There are many descriptors one could use for this expansive novel; not all of them would entice a reader, but Castillo's debut was so blindingly beautiful and dauntless, that I would encourage you to read it even though it may at times be slow to read, use sporadic second person, or be structurally uneven. I loved all these qualities about it, especially in tandem with the elements of its character depth, subtly interwoven historical commentary, discerning cultural perspective, and all-encompassing humanity.

Castillo is an immersive storyteller. She's not going to lay everything out for you about Filipinx culture in both the Philippines or Milpitas, California (her two settings); she's going to drop you right in there, have her characters talking to each other in Ilocano or Tagalog (which makes you realize, oh, there are MANY regional languages in the Philippines, and also me realizing, due to the Spanish colonization of the country, that I recognized some of the latin-rooted words #learningthrufiction). She's not going to translate for you, but you'll get it. Or you won't—that's okay!

She's going to mention former Philippine president slash dictator Ferdinand Marcos, but only with the word Marcos. She's not going to give you a history lesson, she's going to show you how dictatorship and martial law affected her characters and their decisions. You'll come to understand how the opposing party operated, the underground rebellion in the mountains, called the New People's Army.


She's not going to have her bisexual protagonist grapple in first-person with her bisexuality; she's just going to show you what it is to be Hero: a woman who's lived three lives by age 35 and feels attracted to people regardless of how they identify. She's not grappling with who she's attracted to, she's grappling with her very identity formed and affected by how she grew up, what she decided to do in retaliation to that, and where her rebelliousness landed her: living, post-trauma, with extended family in the Bay Area.

And the majority of the novel takes place in 1991, so you'll also read a little about Terminator 2.

The storytelling is bold and brash, but I would be remiss not to mention the compassion. I came to love these characters—the complicated thoughts of Hero, the stoic, hardworking Paz, and Hero's namesake and eight-year-old cousin Rino. Hero and Rino (both named Geronima) form the most tender relationship over the course of this book, and Rino may be one of the best depictions of a kid I've encountered in literature.

I read all 408 pages of this book, learned so much, and I know there is still much to be gleaned that I probably missed. And I still want to know more.

Castillo is doing what Junot Diaz's writing did with Yunior for the Dominican diaspora. I'd argue she does it better than the Pulitzer winner, though (lo siento, pero), Castillo manages to soak you in the lives of more than one protagonist—render fully a community of Filipinx characters, and takes particular care with the women. She tackles so much in one book, and I applaud her for it, though others may feel it's too much. Castillo: take up your space, say your piece, I am HERE for it.

America is Not the Heart charts a complex journey for the reader, one that is particularly rewarding. I encourage the curious reader, the one who remembers to laugh amid tragedy, the reader who is open to the grand and minutiae, a reader who doesn't prize sentimentality, the reader who would like perspectives of those we rarely see in fiction. The immense talent and unique voice of Elaine Castillo's debut novel awaits you.

A writer I like made a joke a few years ago on Twitter. She linked to a current news story and her comment was simply: #banallmen. It was a hashtag used a lot during the run up to the 2016 election. I think of this phrase often, while being a woman online. While being a woman walking down the street. While being a woman in a country that elected Donald Trump, and the many men before that. I think of it a lot when I read news stories about the environment and climate change. When I read most news stories, come to think of it. Untested rape kits. Lenient sentences for well-connected rapists. Boys will be boys. Supreme court cases, and justices. Powerful men taking advantage. Women dragged for saying a word.

Read the rest of the review at The Book Slut.

This array of essays spoke to me in a way that I was not expecting, and left me uncomfortable a number of times. I've written about this before—that recognition of myself in someone else's words. It felt a little like a mirror and I didn't appreciate it, until I realized what was happening and that Hodson was not only speaking truths about herself, but about me, too.

In "I'm Only a Thousand Miles Away," her obsessive nature is my obsessive nature. Her societal correlation by essay's end made me think long and hard, and turn to other essays that also spoke to the role women play and are assigned when it comes to pop music. Or, in the case of Jessica Hopper, emo music. It was great to revisit Hopper's seminal essay "Emo: Where the Girls Aren't," written in 2003 for Punk Planet (but also included in her 2015 collection), after finishing Hodson's essay. Both are full of questions and observations I've had as a, well, fan. I vividly recall that term being used by others as a pejorative more than once, to describe me, to my face.

There are passages and topics and images she renders with words that I won't soon forget. There's a meditative quality to her writing that felt a bit like hypnosis, too. I suppose the word I'm looking for is mesmerizing. I gave up on trying to be comfortable, and instead became open to how Hodson was making me feel. It was wonderful to discuss this with the #bookpartyclub and get to divulge a lot of the personal that eked out of me with each piece.

I can't wrap up without also mentioning the art of Hodson's work, which is always a fascination of mine when it intersects with writing.

A bleak and unrelenting memoir about growing up in a working class village in Northern France. Sad and sometimes shocking, but a relief to know that Eddy was able to survive the traumas of his childhood enough to reflect on them and write this book.

I was intrigued by the case histories as they began, and I wish my interest was upheld by the character of Jackson Brodie. But it really wasn't. And the way the novel ties its loose ends had me a bit confused; it was very pat and detailed, but not the level of detail Jackson could know so are these his writing of cases or just..."here's what actually happened"? Because of the way the cases wrapped I wondered why all the minuscule details of Jackson's life were even needed. Probably the last Brodie novel I read. Though, I didn't hate it. I liked it fine.

Could I possibly describe this astounding book to you? I'm not sure; Apostol barely allows the reader to understand her two protagonists and what they are writing. They are writing scripts about their heritage, personal history, and also the historic. Consider that Apostol lays out her narrative from page one with a cast of characters, a pages-long table of contents about what's to come. It's cheeky, it's funny—I laughed. She introduces her two characters: Magsalin, a Filipinx writer and translator, and Chiara, the American daughter of a famous 70s filmmaker who disappeared in the Philippines years ago. The two women have come together in Manila to work on a film script, and it seems like they end up writing two different scripts, two different movies about different time periods and different things, but maybe they're the same?

I love this kind of layered, meta-fictional novel that navigates history and tragedy and what is remembered and how. Apostol’s filmmakers are traveling in modern-day Duterte Philippines, while writing about the Marcos-era 70s, and about a massacre in Balangiga during the Philippine-American War in 1901. Does any of this sound familiar to you? Perhaps like me, not very (though after AMERICA IS NOT THE HEART, some was!). I found myself looking up a lot after the novel ended, because it felt like untold history to me. Especially Casiana Nacionales, the 'Geronima of Balangiga'! Just: exclamation point for that historical figure I'd heard nothing about and her role in the book, too.

At one point Apostol writes: "A reader does not need to know everything." 🤯 YES. A wonderful reminder and warning as the reader continues. INSURRECTO is art, this novel is brilliant, and it is not linear or easy to comprehend. ✨You will not know everything✨ But it is enjoyable if you want to learn and feel rewarded. It's a journey I'll likely take again, and one of the best books I’ve read this year.

Whew, what a debut. A brutal book from the beginning, one that I really had to build up a rhythm in order to continue. Completely extraordinary and fascinating, though.

The narration comes from within the protagonist, Ada's, mind: spirits that inhabit her from inception and grow within her fractured self. She is not typical. The reader has to view the world not as a human, but as one of these ancient spirits, and thus try to understand what is happening to Ada with these otherworldly descriptions. It's a gripping way to experience what happens to Ada as she grows up; it's near masterful when you think about how you might describe a scene like an accident, not through a young child's eyes but through the spirit that is seeing and feeling in that young child. And there are many traumas throughout the book, it's difficult at times. You must read, and then process, and comprehend as a human being. As a writer, I was captivated by this.

I also felt that there was so much here that would be great to discuss with a group of people, since sometimes reading something in isolation means you've perhaps missed something. And for a short book, it touches on a lot. Mainly trauma, abuse, and mental illness. But also religion, marriage, evil, men and women.

I've certainly never read anything like this. Looking forward to whatever Emezi conjures up next.