jayisreading's reviews
506 reviews

The January Children is a thought-provoking and surprisingly humorous (but mostly serious) collection of poems that lives in the in-between spaces that so many people who are a member of a diaspora face. In her poems, Elhillo visits Sudan both as an insider and outsider, recognizing the complexities that come with the meaning of “home” for diasporic communities. This is pretty explicitly explored in the series of poems, “talking with an accent about home,” which are erasures of found text from interviews Elhillo conducted with members of the Sudanese diaspora that will give a lot to think about. In addition, Elhillo is also regularly in conversation with the late Egyptian singer Abdelhalim Hafez, which creates an interesting structure to her collection, as well as giving her opportunities to explore the Arabness and Africanness of Sudan.

These poems are tenderly crafted and explore big and complex topics that I not only found impactful but also informative, especially as someone who has little knowledge of Sudanese culture and history.

Some favorites: “to make use of water,” “origin stories,” “the lovers,” “first quarantine with abdelhalim hafez,” “alternate ending,” and “the part i keep forgetting”

A short but powerful collection of poems, Palestinian diasporic writer, Zaina Alsous, uses the extinct dodo bird as an allegory to do a deep exploration of various themes, particularly ecology and colonial violence. I will admit that this collection leans a bit more toward the abstract, and while I did devour it in one sitting, I found that I had to take my time with a fair number of poems. For instance, “Birth Right” pushes the boundaries of the English language by forcing the reader to read the poem from right to left, like Arabic. Another example that I think reflects the colorful yet challenging lyricism of Alsous’s writing style is “bird survives the death of Nature.”

Alsous weaves the threads of past and present, as well as history and lived experiences to get her points across, even if they were difficult to parse out at times. Furthermore, I was utterly taken to the way she experimented with form and language in this collection. How she also placed herself in conversation with various theorists and historical figures, perhaps my favorite being how she engages with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s “Can the Subaltern Speak?” not only with a nod to the title in Alsous’s poem that is similarly titled, “Can the Dodo Bird Speak?” but also answering Spivak’s question throughout the collection to say, yes, the subaltern certainly can speak, in spite of everything. The way Alsous engages with critical theorists definitely adds another challenging dimension to this collection, but if you’re at all familiar with the works of Karl Marx, Sylvia Wynter, Edward Said, among others, these poems will be all the more thought-provoking.

This is a collection I know I’ll revisit at some point, given how rich the text is with its many references, of which I’m sure I missed a few.

I might pick this back up again, I’m having a lot of trouble getting into it right now.

When I first heard about this novel, I was rather intrigued by the premise: a department store where you can purchase dreams? I figured there would be more to it than that, but I was taken to the idea and looked forward to picking it up. Unfortunately, I found myself disappointed by the overall execution of the novel. There was very little plot (if at all), and Lee seemed more keen on crafting a novel that was more driven by “vibes” than anything. While I’m not one to entirely hate books that aren’t as clear about what direction they’re going, I do want to go somewhere… and that just doesn’t happen in this novel. In addition to the near-absent plot, the characters were incredibly flat and underdeveloped. I think the lack of character development was what really disappointed me, because if there isn’t going to be much of a plot, at least do something interesting with the characters, especially the protagonist (Penny). I didn’t even like or dislike Penny, because there just wasn’t much to her character for me to hold onto.

There were passing moments when something interesting came up, whether it be the type of dream that was discussed or a character actually had something worthwhile to say, but none of these ever panned out in a way that left an impression on me. Furthermore, I felt that there were instances when the author was a little too flippant about serious matters that could have been addressed with more time and grace.

Overall, I think this novel might appeal to some who are looking for something that fits the “feel good” vibe (and there have been a fair number of contemporary works by Japanese and Korean authors that encompass this). However, I feel that no amount of coziness that this novel exudes can hide the fact that there’s a lot left to be desired.

In Memento Mori, Hong took a unique approach to grief, trauma, and memory through her ideas and prose. From its nonlinear nature to the different stylistic choices across chapters, I will say that this novel might not work for everyone with how it leaned a bit more to the experimental. Yet, I would say Hong’s choices worked well for what she wanted to get across. It was especially interesting how she blended Greek mythology (focusing particularly on Orpheus and Eurydice), Korean history, and events in the unnamed protagonist’s life to, ultimately, reflect on her resilience.

The protagonist was deeply self-aware in a way that I found provocative, even finding myself reflecting on what she was thinking about. Hong captured a particular kind of intimacy that might be a little uncomfortable at times, but I also found it refreshing due to how candid the protagonist was. Perhaps being of Korean descent myself (and also loving the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, which was what initially drew me to this novel), I found that a lot of the protagonist’s reflections resonated with me. Another thing I wanted to comment on that really stood out to me was how Hong beautifully captured the grief one feels after losing someone while also contending with the grief of your own aliveness (or lack thereof). It was an honest and cathartic exploration of life and death that I felt differed from other approaches I’ve seen in other novels.

I will say that it took a bit to get used to the unique structure, and it wasn’t really until halfway through that I really got a sense of how everything was coming together. I know some people won’t be willing to wait it out that long, but I think it’s worth it for this novel. Furthermore, this is a book that asks you to take your time to sit with the protagonist’s grief and memories (i.e., don’t try to read quickly). I do think there were a couple ideas that could have been developed a bit more, but it didn’t take away from my overall enjoyment.

I’d take this short reflection with a grain of salt, only because I was really not in the headspace for a novel that required the reader’s undivided attention. As the title suggests, this novel is all about details, particularly getting into the minutiae of them all. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that nothing happens in this novel, but I found that Genberg relies heavily on the reader to carefully work through the details to unravel the meaning of four impactful relationships that the narrator had. In other words, “nothing happens” in the sense that it’s not so much about having a plot, so much as it is about reflecting deeply on the people we hold close to our hearts. As a result of not being able to concentrate at the time of reading, though, I had a pretty difficult time getting through this book. I think what really didn’t help was that it had a near-absent and vague plot; even if I were in the right mood, this probably would have been my main criticism.

I can see why The Details got shortlisted for the International Booker Prize, because the writing and intention behind the novel are provocative. Unfortunately, I just wasn’t in the right headspace for this one.

My feelings are a bit all over the place for this novel. On the one hand, I was so fascinated by the cultural and political tensions simmering from start to finish in this novel. The focus on language and how it was weaponized at an elite school in Hong Kong had my attention (but I also say this as someone who adores anything to do with languages). I have some familiarity with Hong Kong’s fraught relationship with China to understand some of the suspenseful and psychological nature of the novel, but it really helped to have the translator’s notes at the end to better contextualize the plot and characters. I would also be really curious to know how this novel reads in the original Chinese, especially after reading Feeley’s explanation about the language choices Lau made to capture Hong Kong’s linguistic landscape. This is all to say that there are so many layers to this novel when it comes to language, and I have no doubt that I missed quite a lot of it because I don’t know the two languages that were mainly at play (Cantonese and Mandarin).

While I found the novel’s concept really interesting, unfortunately, I really struggled to push through the story. This was in part because the protagonist, Ling, was just so unlikeable due to her shallowness and lack of introspection. I realize Lau intentionally wrote her protagonist like this, but it really frustrated me. Furthermore, while one of the major plot points is the suicide of one of Ling’s colleagues (which is mentioned at the start, so this review remains spoiler-free, aha), I do feel that other than this particular event, not much else happens. Instead, the reader is just left to sit with a lot of building tension that doesn’t quite go anywhere. I will say that I think this approach works well for the kind of story Lau wanted to tell, but it just wasn’t one that I wanted at the time of reading this book.

Ultimately, I do think Tongueless is worth checking out, but it’s one of those books I feel you have to be in the mood for.

DeMulder’s collection of poems beautifully explores the intimacies and complexities of life in ways that I did not expect. I really enjoyed how descriptive her poems were in ways that made them uniquely personal and touching. The title of this collection is something to bear in mind, which is that the numerous moments in life we experience can feel like a collection of ephemera, so much so that it brings attention to the fragility of it all. There is as much warmth and tenderness in these poems as there are bittersweet and heartbreaking, which I found incredibly evocative. There are a few different themes that DeMulder explores in her poems, but family—particularly the process of building one (i.e., pregnancy)—is central to this collection. I think many of these poems will resonate strongly with folks who are also working towards building (or already have) a family of their own.

The lyricism in this collection is stunning, and I especially liked that it didn’t lean into excessively florid language. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that these poems are simple, but they’re definitely approachable while still revealing to the reader the beauty of poetry.

Some favorites: “Waiting,” “Driving through Pennsylvania in Autumn,” “If She Were an Animal,” “Who Made the Music?,” “The Day I Told You I’ve Moved On,” “How to Change the Pronouns in Your Love Poems,” “Labels Matter,” “The Day of Your Proposal,” “Eating a Grapefruit,” and “42 Years”

I just couldn’t get into the novel, unfortunately.

First and foremost, be prepared to feel hungry as you read each poem, because Cariño delivered some of the most mouth-watering descriptions of Filipino food throughout their collection. Cariño created an exceptionally sensorial experience for the reader, perhaps to the point that it might be a bit too vivid at times (I’m thinking particularly of instances when they write about eating meat that might not sit well for some readers), but I found it effective.

What I particularly enjoyed about this collection was how food was at the center to explore the culture, language, and history of the Philippines. Cariño seamlessly weaved Tagalog into their poems to reveal a particular intimacy of their relationship with their motherland and Filipino identity. I don’t understand Tagalog, so I know I missed quite a lot of details throughout this collection, but I still found myself utterly entranced by Cariño’s words. On that note, I think these poems will especially resonate with Filipino readers, considering the incredible love that the poet expressed in their writing.