jayisreading's reviews
517 reviews

On the surface, this novel is heartwarming and charming, following the (relatively romanticized) calm and gentle rhythms of the day-to-day happenings at an independent bookshop in a fictional neighborhood of Seoul. However, what I found particularly striking about this novel was its anti-capitalist undertones. It especially comes as a surprise, given the hellish work–life balance and capitalism’s relentless presence in South Korea. As Hwang aptly points out a few times in the novel, life really is a bit of a rat race.

Hwang’s novel is one that pushes back against this culture. She asks the readers to slow down, to take a moment to breathe, to question where we’re placing our values and why so much of it is career- and success-oriented. The protagonist, Yeongju, does a lot of meandering through life as she tries to figure out the purpose of her bookshop and the end goal. Along the way, we see these answers slowly appear in her interactions with other characters in the novel, all of whom are also trying to find their purpose and end goals, especially in a fast-paced society driven by capitalist ideologies.

For me, what I found particularly comforting about this novel wasn’t so much the bookshop vibes, but, rather, the quiet call to take a moment to rest and not get caught up racing to the top. (In a way, an analogy was made with selling and reading bestsellers.) I think of Tricia Hersey’s Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto, in which she wrote: “Rest is radical because it disrupts the lie that we are not doing enough. It shouts: ‘No, that is a lie. I am enough. I am worthy now and always because I am here.’” While the characters aren’t necessarily in a state of complete rest, the slower, wandering pace gives the reader a moment to pause and reflect.

If you’re looking for a plot-driven novel, you won’t find it here. If you’re looking for strong character development, it’s… kind of there. More than anything, I found that this novel was something of an intervention to propose an escape—even if temporary—from the rat race, which Hwang manifests through her characters’ interactions and musings. I didn’t find the novel particularly revolutionary in its message and, admittedly, even found the directionlessness a bit maddening at times, but I think I picked it up at the right time to be reminded to revisit my values. I also have one really nitpicky thing that might not bother everyone, but I was terribly annoyed by the inconsistencies in romanizing Korean words/names. It was hard to tell how to accurately pronounce them without hearing or seeing the original.

This was a fun read and follows a young Palestinian woman on her adventures primarily around the SWANA region. There was something almost fantastical about the way the story unfolded, perhaps because it was following a similar storytelling pattern as many folktales. It also seemed like Nimr wanted the reader to take something more out of this novel than all the adventures her protagonist goes on.

It was nice following such a witty and resilient Palestinian protagonist, Qamar, who really did what she could to make the most of her situation. I was also reminded of the dual nature of humans, who are capable of doing kind but also terrible things, as the reader discovers from Qamar’s journey. I did feel that the pacing of the fourth and final part of the novel was a bit rough compared to the previous parts, which did make the novel’s ending a little unsatisfying.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from this novel, but overall, I was pleasantly surprised.

This is a beloved collection of ideas related to love by Roland Barthes, and it’s one that unfortunately did not resonate much with me. That being said, I think this is absolutely one of those books that will resonate at certain points in one’s life (particularly while in love), in moments when Barthes’s words read more clearly than normal. I’m just not at that point, is all.

This is also a bit of a dense read, especially if you’re unfamiliar with all the references Barthes made and/or haven’t grappled very much with his work. Some fragments went over my head, while others I was able to appreciate more or made me think, “Oh, I see what you mean.” In general, though, I quite enjoyed the way he was in dialogue with so many works and people.

I think I’ll reach a point in my life where I’ll want to revisit A Lover’s Discourse because it feels like the right time to read it again. There’s certainly a lot to contemplate, and I’d be curious what future me will think of this book when that time comes.

This novel didn’t quite work for me. I think there were a couple gems, such as the way Arafat explored her unnamed protagonist’s identity and its complexities. This isn’t just a novel about a messy bisexual who made a lot of poor choices; it’s also very much a novel about a Palestinian American who is trying to make sense of her cultural identity in relation to her sexuality. This is further complicated by the protagonist’s relationship with her mother and the tensions that come with not being “enough” while also being “too much.” I can see why Arafat felt that all of these things needed to be addressed in the novel, and I can’t really imagine it without all of these moving pieces. However, I felt that the author only scratched the surface as a result of having too much she wanted to write about, resulting in a somewhat superficial, not-fully-realized exploration of the protagonist’s understanding of the world. 

I think Arafat is a good writer, and while messy protagonists don’t always work for me, I was still compelled to follow the one she wrote. I just think the way she chose to organize this novel didn’t work for me.

Unfortunately, I'm really struggling to get into this novel.

A queer classic from Taiwan, Notes of a Crocodile is set in late 1980s Taipei, following a ragtag group of queer young adults making sense of what life throws at them. The novel follows a lesbian narrator, nicknamed Lazi, who must deal with her messy relationships, both platonic and romantic, which often is a result of people naturally being complicated. Something about the way Lazi makes sense of the world tells me that she is a bit naïve, as she does a lot of stumbling throughout the novel. It can be a bit frustrating at times, because you want so desperately for her to come to her senses that she should not be pursuing X or Y. Yet, that’s part of growing up, and it’s especially difficult when queer.

I quite liked the nonstandard format of the novel. Qiu went for a more journal approach that featured diary entries stuffed with notes, aphorisms, and whatever else struck Lazi’s fancy. It did make it a little difficult to see the overarching narrative, and I can’t help but wonder if things got lost in translation that contributed to this difficulty. However, it seemed like a deliberate move on Qiu’s part, which I think worked for the particular story she wanted to tell.

Overall, I didn’t particularly love or hate this novel. I did feel a little detached from the plot and characters, even frustrated at times, but I’m glad that I finally got around to reading Qiu’s work.

I didn’t expect this novel to be as lighthearted and humorous as it ended up being. Chilean Poet is raunchy, yes, but it’s also full of warmth and earnestness. The novel, for the most part, follows Gonzalo, an aspiring poet. He has an unexpected reunion with his first love, Carla, at a nightclub in Santiago, and rekindles a relationship (of sorts, it’s never clearly stated) with her. In addition, he ends up becoming something of a stepfather to Carla’s six-year-old son, Vincente. Ultimately, the novel follows these three individuals through life and its unexpected curveballs, especially after Gonzalo’s departure from the family to move to New York for his studies.

One thing this novel focuses on is familial love, which Zambra addresses through Gonzalo and Vincente’s relationship. It’s not quite a father–son dynamic, especially when Vincente is a young adult, but the tenderness is present in how the two understand the impact one has left on the other. Another focus of this novel is that it’s an homage of sorts to Chilean poetry, celebrating poets, famous and otherwise, for their contributions to the literary world. I’m not as familiar with Chilean poetry (other than Pablo Neruda), so a lot of this went over my head, but you can sense the enormous care and pride Zambra has as a Chilean himself.

I did feel that there were some pacing issues, but all-in-all, I enjoyed this novel enough that I want to check out Zambra’s previous novels.

Set in Communist Poland in the 1980s, I was incredibly moved by this tender and melancholic novel, which I’m pleasantly surprised to find out is Jedrowski’s first. Evoking the mood and energy of its inspiration, James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, Swimming in the Dark sinks into Ludwick’s introspective world and his love for Janusz. I found the use of first- and second-person pronouns in this novel effective in crafting an incredible intimacy that exists between Ludwick (“I”) and Janusz (“you”) that is both aware of its charged sensuality and that it’s forbidden.

In addition to this relationship between two men, Jedrowski touches on what it means to live in Communist Poland. I felt this was somewhat underdeveloped, as it was semi-explored through the differing views that Ludwick and Janusz have of their country, especially while queer. It was also in Ludwig’s relationships with other characters (e.g., Ludwick’s landlady) that the reader learns about the state of the country during this time, ranging from healthcare to strict law enforcement. I think Jedrowski could have done more to flesh out the sociopolitical setting without it derailing too much from the main focus of this novel.

Aside from this minor complaint, though, I have nothing but praise for Ludwick and Janusz, who were the driving forces. This was also a beautiful homage (of sorts) to Giovanni’s Room, which made its way into the novel in a poignant way. All-in-all, this was a stunning debut from Jedrowski, and I truly look forward to his future works.

This was a unique collection of short stories that drew primarily from Malaysian (I want to say that it’s predominantly Malaysian Chinese) culture and folklore. It took some getting used to the heavy use of what I discovered was Manglish (Malaysian English)—which has its own linguistic rules—but it added a lot of charm and nuance to the stories that featured this creole language. In addition, Cho’s storytelling is vibrant, clever, and playful, which I think really comes through in her characters (the overwhelming majority of them being girls and women) and their interactions with one another.

The particular edition I read included short stories that were not published in the original edition. Yet, I felt the flow from one story to the next worked really well, which I think reflects Cho’s interests in the kinds of stories she wants to tell. Like most other collections, I didn’t particularly find myself invested in every short story, but I will say the ones that stood out were especially remarkable. I was particularly taken to “The House of Aunts” and “If at First You Don’t Succeed, Try, Try Again.” The latter short story—which justifiably won the Hugo Award for Best Novelette back in 2019—was a bit of an anomaly in this collection, specifically drawing from Korean mythology as opposed to Malaysian.

When I found out that Hazel Jane Plante had another novel coming out last year, I was thrilled. I absolutely loved her debut novel, so I had high hopes. I admit that I didn’t love Any Other City as much as Little Blue Encyclopedia (for Vivian), though that isn’t to say that I thought it was bad by any means (quite the contrary). Plante delivers a compelling story about messy trans feelings and beautiful trans worldmaking through a fictional memoir written by a trans indie rock musician, Tracy. Process is at the center of this novel, whether it be the process of songwriting, healing from trauma, or trying to make sense of gender and sexuality. Process is not straightforward, which is demonstrated in the nonlinear narrative of this fictional memoir. Process is also not clearcut, and the goal is frequently hidden, even lost. I would definitely say that this was done deliberately because trans life can be difficult to follow. However, part of the process is trusting it, and Plante asks the reader to have faith in her, in her protagonist, in trans women, and to hear her/their story/ies. 

I truly look forward to Plante’s next piece of writing, whatever that may be, because I know she will continue to deliver something heartfelt and stunning.