Taylor is wildly good at characterization, human interactions, and interrogating some facets of queer identify (imo). While this sometimes detracts, in the sense that there is no “easily” packaged notion conveyed to the reader—especially when white readers such as myself are conditioned to expect something like that in a (queer) narrative—it’s really opened up a lot of interesting space. It’s almost Rooney-esk in its curiosity at examining hyper-specific interactions between identities. Micro-aggressions and politics of pleasure. The power dynamics at play with vulnerability in a wide range of subjects.

It all works quite well. This was a five star read for me up until halfway in, actually. And I really did like the additional context of other voices coming in, but I also felt like I was missing the “main” storyline too much. I wanted to get back there, and that felt like a bit of a disservice to the other characters, but it was how I felt. I got used to a new person and a new voice. And then it was just gone and we’d do it again. I didn’t feel like it quite mastered the slipping in-and-out of voice style it presented. But it was very interesting.

There are some really wickedly smart observations on behaviour and kinks and whiteness and mediocrity in highly demanding practices, such as ballet. The way autonomy is described in this is simply mesmerizing. It’s neither sexualized, as is typical, nor is it permeated with a power fantasy, also typical. It’s very much it’s own creature that feels intrinsic to the subject at study. It’s honestly singular and incredible.

100% liked this more than Real Life, but again, the heights were tempered by the stylistic choice here, for me.

What a strange book. While there are small plot points that happen, it’s mostly a stream of consciousness from one character as time advances and the closer climate change events will occur. It jumps around with these wildly disparate thoughts, like the main characters transient emotions and anxieties. It’s always interesting and has a contemplative quality throughout. You learn a lot about the character despite the strange, almost-but-not-quite-absent narrative. It’s quirky and sometimes funny. Enjoyable and strange.

The Emily Wilson translation is fantastic. It is precise and clear and has excellent flow, something particularly lacking in anything else I’ve read. There are a few interesting choices in words, which made it easier to understand updated, sometimes also a bit strange, sometimes even funny, which I don’t recall any other version I’d read being.

All around excellent. There is a pronunciation key with a glossary of all the names a few maps, notes on every chapter, and an explanation and break down of Wilson’s process. Plus, the hardcover is gorgeous. Love it.

Absolutely incredible. The back cover is compelling but the actual experience is singular. You find yourself twisting and turning the book around, looking at these fictional found objects that don’t feel fictional one bit. What a way to experience a story!

Within world war memorabilia and postage and photographs is the story of woman that begins as troubles and becomes only more so. In the telling the story becomes about war, and loss and grief; the patriarchy and privilege, and a whole lot more.

Will have to do a medium article with some pictures. I find it hard to relate because I’ve had no experience like it. The previous book, Bough Down, comes close, but this has much more of a narrative and that featured art, rather than the found objects + art piece + typography + prose combo here.

I have been putting this off for a long time because so many reviews are so negative. Weirdly, maybe that just opened me up to be surprised.

Topics of Conversations reminds me of how Sally Rooney conversations in her books. There’s a brutal honest quality that feels like it’s impossible not to form intimacy. The reviews I’d read often say that the characters aren’t “likable”, which I find to be strange and mostly beside the point and somewhat funny. After all, these are snapshots of people sharing, whether they’re aware of it or not, the kernels that make up who they are, when so often all we get is popcorn. For someone to share their innermost thoughts about feeling they’re a monster or have internalized misogyny or feel something is wrong or right with them, and then for the reader to be like, ‘well that’s all well and good but I don’t “like” you now’ is just incredible to me really.

Everyone has shame and worries that feel easier to convey to complete strangers or exacting moments when you’re disarmed. It seems incredible to me that a book like this—essentially an empathy exercise—puts off so many people.

True, I tried the audiobook and the narrator is unbelievable and impeccable. I’ve read the text itself is obtuse and somewhat experimental. Some people thought it sounds like spoken word and I can very much confirm when heard it is incredible; so there’s that. But it also makes sense to me that the prose would be like that. A woman who thinks she’s too smart for her own good and is empirically well educated herself, writing in such a way seems like a style-matching theme.

I also felt like some of the subject matter might be accessible to some generations more than others too, in terms of communication gaps and the overall contextualization felt one part scandalous and one part confessional, which really worked for me. I think it’s provocative for good reason and an interesting way to do a MeToo book. Which, again, feels wild that people's reactions that it’s pretentious and unlikable. Had the text itself been more accessible for the average reader, it might make a decent litmus test?

This book took me a bit to get into because the voice felt like it wasn’t making much sense compared to what was being described. Eventually, that makes total sense, as you come to know all the characters and the narrator, so if you’re having trouble at the start, know that.

As you might expect from the subject matter, it’s also quite heavy sometimes. Particularly with sexual assault. It’s not described too in detail but it’s not off-screen and the violation of it is thematically present throughout and described as it occurs, though fairly short.

From what I know of the American Dirt fiasco, this feels like a book that will be in a dialogue with it; and I think it can easily handle its own if it is put in that box.

It made me think of my own relationship to travel and family. The narrator was particular clever for choosing how to convey the story; though it is at the expense of a more personal story. But I feel like those stories are becoming something of a standard. Marginalized people having to splay themselves open in graphic detail in order to make the mainstream give a damn about them, or any stories they might have, and almost policing the acceptability of the story, too.

There is some narrative distance from everyone, but it’s still personal because it’s basically an oral history. The emotion of the storyteller is contextualized by family members and becomes a generational intellect. It’s heartbreaking without making the characters gut themselves for the audience. I think it’s very smart.

Prose wise it is fairly straight forward and the narrator handles it well. It is not a descriptive writing piece and it feels accessible without being too much like commercial fiction. It’s short and punchy, and the ending is well suited to the story. Worth a read!

I’m of two minds on this book. On the one hand, what relationships are depicted in this book feel incredibly well characterized and developed. This is the richness of the novel that you need to sink into to enjoy it. Especially because it’s a first person narration on the opposite end of verisimilitude; incredibly selective in its framing in service to the exploration of theme rooted in character dynamics.

On the other hand, this framing makes it feel very difficult to feel time and place, and even to get a full sense of character for the protagonist. It feels incredibly siloed and therefor, unreal at times, or maybe emotionally manipulative, since there is no grounding. It also does not feel at all like the voice is a sixth-year PhD candidate. It sounds like a young adult composition, too simple at a sentence by sentence level. When there are interesting thoughts, just by virtue of contrast to the usual simple structure, they feel almost like epiphanies because of the defaultism in language the diction cultivates throughout.

On a conceptual level though, Transcendent Kingdom is incredibly well executed. It is very tight thematically—to the point where everything else feels perfunctory. So I feel enjoyment and engagement will really vary depending on how interested you are in the exploration of ignorance and faith, enlightenment and education, and the vibrancy of a life orbiting close associations with addiction, depression, and responsibility rooted in family dynamics.

For the longest time I thought I had read this book already. I must have picked up a book with a similar title or cover though. I realized I hadn’t read it when I watched the TV show, which is actually substantially different than the book in some ways.

In any case, I’m very glad to have gotten to it, since the voice has wonderful flow and a good balance between economy and description. It’s atmospheric, important, and adept at communicating historical information while not being entirely beholden to it.

Of course, you can imagine it’s not an “easy” read and content warnings abound, particularly Sexual assault, which has multiple dimensions in this piece. But it is also capital a About the hard subject matter whenever it is introduced.

I found this to be fantastic in every case, save for my reader kryptonite: psychic distance in the perspective always felt a bit removed. Which I think is fairly necessary, considering the subject matter. But it did curiously feel pretty difficult to feel grounded in place and person, despite it being atmospheric and rich in textured prose.

I went in not expecting too much and was delighted. The only actor whom I’ve read with this degree of skill is probably Gabriel Byrne, whose memoir was *amazing*. This, similarly feels written by someone who has studied poetry and internalized great writing such that it has a organic and lived quality that permeates the pages. When language reads like that, you’re doing it right.

Sentence by sentence this is really impressive. It’s engaging and punchy when it needs to be. Diction is great, especially with active verb choice. Cadence is organic and makes for a really immersive experience. There’s an endearing amount of truth in the point of view. Some people will probably dislike it, but I found it strikes the right balance with the steam of consciousness. It fits the character but is also unapologetically more interesting and intelligent than him.

This also feels like it’s at least somewhat autofiction. I don’t know enough about Hawke to say how much, but he was famous for cheating on Uma Thurman and being a fuck boy about it for a minute. This feels like it’s a person reflecting on their growth and dealing with similar issues that would be trudged up by such an affair.

It’s about an actor who pretty much has a mid life crisis and cheats on his universally adored wife, a rock star. He then completely spirals, not really being aware of what nourishment is, except for, ironically, when he is taking care of his children, a thing he has diminished in his life.

In order to reclaim his life he, a movie star, decides to take on a roll in a Shakespeare production. A part that demands more of him that he thought, and he utilizes to shift away from his life and not deal with his problems.

The result is a boom and bust cycle of a life. It’s a man who wants vengeance and contrition but doesn’t know, but has spotted Moby Dick in the mirror and tries to shoot his heart, a cannon, from his breast upon his own image as often and as messily as possible. But somehow never dying. It goes on. Putting himself in his acting and then returning to his lonesome self to fuck and snort coke and continue the descent.

Those parts, in my opinion, are the weaker parts of the novel despite their superficial attraction. Because Hawke proves he has a command of diction that can radically alter the tempo of dialogue or scene quite easily. Anything becomes interesting. Which means the cliché, though the actual point of the character and the theme being explored, beg for an intervention. It feels like it’s saying something interesting the least when he’s losing himself inside of another person. These could have been truncated in favour of anything else a person might do in a city and leave the fucking abridged.

However, that being said, the realization our actor has from his experience is better than average for these archetypical trajectories that feel too often artificial. The protagonists of our lives, we repeatedly cast ourselves in the role of the villain and it is only too right and just that the audience hate us for it.

The trick is realizing you’re in that role at all. Otherwise we retrace our scripted character’s steps day after day, night after night, never knowing the full context of who we are, what we need and what nourishes us, and how we might change, or have already changed. Everyone requires an audience participation and everyone is playing a role. If you don’t know what your part is it is, it is past time you actively participate in your life again and ask someone.