jayisreading's reviews
517 reviews

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. 

I have to admit that I ended up increasingly frustrated with this book as it continued and finished with very mixed opinions about it. There were shining moments that really shone, such as the way Hedva demonstrated how mutual aid and collective care should look like (especially in the capitalist society we’re living in), or when they discussed what disability justice through an intersectional lens looked like. I particularly appreciated the deliberate attention they gave to class, which I do think is a category that isn’t as talked about despite the significant impact it has on our lives. With that said, I do think that what Hedva discussed in this book may be repetitive for those who have some background in disability activism. For those who don’t have that knowledge, though, this book does a great job facing the frustrating complexities of ableism and sanism. One thing that didn’t quite work for me was that Hedva kept introducing a lot of concepts, repeatedly doing their best to connect it to disability and ableism. While I appreciated that they wanted to show how everything was interconnected, I felt that they were trying to squeeze too much content into the book that it started to erode the main points.

Stylistically and structurally, I felt this was where the book really suffered. While this wasn’t an issue for me, I can see how this book may be a bit off-putting for some readers due to Hedva’s tendency to write in a more academic style. Yet, at the same time, they sprinkled in slang and other colloquialisms in a way that made it difficult to determine who they wanted their audience to be. It was difficult to figure out the tone of the book, as a result, to the point that it made it difficult to immerse myself on multiple occasions, and I couldn’t help but feel that this mixing of formal and informal language didn’t work. Relatedly, I’ve noticed an increase in books that would be part-essay collection, part-memoir, including Hedva’s book. Unfortunately, the way they decided to approach the essay/memoir combo didn’t work for me at all, and I found the second half of the book to be a bit of a slog. I think part of the reason this didn’t work is because of the difficulty in pinpointing the tone/audience. Lastly on this subject, this is more a matter of personal taste than anything, but another reason why I struggled through the second half of the book was because I admittedly felt that the writing got really cringey at times. For example, I’m all for kink inclusivity and sex positivity, but the way Hedva delivered this just wasn’t it. There were a few other instances that made me raise my eyebrows, not because I was scandalized but more because I couldn’t quite pinpoint why it bugged me that Hedva decided to frame certain moments or conversations the way they did.

Again, I appreciate what Hedva brings to the conversation around ableism and disability, and I think there were some shining moments in this book. Unfortunately, I found how the rest of the essay collection/memoir was delivered really frustrating and cumbersome. I’m rather disappointed that this book didn’t work for me.

This was a pretty diverse but mixed bag of essays and SFF short stories entirely by women and nonbinary authors and translators with ties to China, either being from the country or as a member of the diaspora. I really appreciate that this collection exists and commend the editors for taking great care in curating the essays and stories in this book. It was fun to explore a different mode of SFF storytelling—specifically that they don’t follow Western conventions—though it did take getting used to. A lot of the way these stories were told was new territory for me as a non-Chinese reader, since the authors (not surprisingly) drew heavily from their culture, traditions, and history to craft their respective stories.

Unfortunately, for a book with nearly twenty short stories, I only enjoyed about a quarter of them. I think the main issue I ran into with the stories I didn’t enjoy as much was that I didn’t fully understand what was happening due to missing contextual information. That being said, and as Kaung aptly pointed out in her essay on translation, it’s incredibly tricky for translators to figure out just how much explaining needs to be done for readers unfamiliar with the culture/history, a lot of it being rather political. Translation aside, though, I did find some stories could have been more developed, as a few lacked substance (to me, at least).

Perhaps it’s the academic in me, but I found the essays incredibly insightful and a lot more interesting. It definitely helped fill in the blanks for some stories, too, but I just appreciated learning about the Chinese literary landscape and the state of translating from Chinese. Of the essays, I have to say the one that really stood out to me was “Net Novels and the ‘She Era’” by Xueting Christine Ni, who wrote in great detail about internet novels (e.g., dānměi) and their female readers and writers.

Overall, the intention behind this collection was one I really appreciated. Even if I didn’t end up enjoying most of it, I still think it’s worth picking up this book to read some of the stories and essays offered.

Some favorites: “The Futures of Genders in Chinese Science Fiction” by Jing Tsu (essay), “A Saccharophilic Earthworm” by BaiFanRuShuang (tr. Ru-Ping Chen), “The Way Spring Arrives” by Wang Nuonuo (tr. Rebecca F. Kuang), “New Year Painting, Ink and Color on Rice Paper, Zhaoqiao Village” by Chen Qian (tr. Emily Xeuni Jin), “The Woman Carrying a Corpse” by Chi Hui (tr. Judith Huang), “Net Novels and the ‘She Era’: How Internet Novels Opened the Door for Female Readers and Writers in China” by Xueting Christine Ni (essay), and “Writing and Translation: A Hundred Technical Tricks” by Rebecca F. Kuang (essay)