jayisreading's reviews
520 reviews

Ørstavik writes with grace and sensitivity to explore the complexities of grief over the loss of a loved one. However, it is not the grief that comes after loss that sets Ti Amo apart, but Ørstavik's focus on the present grief that wraps the individual as they contend with the inevitability of losing someone they love to terminal illness. 

While this is a work of fiction, Ørstavik draws from her own experience of losing her husband to cancer to write an unflinching account of suffering. I really appreciated the way she revealed the realities of grappling with even the thought of losing someone, and the ways in which emotions are in constant flux. The world continues on while the griever moves sideways, unable to move forward but not quite regressing either. 

The prose is sparse, but Ørstavik writes with such affective power to have the reader reflecting on their own understanding of loss and grief. 

Seeing Ghosts was a beautiful and poignant memoir that invited the reader into Chow's journey through grief. As much as this memoir was an homage of sorts to her late mother, it was also one that reflected on family dynamics—particularly between Chow and her father—as well as honoring one's family history and culture. Grief certainly was at the center of this memoir, but there was also an abundance of care and love that permeated throughout the pages. Chow demonstrates how one can still find hope even in times of darkness.

I was familiar with Chow's work from her time with NPR's Code Switch, and her wonderful storytelling really shone in this memoir in a way that honored her family, history, and culture. I also appreciated the insight of growing up in Connecticut in an Asian immigrant household, which had its own challenges. (On this note, I am all for more Asian American New Englanders writing about their lived experiences, haha.)

The thread that connects these poems together is one of survival. Whether it be the survival of Scheherazade, your family, or yourself, Tran contemplates what it means to push forward even while everything is seemingly falling apart. I think there's a lot to be said about the way these poems jump around in time and form, almost as if to reflect the experiences of those who have experienced significant trauma.

I will say that I found the blurb for the collection a bit misleading. I was expecting more on US imperialism (as that was highlighted), only to find that it was barely touched on. While there are apparent themes in this collection, some felt less developed than others, leaving me wanting more than what I was given.

While not the best poetry collection I've read, I still found Tran's exploration of survival to be a powerful one.

Shibli presents an emotionally powerful and devastating story in less than 150 pages that is guaranteed to haunt the reader long after the novel ends. She writes with incredible intention—which I thought Jaquette got across well in English—to draw attention to the lesser, minor details of one's surroundings and in history.

The novel is divided into two parts, the first part told from the perspective of an Israeli soldier in 1948, while the second is from the perspective of a Palestinian woman decades later. The two parts are in close dialogue and has much to unpack, especially as they are connected by the brutal rape and murder of a Palestinian girl that occurs in the first part. This is an incredibly tough novel to read, yet it is crucial for non-Palestinians especially to sit with this history that Shibli shares.

Oyeyemi is such a fantastic writer, but I don't know if I actually got the point of Mr. Fox. It may very well be that I wasn't in the headspace to read something particularly clever, but even then, I think Oyeyemi may have tried a little too hard to push for a meta narrative and I just… didn't get it. There were some fascinating stories woven into this novel, and I think it would have made for a far more engaging short stories collection than anything. 

This isn't for me, that's all—

I'm not sure what I was hoping to get from this book, and I'm still not sure what I was supposed to get out of it. Dixon uses an essay form for her memoir, but I'm not sure if it fully worked. On the one hand, I really appreciated her reflections on loneliness, especially in the last few years, and personally for her, the way loneliness played out in her life. On the other hand, I'm struggling to figure out the outcome of this memoir-turned-essay collection. Some essays read precisely as such: essays. But others read more like diary entries, which, while there isn't anything wrong with this, I wasn't sure what Dixon wanted the reader to take away from her book at the end of the day.

I thought the first part of the memoir was much stronger than the other two parts, which started to stray away from this theme of loneliness (though it did come back with the final essay, "Auld Lang Syne"). I think the issue at hand was that the memoir was not particularly cohesive, which might be why I'm struggling to pinpoint the essence of this memoir, other than that it gestured toward loneliness.

I wouldn't say this was a mediocre read, but I think I was expecting more than what was given. I should also note that this is a rather heavy read, and if you're not in a great place mentally and emotionally, this might be a tough one to get through.

Note: I received an ARC from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

Blackouts was a quiet and introspective book, as well as a complex one. I'm not quite sure how to describe this novel, other than that it's very experimental and gets increasingly ethereal in the way Torres traces queer history and searches for queer hope. Most interesting about this novel was incorporation of a real-life text, Sex Variants: A Study in Homosexual Patterns, to help guide the story and its themes along. 

It was fascinating to see how the story unfolded primarily through tender, intimate conversations between two queer men: an unnamed narrator who is in his twenties, and a dying, elderly man named Juan. Torres is also tracing queer history through these conversations mixed with multimedia. It's also clear that queer history is more than "just" queerness, as Torres relates it to race, masculinity, and more. 

I have no doubt that a number of things flew over my head as I was reading this, and Blackouts certainly is a book that asks to be reread for further contemplation. This is a book that asks the reader to take their time with every image/illustration, every line, and every utterance.

Vo returns with beautiful prose for The Singing Hills Cycle, and I was really taken to the particular focus on the complexities of grief. Mammoths at the Gates felt a bit heavier and more serious than the previous installments, with Chih having to contend with grief and loss. Another key theme that I really appreciated was having to deal with the inevitability of change, which always is a struggle. I wish we could have sat longer with Chih's feelings and have time to reflect after they were away from home for years, but that would likely result in the book no longer being a novella. All things considered, though, I thought Vo did a great job exploring these deep themes without it being too shallow, while also still delivering a compelling story.

While these novellas can be read in any order, I personally think Mammoths at the Gates will be more impactful of a read if you read at least one the other novellas first.

This book is a tough one to review. I enjoyed it, for the most part, but I haven't been in the greatest headspace for the last several weeks, and I feel that I didn't fully enjoy the beautiful intricacies and deeper meanings of The Fifth Wound.

The novel is a visceral and multisensorial reading experience. Mattia brings the reader into her very queer and trans world, which she does by transcending boundaries and conventions of fiction. The book is somehow grounded yet otherworldly in the way the protagonist (also named Aurora) goes through life. We go from prose/poetry to footnotes, or text messages, or photographs, among other media. There's a lot happening in this novel, in the maximalist sense, to the point that it can be a lot to digest. However, the too much-ness of this novel is what makes it so special, in the way it indulges and takes up space in the abstract and reality.

I'll have to revisit this novel when I'm in a better headspace, because I have no doubt I missed a fair number of details.