jayisreading's reviews
541 reviews

I’ve been trying to collect my thoughts on Julia Lee’s memoir, and I think the first place I can start is that I did like this more than Cathy Park Hong’s Minor Feelings. I appreciated the more personal nature of Lee’s memoir, as well as the more-than-justified anger that permeated throughout. I think Lee telling her story and how she navigated various spaces was meaningful in contextualizing how she’s approaching her Asian American—specifically Korean American—identity. In addition, I especially liked the framing of thinking about Asian Americans’ place in racial discourse not as neither/nor but, rather, as both/and. I think it helped address the nuances of that in-between space that Asian Americans find themselves in when race is brought up in conversation.

Unfortunately, like Minor Feelings, Biting the Hand also ran into similar issues where the author occasionally conflated her lived experiences with other Asian Americans’ lived experiences. I don’t mean to turn this into a compare/contrast review, but I do think Lee did a relatively better job at recognizing the awkwardness of “Asian American” as a label, with how it tends to homogenize and oversimplify an enormous and diverse population. I also think the conflating didn’t happen nearly as much as it did in Minor Feelings, especially because Lee was a bit more intentional about this memoir being her story than anything. With that said, I think if she had explicitly stated at the start her positionality and how she’s approaching “Asian American,” the memoir would have really come together better. (A related side note, but I strongly feel that East Asian Americans especially need to be more cognizant of their tendencies to conflate their experiences with non-East Asian Americans and be very intentional about sharing how they’re understanding “Asian American” as a label.)

Ultimately, I didn’t hate this memoir and really appreciated the insights Lee brought, but I also didn’t quite love it as much as others seem to have. I found myself wanting a little more from what was discussed (though, what, exactly, I’m still not sure). I’ll be thinking about this book for a bit, either way.

It's on me for trying to understand the hype despite not liking Rooney's novels. I (kind of) tried.

In Opacities, Samatar explored this question by weaving together the many encounters and experiences she had in other writers’ words. As she wrote in her note, the “layering of voices” that occurs throughout this book was her way of answering the question above. It was so interesting to see how she engaged with other writers by pulling quotes left and right from a diverse collection of works. Sometimes she wrote in agreement, and other times, she wrote to challenge the words she quoted. Many times, she expanded on these quotes to add her own musings on why one becomes a writer, why one writes at all.

I wouldn’t quite describe Opacities to be a “guide” to become a better writer, nor is it exactly a book that will provide insight into the writing process. If anything, it’s a series of reflections on everything that made Samatar the writer she is today, particularly the influences of other writers and their thinking. And, at the end of the day, I found Opacities to be a great exercise in thinking critically about one’s own engagement with writing and reading (because the two are inextricably tied).

I did find myself wanting a stronger foundation from these “essays” (it’d be more accurate to describe them as collages and vignettes, I feel), as the book sometimes felt like it wandered a little too much to the point that it seemed aimless. Aside from this, though, Samatar really inspired me to reflect more on how I’m engaging with what I write and read.

Savaş’s newest novel is an interesting one that draws from her anthropological background, focusing on Asya and her partner, Manu, and their lives in an unnamed city that is very likely in Western Europe (I got strong Amsterdam vibes, even though it’s more likely that Savaş based the city on Paris). The novel follows the couple’s deep desire to become a part of the city, to eventually become natives and shed their foreigner statuses; ultimately, they are looking to turn the unfamiliar into the familiar.

The Anthropologists was lyrically written and strongly reminded me of a literary version of the cinéma vérité style frequently associated with New Wave films; this is rather apt, considering that Asya is a filmmaker working on documentaries that focus on everyday life. The novel also focuses on Asya’s ruminations on her relationships with others (along with relationships in general), as well as how society functions and her place in it, all of which is then structured in close-up episodes (of sorts) to unfold other life musings through the banal.

Initially, I was pretty charmed by the novel’s premise and how Savaş decided to explore everyday life through an anthropological perspective (even if informal) that had this cinéma vérité style. However, as the novel progressed, I found that it lacked the je ne sais quoi so often found in New Wave films, mainly because I felt that the observations being made lacked depth. I especially wanted more development from Asya’s relationships outside of Manu, which would have been a really rich addition that would have really helped make the anthropological narrative all the more convincing.

Overall, I didn’t hate the novel by any means, but I definitely wanted more from it. I’m still eager to read more of Savaş’s future works though, since I do find her writing style distinct.

With dreamlike prose, the highly anticipated English translation of another one of Han Kang’s novels left me in a daze. The plot moved slowly and felt surreal as it shifted from dream sequences to flashbacks to the past. I wouldn’t go so far as to slap the magical realism label to this novel, but there was something about the way Han crafted her story that left the reader hanging between the real and unreal. We Do Not Part was quiet and devastating, but in a way that differed from the haunting quietude that Human Acts had. Much like Human Acts, memory and remembrance played important roles to reflect on South Korea’s tumultuous history during the twentieth century (with a particular focus on the Jeju Island massacre in 1948 for We Do Not Part). Furthermore, Han accentuated this tragedy with one of the characters’ own trauma and memory with it. However, I felt this novel was missing something, perhaps the fact that the characters and the story felt more distant to me, lost in the heavy snow that remained ever-present throughout.

With that said, something about the way this novel was crafted made me realize that I need to revisit it after reading more of Han’s works. I’ve only read The Vegetarian and Human Acts (at the time of writing this review), but I get the impression that she pulled themes and imagery from her other novels for We Do Not Part as a culmination (of sorts) of her commentary on the complexities of being human and the histories we’re inextricably tied to.

I get the sense that I may have missed some symbolism while reading (which is entirely my fault for not reading it consistently), so, again, I’ll have to revisit this novel and see what more I can get out of it.

This was a lovely debut collection of poems, with Lau exploring her intersecting identities (ranging from being queer to being a first-generation immigrant), many of which tied to the sense of isolation she has felt. I was especially taken to how Lau shared her grief when she reflected on the sacrifices her family made when they immigrated to Canada juxtaposed to the rejection she faced from her family due to her queerness. It’s not to say that other queer poets of the Asian diaspora haven’t written about this, but there was a particular frankness in dealing with grief in Lau’s poems that stood out to me, perhaps because she explicitly acknowledged the influence of trauma from religion in all of this.

I will say that I didn’t think there was anything remarkable about the form or language of the poems, nor did I feel that this collection came together as well as it could have. Some poems felt slightly out-of-place and/or lacked emotional impact for me, but it could very well be a me thing.

Some favorites: “Going Home,” “In the Name of Love,” “Letter to Longing,” “My Grief Is a Winter,” “Ginseng, Winter Melon, Lotus Root,” “The Look of Love, as Seen by Eve Polastri,” “Solidarity,” and “Remedy”

This book will not be for everyone, especially due to the plot and subject matter, but I personally enjoyed it due to my familiarity with what Onda was writing about. The story is about a two-week long piano competition in Japan and follows the perspectives of four pianists involved in said competition. And… that’s pretty much it, haha. It’s not the most exciting plot, but for those familiar with Western classical music, I think there’s a lot to get out of it. I thought Onda did a great job describing the politics and high stakes of this particular world. Furthermore, her descriptions of what the pieces sounded like to the pianists (and, by some extension, her) were really distinct and lovely to read. It’s well worth listening to the pieces that were performed in this novel as you’re reading for an even more immersive experience.

I think what really stood out to me about this novel was how character-driven it was. It was a pleasant surprise to see that the four pianists were so supportive of each other, that they all cared so much about music and playing piano— There was something especially endearing about one of the pianists, Jin Kazuma, who was seen as an absolute wild card in the competition (and with good reason), but I thought Onda did a wonderful job showcasing the passion and brilliance that pianists can have.

One gripe I have with the novel is one that I think your average reader wouldn’t think very much about, but I’m not at all a fan of the phrase “music is a universal language,” which was a message that was frequently pushed forward throughout the novel. Music is universal the same way language is, but like languages, music traditions in each culture have their own rules and systems that won’t be easily translatable. Relatedly, I take issue with elevating Western classical music as the definition for music’s universality (i.e., we run into issues of Eurocentrism, elitism, etc.). This is me getting really nitpicky, though, especially as someone who has extensively studied music and its academic discourses.

Aside from that one complaint, I did enjoy this novel quite a bit. The pacing was a little slow, but I think this was necessary in order to fully appreciate what essentially was a love letter to the piano from the author.

I remember feeling a little confused but mostly amused by Beckett’s two-act play when I first read it in my late teens. I’m not sure what prompted me to reread this play more than a decade later, but I still found this tragicomedy just as appealing as I did in the past, perhaps even more now. Waiting for Godot is absolutely a play that is meant to be seen performed rather than simply reading it, especially considering how little seems to happen. So much goes into the way the actors carry themselves on stage as they spiral over the meaninglessness and absurdities of life, as well as the Sisyphian-like suffering of it all as we wait… for what (or who), exactly, no one really knows.

The impact that the Second World War had on so many writers’ works is probably incalculable, with Beckett being one of them. The existential nature of everything—especially after living through and surviving a hellish war—became all the more palpable, which I felt was captured phenomenally in this play.

I have a soft spot for Waiting for Godot, especially after having seen the play performed by two world-renowned actors as Vladimir and Estragon. Perhaps ironically, I also find this play to be a meaningful one because of its focus on the meaninglessness of everything. I really do think it’s well worth the time to watch a performance of it (or even listening to an audiobook) as opposed to reading the text alone. 

Taking place across time and from different perspectives, these short stories primarily focus on two siblings, Aiden and Ally Pinto, who are Indian Canadian children whose family comes from Goa. This was such an interesting book to read, especially to see how the stories all linked to each other as the siblings made sense of two cultures while living in a predominantly white neighborhood. I can’t quite place my finger on what made Mascarenhas’s storytelling different from other diaspora stories, but there was something refreshing about his approach to the immigrant narrative that I really appreciated. Like any short story collection, I found some more compelling than others, but overall, I found that this to be an engaging and endearing read. 

This was a beautiful collection of poems that was simply teeming with life and humanness, with Farrokhzad freely exploring universally known themes ranging from love to grief. When it came to her love poems, I really enjoyed the intense sensuality in unabashedly expressing her desire, especially as a woman. When it came to topics related to grief, it was multilayered for Farrokhzad, as she looked within and outside herself to reflect on loss and longing. I think what struck me about her poems was that she wrote about such well-known (and arguably overused) themes while still painting unique pictures.

Regarding the translation of these selected poems, I appreciated the notes that Gray left in the back of the book to provide further context for certain cultural and linguistic concepts, so as not to make the translation too cumbersome. The biography provided at the start of the collection was also enormously helpful, since I knew next to nothing about Farrokhzad. Since I don’t know any Farsi, I have absolutely no idea if Gray successfully captured the essence of Farrokhzad’s words or not, but I found the English translation pretty compelling. I can only imagine how much more beautiful it is in the original language.