jayisreading's reviews
524 reviews

I can see why André Aciman wrote the foreword for Calligarich’s book— It’s not only because it’s set in Italy; it’s the writing style and atmosphere (along with all the literary references), the way the characters idly wander and sit with their loneliness that made me wonder to what extent Calligarich (and perhaps similar Italian authors) have influenced Aciman. In his foreword, Aciman writes:

I think this is a good sentence that makes clear what you’ll find in Calligarich’s novel. Which takes me to the actual novel—

I really did like the way Calligarich lingered, whether it be on moments, through the streets of Rome, or between characters. It almost felt as though you were watching a 1970s Italian film. Rome is a character, in a way, considering the way the characters reacted to the city throughout this novel. Early on in the novel, this is pretty well established, presenting Rome as a woman, with whom “[t]here can be no half measures with her, either she’s the love of your life or you have to leave her, because that’s what the tender beast demands, to be loved.”

It’s a novel in which you observe the protagonist drift and spiral. It’s honestly a rather depressing book, despite having somewhat of a lackadaisical air to it. The emotional delivery was well done, and the translator seems to have succeeded in getting this across.

It’s clear this book is dated in the way Calligarich approaches mental illness (flippantly), female characters (flattened and objectified), and male characters (boys’ club energy along with a dash of chauvinism). The world was very rose-tinted, certainly helped by the lyrical writing. It did get tiring though. Oh, and there was a good helping of blatant homophobia that was entirely unnecessary that really threw me off.

All-in-all, though, it was interesting to pick this book up, especially considering that I’ve barely touched Italian literature (specifically anything dated after the sixteenth century, welp). I’d be curious to read more modern literary works from Italy.

Doerr was far too ambitious with this novel and bit off more than he could chew. I really wanted to like this one, especially as someone who enjoys sprawling novels with different plotlines and characters that all come together in a unique fashion. In addition, there was something akin to a love letter to books and environment that existed in this novel, which… yes, I also love. And then, there’s the fact that Doerr writes beautifully, and as someone who loves lyrical prose, you would think all these components would result in me singing about how wonderful of an experience it was to read Cloud Cuckoo Land.

It took me a little over a month to get through this tome, which I thought was at least 300 pages too long. As much as I love beautiful writing, I need things to happen to really appreciate that beautiful writing. When things happened in Cloud Cuckoo Land, it was wonderful. Other times, though, it made reading feel like an absolute chore. I felt like there was a little too much self-indulgent writing that was happening. Relatedly, Doerr barely—and I cannot emphasize “barely” enough—pulled off the intertwining stories at the end. Each timeline and their respective plotlines had their flaws, but I thought the one that took place in the present was by far the strongest and most interesting. The plotlines that took place in the past were somewhat engaging but not all that interesting. Meanwhile, the plotline that took place in the future was interesting but not at all engaging. (This is to say, Doerr should not venture into sci-fi writing, because I don’t think he would be very good at it.) All of them had beautiful writing, but your mileage varied on how much impact any of it had on the story (raising the question, what actually was the story). And, speaking of impact, I found the codex excerpts at the start of chapters rather tiring after a while. It didn’t leave much of an impression on me, especially because it rarely tied to the actual chapter content.

Something else to scrutinize about this book is how an autistic character is represented. While it is not explicitly stated by Doerr that Seymour is autistic (and I don’t know why he shied away from this…), the fact that he is vilified and turned into a bit of a "troubled child” caricature left a bad taste in my mouth.

This is making me realize that I may have to revisit All the Light We Cannot See, which I enjoyed when I read it way back when. I wonder if something changed or it just ended up that Cloud Cuckoo Land was a miss. Whatever the reason, I just know I won’t be getting many hours back that was spent reading this book. 

Well, this was a disappointing read. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is supposedly meant to come to mind while reading this, but I didn’t get any of its whimsicality. I think Scattered All Over the Earth wanted to be whimsical with a dystopian backdrop, but it didn’t pan out the way Tawada may have wanted it to. Instead, it ended up being a bit of a mess with attempts (some successful, in defense of the author) to present philosophical musings about identity, belonging, and language. Maybe we’re not seeing the full picture because this is apparently projected to be a trilogy…? Whatever the case, the delivery of the story didn’t work for me.

What really bothered me was the repeated misgendering of the trans character throughout this book, which was nothing short of appalling. Despite explicitly stating that Akash saw herself as a woman, this was completely ignored by everyone else. I think what bothered me even more was that this character didn’t seem to have any reaction to the fact that everyone was misgendering her or making transphobic comments. It also doesn’t help that the purpose of Akash’s involvement in the story is not apparent (at least, to me), making me wonder why a cis Japanese woman decided to create a character who is a trans Indian woman. If Tawada plans on keeping Akash in her cast moving forward, she really needs to take a step back and educate herself.

I’m not sure what to make of Paradise Rot, except that I did not expect to read so much about urine. There’s something visceral about this book that made my skin crawl a little (which is saying something, since I’m not one to be bothered that easily by horror elements). There’s an acute awareness of what the protagonist, Jo, heard through the walls of her living space that created an uncomfortable closeness. There was also the ways in which bodies moved past one another, as well as getting entangled. It wasn’t quite disturbing, but just unsettling in that it felt like you were in a fever dream.

I’m not sure how I felt about the way the delivery of the queerer parts of this book. I also wasn’t all that invested in the characters or the barely-present plot (in fairness, this book is more of an atmospheric read). However, I really have to hand it to Hval for writing some of the most distinct descriptions.

This was a compelling read, giving a lot of food for thought to the reader. I thought Brown did a wonderful job addressing the rampant acephobic narratives that exist outside but also within the queer community. What makes this particular book stand out to me compared to other essays and writings about asexuality is the way Brown approached it from a Black perspective, reaffirming the importance of intersectionality. They critically reflect on what it means to be a Black asexual, and how the treatment of asexuals and Black people have overlaps.

Brown brings in academic sources in their discussion on asexuality, but also turns to lived experiences to assert why it’s so important to highlight the asexual experience (especially as a queer one). Acknowledging and uplifting asexual voices is more than just accepting that there are some people who have little to no sexual attraction. It’s clear that, through an asexual lens, especially a Black asexual lens, a lot of reflection needs to be done.

I did find the book a little repetitive after the first few chapters, but for those who have little to no familiarity with asexuality (and, relatedly, aromanticism), I would absolutely recommend this book as your starting point.

This was such a beautifully written memoir with lyricism that will leave you aching for more. Wong’s background as a poet shines through in this memoir because of her writing style, though she also writes a fair bit about her career. Entangled with her thoughts on being a poet are the reflections of romantic and familial relationships, as well as her identity as a Chinese American woman who grew up in an immigrant household. What I especially enjoyed about this memoir and what Wong highlighted was her relationship with her mother. I feel that it’s often common to read books (fiction and nonfiction alike) that focus on conflict between mothers and daughters. In Wong’s situation, though, it’s nothing but love and gentle kindness that’s highlighted throughout. In all her beautiful descriptions of her mother, there is nothing but the utmost love and respect for an important figure in her life.

I did find some things a bit repetitive at times (particularly when it had to deal with her exes), though I can’t help but wonder if this is the result of some chapters being published elsewhere before being revised and compiled in this memoir or something else entirely.

All-in-all, though, this was a tender (though sometimes heartbreaking) read. I’ll also have to check out Wong’s poetry in the near future. 

I don’t think there’s much I can say about such an intimate and personal collection, other than that Sharpe is one of the most incredible thinkers of our time. These notes are filled with contemplations on living and surviving in an anti-Black world. There are also notes of tenderness that draw attention to the care and beauty that exists in Black life. And every note—no matter how short—asks you to sit with the peace and disquiet that permeate throughout this book.

That’s all you can do when reading Ordinary Notes: take your time and sit with each and every note.

I’ve been a fan of Kuang’s writings for years now, and I hate to say this, but Yellowface was a disappointment. I see the commentary that she wanted to make about the writing and publishing industry, and I also see the satirical elements of it all— I just don’t think it was executed very well. The book felt a bit directionless in the sense that it read more as a need for Kuang to share her grievances and frustrations somewhere without much interrogation in the process. In essence, nuance got lost in favor of turning a shit show into a spectacle to ogle at.

I was also surprised to find out that Kuang has stated in interviews that Athena Liu was not supposed to be a representation of her. If that is the case, I’m struggling to understand why she made the decisions she did to have that many overlaps between Athena and herself (I should mention not in personality, but in their writing career/interests). For those who are familiar with Kuang’s oeuvre, it’s hard not to read Athena as a caricature of herself. I think this is why it was difficult for me to read Yellowface as a nuanced critique, because it seemed like there was personal beef.

It was hard not to put this book down though. If you’re a fan of characters who are disasters and/or messy dramas (shout out to the Online Discourses™), this book will keep you reading. It was interesting to read such a different writing style from Kuang, though, with all the characters having a little (or, for most of them, a lot) more bite to them. I’d be curious to know if she’ll write in this style again in the future or not, or if she’ll return to her fantasy(ish) roots.

I didn’t feel strongly about this collection. It wasn’t bad by any means, but I didn’t feel particularly moved by any of the poems. It did get a little repetitive, but there was a particular rhythm that carried throughout this collection that the repetition worked.

This is also somewhat of an erudite collection, in the sense that you can tell Yarberry is in academia. It’s the way they allude to Greek mythology and William Blake, primarily, while weaving in some theory (nothing heavy, for what it’s worth) to discuss their gender identity. Not a bad thing, by any means, but I can see how it might turn some people away. 

That being said, I do plan on keeping an eye on their future works.

This book got a little tiring as it progressed, partially because of the love triangle that I found a bit boring and predictable, but it was also because I found the protagonist, Xingyin, somewhat exhausting to deal with due to her incredible naïveté. There was something left to be desired in her character development (as well as others, to be honest), and I felt that Tan could have gone more into worldbuilding than she did. (Though, perhaps this is addressed further in the second book of this duology.)

And yet, I found myself making my way through this book rather quickly because I enjoyed how wonderfully Tan described the world this book takes place in, drawing out all the senses. In addition, I really enjoyed how it is grounded in the xianxia genre. It’s one I’m not entirely familiar with, but it’s so refreshing when so much of fantasy is Eurocentric.