jayisreading's reviews
515 reviews

I won’t lie, I struggled a bit through this one. I think a large part of it was because of how the novel was formatted digitally that I had some trouble following what was happening. It also didn’t help that there were no clear breaks given that I never really knew where would be a good place to pause (and this may not have been an issue in a physical copy).

Putting aside the above issues, though, I found it interesting that Lemebel told two rather contrasting stories in one novel. The first being from the perspective of the Queen of the Corner, who falls in love with a younger man, Carlos, as well as her reminiscences of cruising and finding herself. The second narrative is from Augusto Pinochet, the military dictator of Chile from 1973 to 1990, primarily going on about his day-to-day life (all the while expressing annoyance with his wife). The stories don’t quite intertwine in the way one would expect, but we see how two very different individuals grapple with the forces of politics shaping their personal lives. One is… well… a dictator doing a lot of that shaping; the other very much wishes to not deal with politics but is caught in its web anyway, in part because of her relationship with Carlos. However, we see in the Queen’s narrative that politics is inevitably going to interfere in everyone’s lives, especially for those who are marginalized. Furthermore, Lemebel presents a poignant examination of masculinity and patriarchy through his two protagonists.

Something else that I found interesting was how the Queen’s gender identity was approached. I’m not sure how Lemebel had this presented in the original Spanish, but I thought it was interesting that the Queen very much perceives herself as a woman and uses she/her pronouns, yet others around her saw and treated her as a gay man and used he/him pronouns. One would think the Queen is being misgendered here, except that she seemed relatively unbothered by this. I do think there’s something being said here about the fluidity of gender, but I also would be curious to know if this was also the case in the original text.

Overall, this was a poignant read. I’d like to revisit this novel (this time, reading a physical copy) and see if I can pick up any details I most likely missed (especially considering my limited knowledge of Chilean history). Fair warning to anyone interested in picking this novel up, homophobia—particularly the use of slurs—is rampant in this one.

I’d like to return to this short story collection in the future, especially because I felt that I wasn’t in the right headspace to fully appreciate every story and the touches of magic realism across the pages. I really appreciated the deeply personal look into Haitians’ lives, with some characters in Haiti while others were part of the diaspora, and I thought that Lamy did a wonderful job delivering emotional depth in her exploration of various focuses ranging from interpersonal relationships to one’s identity and sense of belonging. The magic realism elements made it that there was a (very slight) challenge for the reader to stretch their imagination a bit to fully immerse themself into the microcosms crafted by Lamy. Additionally, I felt that there were hints of absurdist humor scattered here and there, though there were certainly some more serious (even unsettling) stories.

Like many other short story collections, some worked for me better than others. While I struggled a bit to stay focused on each story (again, this was just an issue of not being in the right headspace), I can see the promise in Lamy’s storytelling, and I’d love to see what she has planned next for her readers.

I didn’t find this novel particularly memorable, but I didn’t think it was a mediocre read either. Looking into the life of one of the most well-known female pirates in history, Shek Yeung (which I discovered was a name variant of Ching Shih), Chang-Eppig delivers a somewhat tepid story that lacked a lot of excitement a reader might expect from a novel about pirates. It wasn’t to say that the novel was completely devoid of action, but I found that it didn’t meet my expectations for something especially adventurous, as the blurb led me on to believe. I did find it interesting that Chang-Eppig had Shek Yeung contend with the struggles and wonders of womanhood and femininity, especially how she gestured toward the heavy influences of Confucianism in shaping the pirate’s understanding of her unique position. However, I think Chang-Eppig’s desire to draw out these ideas in detail affected the overall plot and pacing.

I think there’s something in this novel that will appeal to some readers, but it didn’t quite do enough for me.

A bit of a short rambling for this poetry collection, mainly because I’m not entirely sure how to describe it, other than that it’s worth picking up to explore the wonders of Lauren-Abunassar’s poems. There’s a clear flow and steady pulse that carries the reader from one poem to the next. I guess in a way, it makes sense that the title of this collection would borrow from the Coriolis effect, which (to my understanding) is the way moving objects and weather patterns are deflected relative to the earth’s rotating surface. There’s a way that these poems move and make patterns that I found riveting.

Some favorites: “Something I Wrote Down,” “Aphantasia,” “Field Guide as Sonnet,” “Where Have You Gone, Connie Converse,” “Courage the Cowardly Dog Goes Off on a Tangent,” “Anything with Skin,” and “Cryptid Poem // Victim Impact Statement”

I think this is one of those novels that will work for a very specific audience that I'm not a part of; I'm thinking of those who just graduated university feeling some anxiety about where life will go.

This isn’t my first time reading Alyan’s writings, and I think it’s safe to say that I prefer her prose over poetry. The poems in this collection didn’t really work for me, and I think it’s mainly a result of feeling disconnected from what I thought was a key theme: pregnancy and miscarriage. It’s a particular emotional weight that I won’t understand, which might be why I struggled. While I was sympathetic to Alyan’s grief that she carried while writing these poems, I didn’t find them nearly as poignant as other readers seem to have. I know this is a me problem, though, and it’s by no means the poems themselves having major issues.

I did find that I was more engaged with the poems that followed the themes of being part of the diaspora, as well as what it means to belong and be displaced. I felt that these poems appeared less frequently or perhaps were too quiet in delivery, which disappointed me a little, considering that the blurb leaned into these themes being central to the book. As a result, I felt that this collection was somewhat unbalanced.

Ultimately, I think I wasn’t the intended audience for this collection, which is fine; I’m still grateful to have read Alyan’s words. I’m definitely missing the key that connects all these themes together though, which would explain why these poems are residing together in the same collection.

Reading Bite by Bite was like receiving a warm embrace from Nezhukumatathil. Each essay is precisely what the title suggests: bite-sized. While the essays are rather short, it is rich in language and content. I love Nezhukumatathil’s poetry, and the beautiful lyricism found in her poems carried over to this collection. In addition, I really enjoyed how she wove together personal stories and the historical (which is deeply sociopolitical) by using a different food for each essay as the jumping point. Furthermore, she gave enough space for the reader to reflect alongside her on how we think about and experience this complicated yet beautiful world that we live in. The cherry on top (and forgive me for using a food-related idiom) has to be the beautiful illustrations by Fumi Nakamura for each chapter.

Overall, a heartwarming essay collection that will undoubtedly strike a chord for food and nature lovers. (If you’re also a fan of Ross Gay’s writings, this is well worth picking up.)

While this is a beautiful debut collection, I admit that I found Theophanies rather difficult to read. This is not the fault of Ali by any means and is more of a me problem, specifically that I didn’t understand a lot of the religious and cultural references. This did impact my overall enjoyment to some extent, though I learned a fair bit as I reflected alongside the poet.

My understanding is that Ali was following the ghazal form for a handful of these poems, which is often found in Arab and Central Asian poetry. Perhaps more importantly, though, are the recurring themes in this collection. From what I was able to gather, she took particular interest in a modern exploration of womanhood in relation to faith and spirituality (gesturing especially toward the Quran and the Bible). I was really taken to Ali’s command of language, even if I didn’t fully follow what she was referencing.

I think these poems will really resonate with those who are deeply familiar with the Quran and/or the Bible. I have no doubt that this is a richly layered collection that will be greatly appreciated by those who will understand the references.

I gave Deborah Smith some flak for her translation of The Vegetarian, and I admit that I entered Human Acts with some wariness (I mean, it didn’t help that the title alone is already a departure from the original title, which translates to The Boy Is Coming). However, unlike The Vegetarian, I found myself drawn into the quiet prose and translation of Human Acts. Perhaps it’s a result of how Kang decided to write the novel that it influenced Smith’s translation, but the writing felt more deliberate in getting the reader to slow down and think about the grief of each narrator across these chapters. As opposed to focusing on the Gwangju Uprising itself, Kang draws attention to the lasting grief and trauma of each narrator. In some ways, I have to admit that I think I actually prefer the title Smith decided to run with: Human Acts. Because, at its core, the novel reflects on the nature of humans and their actions, both violent and vulnerable.

I think some readers may find the different writing styles for each chapter a little off-putting (especially when it enters the second-person perspective), but I found it very effective in establishing the distinct voices of each narrator and how they were processing the shared connection they had across time. It was especially poignant to me that the novel ended with Kang herself as the narrator, who is from Gwangju.

This is definitely a novel I’d like to revisit in the future, perhaps in the original Korean, because I’m sure I will have missed some details. Overall, though, I found that this novel was utterly evocative and, at the time of reading this, timely, considering the ongoing protests and state violence that some protesters have faced.

Khanna presented a beautiful reimagining of the lives of Hindu goddesses in this poetry collection, centering the goddesses Sita and Parvati in particular. My knowledge of Hindu deities is quite limited, so I admit that it was a little harder for me to fully appreciate these poems. Despite this, I still got a fair bit out of them, and I enjoyed the feminist lens that challenged what was expected from women through these goddesses. On this note, I really liked the coalescence of the divine and ordinary through the feminine. Furthermore, Khanna explored the tensions of upholding tradition versus breaking free from them, taking care to contemplate what happened to those who chose to defy expectations.

Again, I think this collection was a bit harder to get into because of my unfamiliarity with Hinduism, but I still enjoyed a handful of poems and found them thought-provoking and interesting.

Some favorites: “Fable,” “Goddess in the Dark,” “The Goddess Calls a Truce,” “Creation Myth” poems, and “Destruction Myth” poems