jayisreading's reviews
506 reviews

My knowledge of Indonesian history is limited, but I did eventually pick up that the characters and setting of Beauty Is a Wound served as complex allegories for the turbulence that Indonesians faced throughout the twentieth century. Kurniawan wrote an incredibly intricate story with an impressive cast of characters that detailed the very complicated and multigenerational history of Dewi Ayu and her family. Furthermore, the whole story was immersed in the magic realism genre, with Kurniawan making frequent nods to local folklore to further establish its roots in Indonesian culture and history.

With that said, I strongly hesitate to recommend this novel to anyone. It’s not because I thought it was bad but, rather, a result of carrying very mixed feelings throughout my reading experience due to the amount of sexual violence against women and ever-present misogyny. While I realize that the treatment of women is meant to serve as an allegory of sorts for what Indonesians went through (as far as I can tell), there were far too many instances when I felt that the inclusion of a rape/sexual assault scene was gratuitous and served little to no purpose other than for it to be included. It also raises the question of what it means for a male author to write female characters in a symbolic fashion like this, and I’m not entirely sure if there’s an easy answer for this.

Given my limited knowledge of Indonesia, I have no doubt that I’m missing a fair amount of cultural and historical context that might provide greater insight into why Kurniawan approached his story the way he did, and I’d be curious to know what Indonesians—particularly Indonesian women—thought of this novel.

Sordidez was a fascinating and incisive exploration of colonialism in a near-future Yucatán and Puerto Rico, as well as a push for collective resistance against it. Condé, who identifies as a queer diasporic Boricua writer, is one of the creators of a genre known as “Taínofuturism,” which “imagines a future of Indigenous renewal and decolonial liberation for Borikén (Puerto Rico) and the archipelagos of the Caribbean),” and this novella very much situates itself in the genre in the way it uplifts the identities, histories, and cultures of this region. Furthermore, Sordidez shows how issues are deeply interlocked as a result of colonialism, one of which is climate crises. Relatedly, there were some great critiques of countries and organizations (notably, the United Nations). Another thing I greatly enjoyed was the inclusion of a Deaf character and how sign language was incorporated into the dialogue.

With that said, as much as I really enjoyed the concepts and themes of this novella, I had a lot of trouble with the prose. This is absolutely a me problem and not a critique of Condé’s writing style by any means, and I couldn’t really tell you why it just didn’t work. In addition, I really wish this novella could have been an actual novel, especially considering how many incredible ideas there were that could have been explored more in-depth.

Ultimately, though, this novella was a great introduction to the Taínofuturism genre that I’d love to read more of. It’s also a great addition to the growing list of speculative fiction centering Indigenous voices.

Free was a memoir I did not expect to enjoy as much as I did. It didn’t surprise me in the least when I found out that Ypi is a professor of political theory who specialized in Marxism; what did surprise me was the writing style, which read very much like a novel in some ways. (It’s not to say that political scientists are incapable of writing lyrically, so much as it is that I fell for the trap of making assumptions I shouldn’t have, haha.) The memoir was approached as a coming-of-age story of sorts while deftly blending in the historical and political. Not knowing very much about Albanian history and politics, this book was rather eye-opening for me with how Ypi discussed what life was like as a child under communism in her home country, and I liked how she unraveled the complexities of this life from a child’s perspective, which is often taking everything at face value while also reveling in the little things in life (such as Coca-Cola cans). The memoir was as much informative as it was humorous and poignant.

I think what I appreciated about this memoir was the nuanced and honest commentary Ypi provided throughout about different political ideologies and the meaning of freedom. It was also a deep (self-)reflection on the modern history and identity of one’s country that made me curious to learn more about Albania.

Melania Luisa Marte opens her collection with “Afro-Latina,” in which she asserts that Black and Latina are not two separate identities but, rather, one. However, she also makes clear to the reader the rampant anti-Blackness of this world and that her “Afro comes before Latina,” to recognize and uplift her Blackness.

With that said, the poems in this collection were a bit of a hit-or-miss for me. I enjoyed the themes that Marte explored, the love and strength that flowed in these pages, but the way she delivered them didn’t work for me, personally. I also found that, while the close focus on identity and culture were compelling, there were instances when I wanted her to go a little deeper.

The Blind Earthworm in the Labyrinth was the first Thai novel I have ever read, and I want to say that it may not have been the best place to start in Thai literature not because it was bad (quite the contrary) but, rather, because it was rather difficult. For one, the novel’s nonlinear and near-fever dream approach made it hard to figure out what was happening. More than that, though, it was primarily because I’m not at all familiar with the storytelling structures and cultural elements that Nitiprapha was referencing (e.g., Thai soap operas). Yet, despite struggling a fair bit, I was so captivated by the language. The book is a multisensorial experience, taking the reader through stunning descriptions of food, plants, and music that are integral to who the characters are and not just setting up the mood and scenery. In addition, the melancholic nature of this novel is almost palpable; you really feel the quiet yet intense heartache that these characters feel as the story wanders from one place to the next. It’s more than understandable why Nitiprapha described her novel as “a melodrama of shipwrecked romance.”

I can only imagine how much more beautiful the book must be in the original language. I have nothing but praise to heap on Rithdee for taking up what seemed to be an incredible challenge translating this novel into English, based on his note that he provided at the start of the novel.

The Art of Charlie Chan Hock Chye deeply looks into Singapore’s history while also being a beautiful homage to comics of the twentieth century. I was utterly flared by the attention to details in this metafiction graphic novel. It was clear that Liew spent a lot of time doing intensive research to put together an incredibly effective fictional biography loaded with historical truth. Furthermore, the great care he put into showing the diversity of art styles in comics and manga was truly apparent.

As a result, Liew’s graphic novel practically demands the reader to slow down and pay attention to all sorts of details, giving a significant amount of information for them to unpack. I can see how some readers—especially those who are already familiar with Singaporean history—may find some of the storytelling tedious due to there being a fair amount of info dumping. However, for those like me who know next to nothing about the history, while there was a lot of information to parse through, it provided a lot of context about Singapore’s complex past.

Lastly, I want to address the stunning art. I wouldn’t consider myself a huge fan of US comics, but for those who are, Liew’s graphic novel is going to be an utter delight to read with how he pays homage to various art styles of well-known comics artists of the Golden Age. For those who are like me and adore manga, Liew has you covered here, too, particularly paying homage to Osamu Tezuka (i.e., the Godfather of Manga). It’s not all imitation, though, because Liew’s own art style comes through as well, demonstrating his incredible skills as an artist.

Ultimately, I do think that this is a graphic novel that can be enjoyed by many, but it might resonate more with those who know the culture and history of the country. One thing is for certain, though, which is that this is an incredible work when it comes to how it was executed narratively and artistically. I can absolutely see this graphic novel being assigned as an actual text to learn about Singaporean history. 

I think it’s safe to say that I’m tired of reading books from the so-called “healing fiction” genre, as they’re called in South Korea. This is absolutely not me dismissing the genre altogether as bad; in fact, I do think there’s value in a genre that brings so much solace to a society dealing with as much pressure and stress as South Korea. Marigold Mind Laundry doesn’t particularly stand out in any way, other than that it’s charming to think of a magical laundromat for characters to visit and wash away particular stains covering their hearts. Like many other novels in the healing fiction genre, I thought the premise and setting were interesting, but I got tired of the same messages being hit over my head repeatedly. I think what really annoyed me about this particular novel, though, was how excessively preachy it got that it read as a (not-so-)cutesy self-help book. Unfortunately, Marigold Mind Laundry also has the same issues as other healing fiction novels, which is having an overcoming grief narrative (and I’m not big on overcoming stories) and relatively flat characters.

With that said, I can see why a reader would find value in a book like Marigold Mind Laundry and others like it. There’s a time and place for cozy and heartwarming novels, especially ones that are deliberately meant to comfort the reader. I think for me, though, I find that I struggle with these novels because they frequently lack substance, whether it be in the plot, the characters, the setting, etc. This is all to say that this novel will work for some, but others might be on a similar boat as me and find the reading journey to be a bit of an annoying slog. 

I was really hoping that I would enjoy this novel more, but it ended up not meeting whatever expectations I seemed to have had. Before I get into what didn’t really work for me, though, I do want to praise Martínez and the translators for the carefully crafted atmosphere that oozed with tension. I did feel that they all did a great job evoking a sense of feeling trapped in the very house that the characters also found themselves trapped in. I also thought the particular focus on gender and class in twentieth-century Spain was really fascinating.

That being said, there were two things that didn’t work for me, neither of which are the fault of the author or the translators. One was how the story was told. I’m not that picky about nonlinearity or changing perspectives, but something about the way Woodworm was written didn’t quite work for me. I can’t help but wonder if part of my frustration was because the novel was too short for me to find it as an effective way to tell a story. The other thing that didn’t entirely work for me was that I had the impression that Martínez was heavily relying on the reader to know a fair bit about the historical and social contexts of when/where this novel took place. I think it’s safe to say that what’s at stake in this novel will make more sense if the reader is familiar with the Spanish Civil War, which is not the case for me, unfortunately. I think there were certain ideas and cues that I missed, as a result of this knowledge gap, which, combined with the shifting timeline and perspectives, made this novel a bit difficult to engage with.

I don’t think all context is necessarily needed to enjoy this novel, since the themes that Martínez wanted to focus on came through. However, I found myself wanting more than what was given, and perhaps that “more” was given but through subtle cues and contextual information that those in the know would understand. 

Colorful follows a dead spirit taking over the body of a teenage boy who attempted suicide, the reader is drawn into the world of this boy, Makoto, and learns about what led to his decision to attempt suicide, all of which is explored through his (very messy) relationships with classmates, friends, and family. All things considered, this was an interesting way to explore severe depression, and I thought Mori approached the subject of suicide with relative care, especially as she revealed how difficult it can be to break out of suicidal ideation. I found that there was something very realistic about how Mori depicted the difficulties of communicating one’s struggles to others, and I can see why the familial relationships in particular could frustrate some readers, only because… well, they weren’t always the most pleasant. I found these portrayals effective, though, because it contributed to the protagonist’s personal growth.

I’m admittedly still not sure how to feel about the relatively lighthearted approach to such serious issues, though after reading the afterword, I can somewhat understand Mori’s intent. It’s not to say that she was flippant about issues related to mental health, but maybe it’s just the cynic in me who finds it difficult to take a topic as dark as suicide and approach it with so much hope. I had a few other issues with the novel ranging from the narrative to the technical. I’m not sure how to feel about the English translation, which read a little stilted to me, and I found that I was struggling a bit to get into the flow of the writing. I also felt that more could have been done with this concept of being given a second chance to live, perhaps a little bit of worldbuilding. Finally, perhaps my main issue was of the teenage girl who was essentially characterized as a sex worker, which felt incredibly unnecessary to include. While I understand that this is likely a very real situation, it didn’t really contribute anything to the main storyline. Furthermore, I wasn’t a huge fan of how Makoto perceived her as a result of what she was doing— It was all just really strange and awkward to me.

I can see why this novel would touch some readers and frustrate others; I’m not entirely sure if I fall in either camp and am in some secret third camp, haha.Overall, though, Colorful has an interesting but somewhat underdeveloped concept. It doesn’t do anything particularly groundbreaking, but I can see why a novel about second chances could really help a young reader going through hard times. 

Abu Toha returns with yet another powerful collection that reads like a sequel of sorts of his previous, Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear, with its continued and reflective focus on Palestine and the heartache that Palestinians have felt for decades. What I think stands out about Forest of Noise is how much more personal this collection reads, with Abu Toha highlighting specific moments from his own life that reveal worries he carries for the family still in Gaza, grief that constantly stirs in his soul for the loved ones who are gone, as well as longing for a brighter future for his children. The way Abu Toha traces his family roots and ties throughout this collection is utterly thought-provoking, especially to point out how Israeli occupation has impacted past, present, and future generations.

Much like his previous collection, Abu Toha continues to write in a very accessible fashion for novice readers of poetry, while still challenging them with thought-provoking themes and their time to sit with these poems. One very minor criticism I have is that I did feel that something was missing from Forest of Noise, and I actually preferred his previous collection a tad more. I frankly want to write it off as perhaps not being in the right headspace for his new poems at the time of reading them, considering that I have been struggling to focus on reading.

Despite this, I strongly believe this is another collection worth picking up, especially if you want to continue familiarizing yourself with what’s happening in Palestine.

Some favorites: “No Art,” “The Last Kiss,” “Palestinian Village,” “Under the Rubble,” “Daughter,” “Gazan Family Letters, 2092,” “History Class,” “Love Poem,” “True or False: A Test by a Gazan Child,” and “Rescue Plane”

Note: Many thanks to the publisher for sending me an ARC to review.