plain as well, so I didn’t even really enjoy picking the language apart but I do think this is a good reading slump fixer.
For a guy that didn’t know Gwen existed until like two seconds ago, Alex falls for her really bloody fast. That was fun to read (I won’t lie) but it did make their relationship and the quick progression of it kind of unbelievable. Still, this was cute albeit a bit predictable. For example, the moment we were told that Declan was a lawyer, I already knew that he’d play a hand at getting Alex out of his contract. Gwen is also a bit of a spineless silly billy which made the plot but, god, got annoying pretty fucking quick. There would be no plot if she ignored Alex and Mabel’s pretty clear warnings and I get that, but as I just said… the warnings were pretty fucking clear and the evidence of the proof of those warnings were somehow even clearer. It was genuinely annoying to see Gwen trusting people that clearly shouldn’t be trusted. I did, however, really like how Alex’s POV was inter-spliced into the narrative. It was interesting dipping into his brain, even though we didn’t spend a lot of time there. He’s easily the most interesting character of this book.