jayisreading's reviews
507 reviews

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.

I wanted to like this novel more than I did, though I will say that I did enjoy the absolutely bizarre imagery that leaned into the horror. It would be more accurate to describe this novel as a collection of vignettes that focus on an event that took place at a theme park, as each chapter switched between different characters’ perspectives of what happened. (Quick side note: I’m keeping things deliberately vague to avoid spoiling the event for any readers.) I initially didn’t mind the switching, but by the fourth or fifth chapter, I found it frustrating. I didn’t feel that questions that kept building up were being answered, instead, leaving the reader to sit with vague ideas of what happened. As a result, I found myself rather unsatisfied by the end of the book.

There’s something to be said about the themes that Cho was gesturing toward, which I found interesting but underdeveloped. I was able to get the sense that she wanted to provide commentary on matters such as consumerism and relationships, but I felt more could have been said (and perhaps even more explicitly) to make clear to the reader her observations. With that said, I can’t help but wonder if there might be a translation issue, as I found the prose a bit stilted and clunky. Relatedly, I wonder how much experimenting that seemed to be happening impacted the delivery of these themes (e.g., not sticking to one particular genre).

Ultimately, I would have loved more depth in this novel and some time to sit with each character, and the pieces were definitely there. Unfortunately, it just felt as though I was floating in murky water, not ever really knowing where things were going or what the author wanted to get across. It’d be interesting to read the original and see how it compares to the translation though, as I felt something was missing.

The Eyes Are the Best Part was an absolute trip, simmering with tension at first before it slowly but steadily boiled over due to rage and a dire need for revenge. I started the novel, expecting to be in for a gory and horror-filled ride led by the eighteen-year-old Korean American protagonist, Ji-won. Kim certainly delivered on this front, but it came as a pleasant surprise that she revealed horror to mean more than body horror, specifically tackling the horrors of what Asian/Asian American women face—especially around white men—and how they are often wrapped up in skin-crawling fetishization.

What I found particularly interesting about this novel was Kim’s explicit acknowledgment of how fetishization doesn’t necessarily have to be blatant ogling at Asian/Asian American women (which was certainly the case with George, the more-than-questionable boyfriend of Ji-won’s mother). Through the character of Geoffrey, Kim eventually revealed that even the so-called “nice guys” who seem to care about issues around equality can be equally as bad (if not, worse). Fetishization can be packaged in different ways, and while this message was a bit heavy-handed at times, it served to be excellent rage fuel for Ji-won as she fixated on the delicious appeal of piercing blue eyes.

I wouldn’t describe this novel as particularly scary, but it definitely isn’t for those who have a weak stomach, as Kim didn’t skip out on the gory details. I will say that I was a little iffy about the delivery of Ji-won’s descent into madness, in part because it was a little too absurd (though one could argue this was intentional), but also because I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the use of madness as a plot device. I found myself wanting a little more character development as well, which I think would have really made the story richer. Overall, though, this was a pretty thrilling and gross read. It won’t be for everyone, but it’s one worth picking up if you’re able to stomach horror in more ways than one.

I’m not sure how to feel about this collection, though I liked some of the themes that Morín took time to explore, ranging from racism (particularly racial profiling) to fatherhood (which I feel isn’t too common in poetry, though this could just be a result of the types of poems I read). Some of these poems were deceptively simple, and I found myself rereading lines here and there to make sure I was understanding what Morín wanted to get across. It didn’t take away from the reading experience to reread, either, given the relative shortness of this collection and, in fact, made me more appreciative of the thoughtfulness in his poems.

With that said, I will say that this collection felt like a mixed bag for me, primarily because I felt that the poems were a bit all over the place in the sense that there wasn’t a followable flow to see how the ideas would come together. I think that may also be why I found myself rereading poems, mostly because I couldn’t really see the overall picture. It’s quite possible that this was intentional, but this didn’t work for me, personally.

Note: Many thanks to the publisher for sending me a finished paperback copy in exchange for an honest review.

Had to return the book, unfortunately, but I also admit I was struggling a bit with the stories, in terms of personal enjoyment.

Zola’s Germinal is not a novel that I would normally pick up on my own accord, especially because I’m not particularly interested in the subject matter (though, I guess the average reader probably won’t be that invested in mining in France during the 1800s). When it comes to personal enjoyment, I would say that the novel fell in the middle ground, and I didn’t love or hate it. I think what really won me over, though, was Zola’s socio-political commentary, especially if you take into consideration who and what he may have been engaging with during the period he worked on this novel.

Directly inspired by the miners’ strikes that occurred in the 1860s, Zola crafted a fictional version of a miners’ strike in Northern France to dig deep into class struggle, particularly the exploitation of the working class by the bourgeoisie. There were other ideas that he considered as well, with I think the most surprising being the role of women in these spaces. I will say that the treatment of women in this novel was anything but great (to put it lightly), but I did appreciate Zola’s consideration of how women contributed to the labor movement. The living conditions that Zola described in Germinal were unbelievably bleak, but, in many ways, it did give him the chance to create powerful (even if, at times, heavy-handed) symbols reflecting on struggle and survival, particularly through his characters, notably Étienne and Catherine. On the note of his characters, I appreciated that Zola didn’t follow the good vs. evil model and, instead, chose to place them in murkier spaces.

Again, based on personal enjoyment alone, I would say that I don’t have any strong opinions and found the novel to be just okay. However, I have to fully acknowledge the richness of Zola’s symbolism, graphic details, and commentary in Germinal. I do think it’s worth picking this up, should you be able to handle the overwhelming bleakness, as it is a great exploration of class struggle while also giving a glimpse into how people such as Zola may have been reacting to Marxism. I was also a little surprised by his prose, which I found a bit different from his contemporaries. Relatedly, I thought it was more accessible to a modern reader who might be intimidated by nineteenth-century French literature, should that mean anything. 

I am quite familiar with the name Anton Hur, having read many of his translations of contemporary South Korean literature. So, it came as a pleasant surprise when he announced that he was publishing a science fiction novel. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect in his prose, but reading Toward Eternity was very similar to admiring a pretty piece of abstract art. It was so clear in the frequency of their appearances that Hur absolutely loved the relationship between language, music, and poetry, as they interlocked throughout this novel. With a novel professing love for languages, then, it shouldn’t come as a total surprise that Hur also writes in an incredibly floral fashion. The purple prose will definitely not be for everyone (and may even frustrate some), and I’ll admit that it sometimes felt as though Hur got lost in the language itself and forgot to attend to the plot.

On that note, I think the weakest aspects of this novel were the plot and worldbuilding. There was just enough that it kept the story going, but in science fiction, I feel that these two components are quite crucial in developing a compelling story, and this wasn’t quite present in Toward Eternity. In other words, this is not a novel for those who are looking for something plot-driven with extensive worldbuilding. Instead, I think it’s safe to say that Hur was far more interested in philosophical meditations on the arts and their importance to humanness. I didn’t mind this at all, especially since I’m rather fond of such topics. However, I would be lying if I said that I wanted a bit more development on other fronts for this novel to really come together (and I think it could have afforded more pages, considering how short it was).

Ultimately, Hur offered a lot for the reader to think about in his first novel, which I truly appreciate, and I do think there’s genuine promise in his original works, should he choose to publish more. I just hope that, should he choose to write more fiction, there will be more engagement with the story itself.

I have mixed feelings about this novel, but, at its core, I enjoyed how Delany thought about language in his novel, particularly how language can define and limit the speaker and their understanding of the world around them. With that said, the novel is very much a product of its time (e.g., some insensitive approaches to certain cultures and peoples), though, at the same time, it had its surprisingly progressive moments (e.g., body modifications and the casual acceptance of queerness).

I did struggle a fair bit with how the story was told. I think this is more a me problem, though, which is that I was not a fan of Delany’s writing style. However, I also think there was a major issue with pacing in this novel, so the flow of the plot read strangely to me.

I think I would have more nuanced thoughts about this novel if I had a stronger background in linguistics, because I have no doubt there’s plenty to be said about what was left out from this novel. 

Same Bed Different Dreams is one of those books that I feel would be an even better reading experience the second (or even third) time around due to Park’s very experimental approach. This is such a complex novel with its three interwoven narratives, which, ultimately, resulted in a very surreal experience. The first narrative to follow is about a Korean American, Soon Sheen, and his personal life. The second narrative is a book-within-a-book situation and is about the manuscript that Soon comes across that is about the Korean Provisional Government, and it is an unfinished novel that extensively explores history and culture. The third narrative is about a Black science fiction writer and Korean War veteran. I’m not entirely sure how, but Park managed to deftly weave all of these narratives together to show the ways in which lives and histories are inextricably connected, no matter how well-known or obscure they might be.

Park starts the novel with a question that seems simple: What is history? And it’s a question that repeatedly comes up throughout Same Bed Different Dreams. I think what I liked about this question and its ties to the themes of this novel is how Park reveals the incredibly subjective nature of history. Twentieth-century Korean history in particular proved to be a great point to explore this question, given how frequently the peninsula had to deal with foreign intervention, the Korean War being the apex of it all. Park speculates an alternative history for Korea through the KPG, should they have continued to exist after WWII, filled with dreams and what ifs.

I won’t lie, I don’t know if I fully understood most of this book, haha. There were so many ideas, themes, characters, and the likes that I (and I’m sure many other readers) had to juggle. Furthermore, Park does very little hand-holding, leaving it up to the reader to decide how much of what he wrote is going to be pieced together. Fiction and fact are blurred, there are layers upon layers upon layers found in this novel, all of which make for a strange and chaotic novel. I absolutely stuck around for the vibes, because everything was so fascinating to me. This is definitely a novel I’d love to revisit, especially with hopes of better understanding things.

This was such a heartfelt collection that I know will touch certain readers more than others. I loved the way Omotara reflected on the intersections of being Black, fat, and queer in her poems with such grace and care. I also appreciated how her poems invited the reader to reflect on how they perceive their own body, how one can make space for themself in the world with the body they have.

Most of the poems themselves were beautifully crafted, easily conveying Omotara’s emotions and thoughts. I say easily in the sense that I found her poems quite approachable for all readers. The poems themselves may not resonate with everyone, especially considering how personal they are, but I think there’s a lot that the reader can take away from them.

Some favorites: “Half Girl, Then Elegy,” “Untouched,” “Ceremony,” “Ice Sculpture,” “On Repetition,” “Bang and a Whimper,” “Exhibition of the Queered Woman,” “The Butcher: A Love Poem,” “Sonnet of the Bull,” “In Lieu of Ode,” “Bodies Like Oceans,” “Tripartite,” “Museum of What Is Owed,” “Kiese Says, Black People Deserve Beautiful Sentences, but a Fragment is the Best I Can Do / Songbook for the Names I Have Been Called,” and “Last Days of Summer”