jayisreading's reviews
529 reviews

I know I didn't make it too far into the novel, but I'm really struggling with the very clunky translation.

This is such a bold collection of interconnected short stories that will give the reader a lot to think about. For each story, de la Cerda managed to create really engaging characters that continue to develop whenever they appear in other short stories. I think something that struck me about this collection was a particular kind of kinship grounded in the feminine that existed between the protagonists of each story. Furthermore, it was refreshing to get harsher and different depictions of female characters (even if their voices sometimes blended a bit, in my opinion) without there being much negativity around the messiness that comes with being rough around the edges. I think the reason this worked as well as it did was due to the writing style, which had a very casual—even crude—approach that frequently gave the impression that the reader was “in the know” of the narrator’s life and proclivities.

I really appreciated that de la Cerda was so deliberate about focusing on the lived experiences of girls and women in México, particularly the brutal violence they might face, regardless of their position in society. To me, it felt as though the stories were steadily building up to the final one, which really drove the point home about the serious issues of femicide and violence against women in the country. De la Cerda never shied away from depicting the violence these characters faced, ultimately, leaving a devastating impact that might be a lot for some readers.

One thing I was a little ambivalent about was that a few of the characters in these stories were minors. On the one hand, I did find it uncomfortable that they were put in such horrific situations as teenagers, along with the way they were being sexualized by men in particular. Yet, on the other hand, this did get de la Cerda’s point across that these experiences affect girls and women equally, that it should unsettle and cause significant discomfort. I also would have loved deeper commentary about transmisogyny, which she gestured at but I felt was a little underdeveloped compared to other issues brought to the table.

A meditative collection of poems written more in the style of vignettes than anything, Adnan focuses on the vastness of the universe and the daunting nature of time, bringing great knowledge and wisdom to these topics as someone who saw and experienced much of the world for decades. Shifting the Silence is a dense book to get through, but this shouldn’t come as a total surprise, considering that it was written by a woman in her nineties deeply reflecting on existential themes. It really did feel as though I was gaining wisdom of some kind as I was reading these vignettes, and I appreciated the frankness in Adnan’s discussions on mortality, which undoubtedly is something that weighs heavily on the minds of many elderly people. There is also a stream-of-consciousness approach in this collection that sometimes makes it difficult to parse out what exactly Adnan is thinking about, but I also read this as almost deliberate, that this was, ultimately, written for herself, with the readers being given privilege to peer into her personal musings.

Garlic and the Vampire is a heartwarming graphic novel that follows the story of a young and anxious protagonist named Garlic who lives with fellow vegetable folk and Witch Agnes. However, when the garden discovers a supposedly evil vampire recently moved into a castle not far from where they live, Garlic ends up being asked to confront him, because… well, she’s entirely made of garlic. She reluctantly agrees to face the vampire, though it’s not without feeling immense self-doubt.

Paulsen did such a wonderful job presenting what it means to deal with anxiety in such a gentle way. Garlic was never depicted as weak for feeling reluctance due to a lack of self-confidence, plus she was surrounded by a wonderful support system (particularly Carrot). I really appreciated that Paulsen depicted to the reader that facing your anxiety head-on can also lead to something wonderful, showing that your efforts won’t be for naught.

I’m most definitely not the target audience, considering that this is a middle grade graphic novel, and it didn’t appeal to me the way it might to someone from a younger demographic. I still found this graphic novel incredibly charming, though, and if you’re looking for a quick and lighthearted read, it’s worth picking up this book.

It’s hard to describe this book as “just” a poetry collection, because it’s more than that— It’s an interesting blend of fragmented poems, prose (both creative and more academic), and photos to reflect on Palestinian liberation. I did feel that Abuaker’s experimental approach worked in some places, while at other times, it didn’t come together as well for me.

I think the most compelling piece in this work was “Suture Fragmentations — a note on return.” I will say that it definitely leans heavily toward the academic, which is pretty much solidified by Abuaker being in close dialogue with scholarly work, particularly Sara Ahmed’s Queer Phenomenology. It was not only the way she engaged with the idea of return and (re)orientation that I found fascinating, but also the way she played with form throughout this piece to reflect on the devastating impact of settler colonialism for Palestinians.

Why So Few Women on the Street at Night definitely asks for more of your attention and ability to focus on what Abuaker is saying due to its density. And while I didn’t particularly love everything in this collection, my takeaway is still the case that this is an incredibly thought-provoking work of art. 

There isn't anything wrong with this book (from what little I've read), but there wasn't anything particularly new to me, so I didn't feel it was worth finishing. I will say that I really appreciated the author's notes at the start, and it read to me as him being earnest in trying his best to be mindful about the use of certain words, his own shortcomings, etc.

I don’t know if it was because I wasn’t in the headspace for a plot that calls for the reader to do some serious thinking, but I had trouble getting into this novel. I found that Mengestu wrote in an incredibly oblique fashion that made it difficult to follow what exactly was happening, which I think was further accentuated by the fact that the narrator isn’t particularly reliable (or, at the very least, has very limited insight). I think what also didn’t help was that the story abruptly shifted between the past and present without there being much of an idea that something changed until you’re a few paragraphs into the chapter.

That being said, I really appreciated that Mengestu contributed a very distinct perspective of an Ethiopian immigrant family and community in the United States, which I don’t feel is one that is often seen in diasporic literature. There are quiet resonances of what Mengestu wrote about that would touch other diasporic communities, such as the cultural divide between immigrants and their children. And while I did struggle with his incredibly subtle storytelling and the nonlinear approach, I will say that they served their purpose to explore what it means to look to the past and reflect on the blurring of truth and memory.

Note: I received a finished copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

Strange Pictures was such a unique and fascinating read. I’m not a huge fan of mystery novels, in part because I either find them too predictable or annoyed with the pacing/approach to letting the mystery unfold. However, I really liked how Uketsu pretty much drew the reader in and got them involved in trying to solve the mystery behind the meaning of an eerie illustration found in each chapter, then to find the thread that connected them all. I thought the way he approached the mysteriousness of the situation through drawings was particularly unique, especially the impact each left at the end of the chapter. It was especially satisfying to see how the pieces clicked together as the story progressed, along with feeling that uneasiness that came with each reveal.

I will say that I personally found the translation a bit stilted (though I don’t have any idea if this is simply Uketsu’s writing style or not), but it didn’t take away from the overall reading experience in the end.

I think the concept that Joudah had in this collection was a really interesting one, particularly how he married the medical and its technicalities with the literary and its emotionality. Unfortunately, I found myself a bit lost most of the time while reading these poems, not necessarily because Joudah wasn’t clear, so much as it was that I didn’t understand most of the medical terminology he was using to describe particular ideas and experiences. I did find that it was harder to enjoy and appreciate these poems, as a result, but I’d be curious to read Joudah’s other poems, particularly his most recent collection (at the time of writing this), […]. 

This is such an empathetic and deeply nuanced collection of epistles from Victoria Chang. It comes as no surprise that this book is full of lyricism, considering that she’s a poet with such incredible command of language. It’s a bit difficult to describe what it’s like to read this book, mainly because I think it will be different for each reader and their lived experiences. For me, I was really moved by how Chang’s letters reflected on the meaning of memories, especially the ones that are lost and found within immigrant families. From these memories, she takes notice of the silences that build up over time and space, what was left unsaid and attempted to be said. And, from these silences, she notices the grief that lives alongside memory.

This book is so rich in content not only due to the deeply personal letters written by Chang, but also the archive that she carefully interspersed throughout (e.g., photos and government paperwork). These all construct a stunning and complex approach to memory, belonging, silence, language, among other themes as a Chinese American woman reflecting on her familial relations. Another thing that strikes me as poignant is how Chang invites the reader to reflect alongside her, to be a part of the conversation of how one thinks about these themes, which she makes explicit in her final epistle, which is “sent” to the reader.

I found myself taking time reading Dear Memory, wanting to treasure every letter as well as respect Chang’s thoughts. So much love went into this book, and I truly appreciate her for sharing such personal aspects of her life to the world.