Christina

This book was FASCINATING. I was almost completely ignorant about the Deaf community, so I learned an absurd amount from this book, from the systemic oppression of signing to the ethics of consent around cochlear implants. I'm frankly embarrassed to have not known any of it before and I'm grateful to Sara Nović via Book of the Month for educating me (I was going to say “for opening my eyes”, but that reads as ableist in a different way!). Moreover, it was a genuinely great read with characters I found believable yet completely surprising - a great combination. Strongly recommend.

This book was hard work to read. That's not a bad thing by any means, but I do think it's important to be aware of! I think I entered into it with the wrong mindset; based on the blurb, I was expecting something more prototypically “novelesque” - something more squarely aligned with most contemporary or literary fiction. I was taken aback by its detached tone (her father - never named - is simply “The Father”) and its frequent allusions and references to philosophers and artists. I think I was anticipating something more purely emotional, and it was actually quite logical (though by no means linear). Again, that's not a criticism, but it does explain why it took me so long to get through - I ended up struggling so much on my first attempt I had to set it aside, then re-start from the beginning with an open mind one month later.

Once I started for the second time, I was overall glad to have the experience of reading this book. In some ways, it reminded me of The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, though I'd still describe that book as more overtly emotional than this one. There were some scenes that were incredibly visceral; in particular, the Father losing control of his bowels during the Super Bowl at his first care facility was so hard to read (and so memorable even weeks later) in large part because it was so well-described - the anticipation, the action, the aftermath: shame and relief and disconnection. That said, while there were bursts of vivid and powerful writing that captivated me, I never felt completely absorbed by this book - more vaguely curious, and like I was learning something. (Between this book and Ruth Ozeki's latest, I know more about Walter Benjamin than I ever would have suspected!)

Overall, I would describe this as slow-paced, esoteric, and unique. I found it intriguing more than enjoyable, but I feel that had I gone in with those expectations, I might have had a more positive experience.

Thanks to W.W. Horton and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for my honest review.

I really enjoyed this book. Based on the blurb, I was a little worried that the scope meant we wouldn't get an individual sense of the many characters, but that wasn't the case. The snapshots for each character, though brief moments in time, were so vivid and core to their identities - not to mention beautifully written - that I felt not only as though I knew them, but as though I knew them well enough to understand why other characters' perceptions of them were so different from their own. The contrast between how each character saw him or herself and how the other family members thought of them was a fascinating theme, and felt very true to life. What also resonated was how their needs and hopes sometimes overlapped, sometimes clashed with one another - also true. The title - and the explanation for it - was perfect for the story.

For readers seeking plot-driven stories, this isn't it - but for those like me who love a good character-driven novel, I strongly recommend. (I don't often cry while reading books, but the scene where Robin recalls the first dinner Mercy made him brought me to tears.)

Thank you to Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for my honest review.

True story: I bought The Verifiers by Jane Pek on a whim from an airport bookstore solely because of the front-cover blurb; any time Emily St. John Mandel tells me a book is “exhilaratingly well written”, well, I'm going to need it.

I knew from the singularly brilliant use of “potholed” as a verb on the very first page (“Their gazes skitter about, their sentences are potholed with ‘ums' and ‘wells'” -

“How was it possible that I knew so much about how to think, but so little about what to do? On some level, I knew I was overthinking things, but from where I stood, it seemed as if everyone else was underthinking things and I was thinking about them the right amount.”

It's possible I've never related to a protagonist quite as much as I did in this moment. (I can't say so definitively, because then I'd have to think back on every book that's ever resonated with me to be sure ... oh, what's that? I'm overthinking?)

Evelyn Kominsky Kumamoto has just left her PhD program, following the siren song of late-stage capitalism and the private sector - specifically, Big Tech. When we meet her, she's just started working at “the third-most popular internet company,” and she's in disbelief that she's actually making money as a researcher - enough that she can splurge on fancy cheese and fresh-cut flowers on her way home. (“A woman with fresh-cut flowers on the dining room table was a real woman, a real person.”) But before long, doubts start creeping in. Her team is working on an app designed to quantify and optimize users' happiness. It's no spoiler to say: yikes. Or to note that Evelyn, who is half-Japanese, seems to be picking up on things her predominantly white coworkers, especially her single-minded manager, aren't ignoring so much as not seeing at all.

Evelyn's ambivalence and low-level sense of existential dread extends beyond work, too. Does she want to marry Jamie, her long-term, irrepressibly - sometimes to the point of ignorantly - optimistic boyfriend? (There's a bizarrely romantic, exceptionally written moment involving ticks.) Does she want to be a mother? What does she want out of her relationship with her father?

This is such a timely book. It didn't so much raise new questions as better articulate ones that have been percolating in my brain for some time (I'm a UX researcher working in tech, so...) The ending seemed a tiny bit pat to me, but in a way that felt less like a cop-out and more like a relief. I've mentioned I'm not a huge book-club person, but this is a book I'd love to discuss.

I'm still reeling from this astonishing memoir.

The premise drew me in immediately; it's a memoir told in seventeen stories, each centering on one of O'Farrell's brushes with death. The writing is beautiful, both lyrical and (at times) disturbingly, can't-look-away visceral.

As an anxiety-prone, risk-averse human, I admit I found myself in disbelief at the frequency and ferocity of O'Farrell's near-death experiences (for example, if I'd survived even one of her three near-drownings, I think I'd probably stop swimming for a while or, uh, forever). Her urge to live life to its absolute fullest, to push boundaries and risk bodies, comes in large part from surviving encephalitis as a child. Remarkably, what she takes away from that experience is that the rest of her life is a bonus, something she lucked into, something to be taken the utmost advantage of rather than tucked away safely on a high shelf.

While all the stories are powerful, by far the most harrowing for me is the first, in which she re-encounters a man on a trail and knows implicitly and unequivocally that he means to harm her. The story of her miscarriage was also gut-wrenching.

This was amazing and I'm glad to have read it. I'm embarrassed to admit I've never read Maggie O'Farrell before - no, not even Hamnet! - and this has skyrocketed her to the top of my list.

I wanted to love this book, but it wasn't as ‘for me' as I'd expected. I love character-driven novels, which is how it's been described, but I struggled to connect to any one character - just as I was starting to get really invested, we jumped to the perspective of another. And while the characters' lives were interconnected, with 12+ of them, we really could only get snapshots. It felt like we were scraping the surface - of important moments, certainly, but fleeting ones - and I craved more depth and less variety. Because of that, I enjoyed the second half - once we'd finally met the entire cast of characters - far more than the first.

I think this is intentional on Joella's part - the jacket copy says, “A Little Hope celebrates the importance of small moments of connection” - so maybe this is a case of expectations setting me up for disappointment! With that goal in mind, though, I wonder if I would have preferred this as a series of interconnected short stories/vignettes rather than a novel.

I found the writing itself to be generally solid, with a few moments of clunkiness that jarred me out of the story. I did like the ending.

GRRR. This book was so frustrating to me, because for the first two-thirds, it was unquestionably a five-star read. The way it all concluded, though - WHY. WHY WHY WHY. Especially in a world in which it's immediately established on that magic exists - one character gets flashes of sentiment and stories whenever he touches an item someone else has touched first, another can hear and interpret heartbeats - why wouldn't you take a creative, compelling approach to resolution over a ‘grounded' ending that defies belief?!

Normally, I tolerate just-OK plots so long as the writing is good. The writing here is gorgeous, if occasionally overwrought - dark, moody, dreamlike, building a sense of dread that reminded me of Rumaan Alam's Leave the World Behind. But the plot felt like such an afterthought, I just couldn't get past it. Without getting too specific (but stop reading if you want to be 100% unspoiled!), the control mechanism the plot rests on was not compelling (and frankly borderline cliche), and the epilogue section glazed over a key plot point (like, OK, everyone in the entire community just accepted this world-shattering information and unconcernedly went on with their lives? no questions, pushback, anger? it's just...all good?). I felt like the author knew in broad strokes where she wanted to go but didn't think deeply enough about how to get there.

I LOVED this book. Couldn't put it down, couldn't stop dog-earing, couldn't stop texting friends with snapshots of paragraphs and !!!!s kind of love.

Win Me Something follows Willa Chen - half Chinese, half white - through a formative year-ish of nannying for a wealthy white family in Manhattan and reckoning with her own muddled childhood. In the author's words, from the very first page:

“I had parents. I had siblings. I had homes, multiple or zero, depending on how you looked at it. I wasn't unloved, not uncared for, exactly. It was cloudier than that, ink spreading into water as I tried to claim the words. If you're undercared for, but essentially fine, what do you do with all that hurt, the kind that runs through your tendons and tugs on your muscles but doesn't show up on your skin?”

WHEW.

Throughout the (debut!) novel, Willa grapples with this pervasive feeling of not belonging, of feeling tolerated but never actively wanted, of squeezing herself in to the margins of other people's lives. (The way Lucia Wu writes this is fresh and resonant and haunting; the prose is stellar.) I was so compelled by her journey as she starts to name and explore and question these beliefs.

Strongly, strongly recommend.

This cookbook was a breath of fresh air. I love how empathetic and explicitly non-judgmental Ruby Tandoh is, and how these recipes are truly designed to meet people where they're at - understanding that people have different physical abilities, experiences with cooking, and, frankly, other priorities in life (radical!). I liked the organization of the recipes - because, yes, some days I do want to go all-out, and other days I just want something edible. I found her writing engaging and informal, but still informative. I also deeply valued how she credited other cooks and authors from cultures not her own when she'd learned something from them - I came away from this cookbook with lots of great suggestions for further reading.

I understand and appreciate why she chose to avoid photos, and I LOVED the illustrations by Sinae Park. However, my one qualm: I wish the art would have been used more frequently as a tool to make instructions more concrete. For example, in one recipe, she talks about breaking out cauliflower into its leaves (then into green leafy parts versus “ribs”), florets, and stalk. I'm a visual thinker, and I would have loved to have seen that depicted in art form versus text alone. The abstract drawings were lovely and conveyed a wonderful sense of coziness and warmth, but I wish there would have been a bit more integration with the recipes themselves - I think that would have made them even less intimidating / more accessible.

Thanks to Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group and NetGalley for my ARC.

TL;DR: If you loved Station Eleven, I think you'll love The Light Pirate. And that's just about the highest praise I can give.

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Any time a publisher tries to compare a book to Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven, arguably my favorite novel of all time, I'm going to be skeptical. Lucky for me (and readers everywhere), on rare occasion my natural cynicism proves not just unwarranted but spectacularly, joyfully, scream-it-from-the-rooftops wrong. That was the case here. The Light Pirate by Lily Brooks-Dalton is magnificent.

Fair warning: it is also devastating, on many levels, at many moments. You get attached, and then in an instant - gone. That said, just like in Station Eleven, “post-apocalypic joy” does exist, and it's especially stunning for being heartbreakingly hard-won. (Here, though, it's post-climate destruction, not a global pandemic.)

The writing is beautiful and almost painfully vivid. So many passages struck me, I wound up with pages upon pages of highlights. I won't quote anything in full yet as I know it's an uncorrected proof, but I will say that Lily Brooks-Dalton's metaphors are exquisite.

Speculative fiction is one of my favorite genres. This is one of the most stunning examples of it I've read since, well, Station Eleven. It reminds me of an excerpt of a Dobyns poem I love: “This is where we are in history - to think / the table will remain full; to think the forest will / remain where we have pushed it; to think our bubble of / good fortune will save us from the night”. This is one of those books that I wish everyone would read, not only because it's exceptional (which it is) but because it's critical. To paraphrase Brooks-Dalton, we all know that what we're doing to our world isn't sustainable - but we've hung our hats on the question of proximity, betting that we'll squeak through a closing drawbridge, that the worst won't come until we're gone. The Light Pirate - out later this year - calls our bluff.

Thanks to NetGalley and Grand Central Publishing for an ARC in exchange for my honest review.

I found Schmutz by Felicia Berliner equal parts fascinating and disconcerting. I wouldn't say I enjoyed it per se - it made me deeply uncomfortable! - but I valued, admired, and appreciated it, and am glad it exists. It's unusual, clever, and provocative, both in the sexual sense and the thought-provoking one.

I finished it about a week ago, and what I remember most vividly is the stark contrast between the increasingly intense porn Raizl finds herself drawn to and the limits of her language and knowledge to describe what she's seeing and feeling. There's one scene where she's describing the men and women in her videos - in the most intensely sexual situations imaginable - in almost absurdly sexless geometric terms. There was something so guileless about her, but - as with many areas of her life - she's determined to understand.

Overall, this book was less funny and more complex than I'd expected based on the description; it resisted easy definitions or judgements. By the end, I genuinely wasn't sure what I wanted for Raizl - there's no obvious path forward, and frankly no real way for her to integrate the wildly disparate things she cares about into one life - but I was left just slightly more hopeful than fearful.

Thanks to Atria Books and NetGalley for my ARC.

It took me a few chapters to get into this book, but once I did, I was utterly engrossed. In terms of scope and scale, it reminded me of Pachinko by Min Jin Lee and The Love Songs of W.E.B. DuBois by Honorée Jeffers; though both of those books span generations and The Evening Hero focuses on just one man's life, it manages to feel almost as sweeping - and really, you could argue Dr. Yungman Kwak has lived two lives, one in Korea and one in America. 

It's sweeping, as well, in the emotions it elicits. There were times I was snort-laughing - while I would by no means recommend this to anyone seeking a “light” read, there were some sharp, delightful moments of levity. There were other times I felt enraged or heartbroken - especially the backstory of his childhood during the war, which this book taught me a lot about. (I found these parts the most engaging.) And there were times I found myself shrugging along at the absurdity of the US healthcare system, then - just like Yungman - jolting into a realization of how utterly wrong it is. You could describe it as historical fiction or contemporary satire, and you'd be right on both counts. 

My sympathies for Yungman, his wife, and (to a lesser extent) his son swung wildly throughout the first half of the book, then settled into a kind of balance by the end. I'm extremely impressed by the author's ability to write such multi-layered characters - with all their complexities, flaws, regrets, and desires (to belong, to be loved, to do better). 

This is an awesome book in the purest sense of the world. I will definitely be reading it again when it's released.

Thanks to NetGalley and Simon & Schuster for my ARC.

“Dark, edgy, and wickedly funny” - yes, yes, and yes. How to Be Eaten is a gorgeously written story about a modern-day support group comprised of five women who've survived so-called fairy tales, from the traditional (like Gretel, who - unsurprisingly - struggles with a deep mistrust of food and those who try to feed her) to the contemporary (like Ashlee, the 21-year-old ‘winner' of the most recent Bachelor). It is TWISTED, and it is excellent.

In terms of plot, it of course reminded me of The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix, which I enjoyed - but I'd put TFGSG squarely in the thriller category, whereas I think How To Be Eaten is more ambiguous. It has thriller-esque elements, particularly around the therapist and his motivations, but it's much more character-driven than your typical mystery, and there's magical realism too. I'd actually compare it most closely to Silvia Moreno-Garcia's Mexican Gothic - both books expertly create a sense of creeping unease (and visceral shock!) as you move through them.

The one thing I didn't like about this book was the cover - I think it's misleading. It suggests that Ruby's (Little Red Riding Hood's) story will be the central one, but that's not the case. (The women get roughly equal ‘page time', but if there's an argument to be made for one central character, I'd go with Bernice or maybe Raina.) I would have preferred a more abstract design, or one that managed to integrate elements of all five women's stories - I think that would have set a much stronger orientation.

That said, I loved this book. I loved it so much I had to force myself to stop reading when I was 70% of the way through so that I could savor it through more than one sitting. To put it in context, I read an absurd amount - I'm at 80+ books in 2022 so far - and I can already tell this will be a contender for one of my favorites.

Thanks to NetGalley and Little, Brown and Company for my ARC.

There's a rare but delightful category of great books - something like ‘Books I wouldn't necessarily want to read based on the premise, but can't put down once I start' - and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow falls squarely into it. I was inspired to read this book about 1% based on its description, 99% based on rave reviews from people I trust; I don't have much to add to their effusive commentary other than to say the hype is JUSTIFIED. I was utterly invested in the three characters, I was engrossed by the plot, and I even managed to grow curious about video games - something I genuinely never thought I'd say. I found this book fascinating, heartrending, and heartwarming, and I'll be purchasing a hard copy when it's published - this is a book that warrants at least one reread, and I can't wait to lend it out.

Thanks to NetGalley and Knopf for my ARC.

I was so excited to read this book as Quiet was transformative for me. Maybe it was a case of unrealistic expectations, but this book not only didn't resonate much with me (even though I'd certainly describe myself as drawn to bittersweetness; my Spotify Wrapped inevitably skews to “yearning” and “nostalgia”), I didn't find it particularly well-written or intellectually exciting. There were moments I loved, mostly when Cain is reflecting on her own personal experiences, and I thought the final chapter on inherited trauma was well-researched and fascinating. So much of it, though, felt like she was giving credence to scam artists, or at the very least giving way too much benefit of the doubt. In particular, I feel like the sections on “anti-deathers” would have been greatly improved with some healthy skepticism. I'm sad to give this the rating I did, but anything higher would be a stretch.

Well-written book with a pat ending that was lovely but (in my opinion) far-fetched to the point of absurdity.

Overall, I found the characters compelling and I was intrigued by their stories, but I felt this book - in large part because of how it ended - to be a little too “shiny”. I preferred ‘A Good Neighborhood' - but I would recommend this for anyone looking for a chicken-soup-for-the-soul-esque novel.

Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin's Press for the ARC.

YESSSSSSSSS.

Carola Lovering's debut novel, ‘Tell Me Lies,' is one of my all-time favorite books about young (twisted) love. Her second, ‘Too Good To Be True,' was a letdown - I feel like the plot ran away with the characters. All that to say, I wasn't sure what to expect with her third - but lucky for us, ‘Can't Look Away' is excellent. I would have devoured it in a single sitting had I not asked my partner to hide my Kindle for a few hours so I could prolong the excitement of another great read by Lovering.

If ‘Tell Me Lies' is character-driven and ‘Too Good To Be True' is (too) plot-driven, ‘Can't Look Away' is that excellent, elusive combination of both. Throughout the story, I found the characters' choices - even at their most shortsighted and extreme and conniving - to be believable because of their backstories and beliefs. Without giving anything away, I loved the ending.

I will say that, like her other novels, nearly all of the characters are white, well-educated, and well-off - but there was some exploration of financial privilege this time around. If you like stories about what could have been, about love darkening into obsession, about revenge in the digital age, about love triangles where you don't know who to root for (in particular, if you liked ‘The Light We Lost' by Jill Santopolo, this is for you!) - you'll want to read this. Thank you, Carola Lovering, for another great book that brought me back as vividly to what it's like to be 22 as Taylor Swift's Red re-release today!

ARC provided by NETGalley and St. Martin's Press in exchange for an honest review.

This was a slow burn for me. It took me a while to get into, especially compared to Moreno-Garcia's previous novels Mexican Gothic and Velvet Was The Night, and for the first third I found the plot to be almost entirely predictable (note: I've never read H. G. Wells' The Island of Doctor Moreau, so that's not why!).

While I don't think the predictability ever vanished (I've been deliberately vague in this next statement, but just in case, I'll mark it as a spoiler) I thought the secret about Carlota, the titular character, was anything but - I found myself more and more drawn into the story, especially once the Lizaldes showed up. I flew through the last two-thirds in one sitting, to the point that I was surprised and a little disappointed to hit the end.

I'm not entirely sure how to position it - unlike her other works I'm familiar with, it's not a gothic horror novel nor a straight thriller. I guess I'd characterize it as historical fiction with a magical realism / sci-fi bent. I really enjoyed the historical fiction elements - I learned a remarkable amount about the Yucatán peninsula in the late 19th century - and I admire Moreno-Garcia's ability to move across genres.

Thanks to NetGalley and Random House Publishing Group - Ballentine for my ARC.

I always find Katherine Center's books to be absorbing feel-good breaks from reality, and this was no exception. While the arc of the story was predictable (as it should be for this type of book!), I really did enjoy the twists and turns it took to get there. I especially liked the scenes that included Connie and Doc. Their characters radiated such warmth, and it was clear why Hannah was so drawn not just to Jack - the famous and unfairly handsome movie star she's been tasked with protecting - but also to his family.

That said, I felt the development of Taylor's character was a bit unbelievable. To have her first betray Hannah and so easily and completely dismiss her (“We were work friends, we were never best friends, and your problem is that you don't know the difference”), then spend the rest of the story going to great lengths to apologize and rebuild their relationship, didn't quite make sense to me. Luckily, their relationship wasn't the focus of the book so this didn't have too much of an impact.

Thank you to St. Martin's Press and NetGalley for a digital ARC of this book in exchange for my honest review.

When Emily St. John Mandel praises a book as “deeply moving, always excellent, and often unexpectedly funny,” my expectations are going to be sky-high, so frankly I was a bit wary to read Notes on Your Sudden Disappearance - I didn't want to be disappointed if it didn't live up to the hype. Happily, and astonishingly, it exceeded it.

I absolutely loved this book. It's in that elusive sweet spot - strong plot, compelling characters, AND excellent writing. I felt so strongly for Sally - and, even though we never hear from them directly, for her mother, her father, and Billy, her sister Kathy's boyfriend when she died. Even though most of the book takes place in the aftermath of the accident that kills Kathy, she's such a vivid character, too. (I will note that plot-wise, it reminded me strongly of another ARC I've read recently, Kaleidoscope by Cecily Wong. At a high level, they can be described quite similarly - girl loses beloved sister to a horrific accident, trauma-bonds with her left-behind partner, their relationship begins to transform...)

On reflection, it's fitting that Emily St. John Mandel wrote the review she did. She's described her recently adapted-for-TV book, Station Eleven, as a story not about the apocalypse, but about post-apocalyptic joy; Notes on Your Sudden Disappearance is similar. Kathy's death is apocalyptic for Sally and her family - but, though their grief is endless, there's joy to be found, too. (Along those lines, while the ending may be controversial, I loved it.)

5+ stars. I'll be buying a copy to reread, and I've requested Alison Espach's first novel from the library.

Thank you to Henry Holt & Company and NetGalley for an ARC in exchange for my honest review.

As someone whose Spotify Wrapped skews towards “yearning” and “nostalgia”, it's no shock that I was drawn to this book of what-ifs. But it's not simply looking back on roads not taken - it's an actual exploration of nine of them. (Yes, like Sliding Doors.)

Rose married Luke knowing they wouldn't have kids. He's since changed his mind. All nine lives are sparked from the same moment - Rose had begrudgingly agreed to take prenatal vitamins, Luke discovers the bottle's full - but each time, she reacts differently and a new future is created. Some include a baby, often under pressure, raising big questions of social norms and identity and consent; others don't. Some include divorce, affairs, career pivots. You see some of her most important relationships strengthen or wither across lives, while others are universally present, just in different ways.

What I loved about this book is that I couldn't always predict which choices would lead to which outcomes. And honestly, as someone who agonizes over making the “right” choice, I found it deeply soothing that there was joy and heartbreak in (nearly) every life Rose chose.

I loved reading this book. I'm shocked that it didn't get more attention when it came out last year - I'm not always a book club person, but this was made for book club discussions. At risk of getting personal, it would be fascinating to hear which choices and lives resonated most with each person and why.

My only caveat is that the lives aren't written linearly - you jump from life to life - so I'd recommend having a hard copy to make it easier to flip back and recall where the life you're in left off!