freshlybakedbread's reviews
259 reviews

Mona started off strong with its flawed titular protagonist and her dry cynical observations of the literary scene, but as it went on I found myself confused by all the multiple characters who are only defined by their nationality and eventually bored with all the focus on the interactions amongst the characters and their speeches and activities at the festival. The novel frequently delves into discourses about literature and the modern world, but these are often just dropped in, as if the author was trying to cram in as many ideas about culture and society as possible, but it felt like a loose collection of scraps of ideas rather than a tight consistent theme. For once I wished a book was longer! This book was quite short and I would've enjoyed more development of the mystery aspects in order to build up the tension more effectively towards a rewarding climax. The ending did not feel satisfactory and was a complete genre shift. The writing was beautiful but occasionally veered into over-writing (I'm reading the English translation so my view on this is limited). 

On the cover of my copy there's a pull quote from Harry Enfield that says "If you are male, you should read [this] and then make your partner read it, so they will no longer hate you but pity you instead". I cannot express how much this book does not make you pity the type of man Rob Fleming, the protagonist, is. Every page had me screaming I HATE HIM. Nick Hornby has crafted possibly one of the most unlikable male characters in the history of literature. Before beam_me_up_softboi, before 500 Days of Summer, before Garden State, there is the first 50 pages of High Fidelity where Rob says his favourite song is Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me by The Smiths and whines about how he is doomed to be rejected by the greatest loves of his life. Rob isn't even an abusive evil villain like Hannibal Lecter or Patrick Bateman; he votes Labour, reads The Guardian and claims to be sympathetic to the feminist cause (emphasis on 'claims'). Rob is just your average, mediocre shitty man: he is selfish, egocentric, emotionally immature, jealous, the whole deal. Many women and girls (including myself) have had to deal with this type of fella: the one who presents himself as an alternative to the usual aggressive macho type because he is oh so sensitive and defines himself by his taste in pop culture and just needs a perfect angel/mother/sex goddess (all in one) to fix his problems and give his life meaning. Thankfully Hornby is aware of exactly what breed of asshole Rob is, and the reader can take great glee in the times the women in his life call him out on his shitty behaviour.  As a self-confessed music snob I did chuckle at the various music references scattered throughout, but it did get a little tiring to see Rob constantly pat himself on the back for his supposedly obscure and superior taste as if his favourite band wasn't literally The Beatles. The pace is fast and Rob's voice is both infuriating and funny so this book is good for a fast easy read. Rob's view on love can be explained by Mitski's devastating lines in 'Last Words Of A Shooting Star': You learned from movies how love ought to be/ And you'd say you love me and look in my eyes/ but I know you were looking at yours

First off everyone is ridiculous for complaining that the protagonist is too self-centered for their liking; if you don't like self-centered characters then I suggest you avoid books written in first person from the viewpoint of a 21 year old American girl. Sally Jay is selfish, yes, but she's also charming, funny and likable. Dundy captures her voice like lightning in a bottle as we breathlessly and eagerly follow Sally Jay around 1950s Paris while she gets into mishaps and scandals as easily as downing a cocktail. I most enjoyed her misadventures in the first half of the novel, where she throws herself into the bohemian/intellectual cafe culture with glee. Most flaneuse narratives seem to focus on the danger of a woman wandering a city alone; this novel is more about highlighting the excitement and opportunity that a city can promise, although there are multiple dangers (typically in the form of predatory men). An outside perspective would highlight Sally Jay's vulnerabilty and every situation or interaction would be tinged with the danger of her precarious situation, but when we are placed into her oblivious perspective we gain empathy rather than sympathy and learn her lessons about life and people at the same time as her. Her observations of the various wild characters of Paris are the most entertaining aspects to me: Dunday captures the smoky jazz atmospheres of1950s cafes wonderfully. I lost interest in the narrative when it moved away from the hustle and bustle of the city and to the secluded countryside, but my attachment to and investment in Sally Jay kept me going through to the rewarding revelations at the end. I hope this book gains more recognition as it's a shame it hasn't been adapted into a film or series before! 

I normally find a lot of popular 'feminist' books very off-putting, not because they are challenging but the opposite. Most that get buzz in the media are typically written by liberal, privileged women who are well-meaning but limited,with a focus on individualistic 'girl boss' messages that are useless in their vision beyond the praxis of self-help. Thankfully, Lola Olufemi is a scathing critic of those type of books. In Feminism, Interrupted, Olufemi approaches feminism from a collective viewpoint, highlighting how feminism intersects with racism, classism, environmentalism etc. Supported with evidence of successful activist attempts from the past and present, this book discusses multiple topics such as sex work, transphobia and the refugee crisis and dissects them to demonstrate how oppressive systems are controlling and marginalising women across the world. Political systems infiltrate every aspect of the every day; resisting these systems is a must. Olufemi writes in a clear and concise style that is accessible and understandable.