It's the 1950s in Houston, Texas and this book follows Cece Buchanan and her best friend Joan Fortier as they transition from high school to adulthood in elite society. Well, that's one tepid way to put it. Another way is: we are spectators to Joan Fortier's life, just like her best friend Cece. She's the closest person to Joan, and yet she can't even grasp her. Joan is the most beautiful and charismatic woman in Houston, and part of her allure is fueled by the air of mystery around her. If we are the spectators, Joan is the elusive spectre.

This is my first DiSclafani novel, and the woman can write atmosphere! There's something so wonderfully vintage about the scene setting; it feels Hitchcockian in noir and restrained perversity, like Rebecca the novel in its hypnotic words but also like the decadent film (Joan Fortier is spelled so similarly to Joan Fontaine, don't you think?). But there's no Max de Winter here (#blessed), there's only Joan and Cece, two women who each have dark secrets. DiSclafani builds the tension as she reveals the level of Cece's obsession, though it's fun to debate the underlying motivations of this polite, rule-following, stay-at-home mother and smiling wife. As we wonder about Joan’s life, occasionally one has to pause and pan the camera back to Cece: wait, what about you?

There was only one plot point of predictability for me, but I think it's more homage to old movies and culture, and DiSclafani does serve it up with a twist. The delicious secrets are revealed by book's end, but that evocative atmosphere remained for me, and I love anything that feels like an old Hollywood movie, or du Maurier novel.

You know when you read something that has had an immense cultural significance and you realize many, many things were evoked from its pages? That it was the fount of so much that came after? Ellison's classic novel contains so many themes, images, and scenes that have influenced later artworks. I love encountering the source material. Which is not to say that it doesn't have it's own influences; if I had to pin one, this novel is downright Dostoevskian.

I love experimental novels that grapple with one's existence. The nameless narrator in INVISIBLE MAN takes the reader on his journey of being a black student at a Southern college (the way he wins his scholarship—whew, get ready) to a chauffeur, a seeker of employment in New York City, a factory worker, an injured man, a medical test subject, an orator, and political pawn. That's not even everything. Every turn of the story is fraught and fascinating. And I must commend the absolutely brilliant narration of Joe Morton for keeping my attention undivided for all 18 hours and 36 minutes. The writing is loud and confident, and Morton embodies our narrator in full.

INVISIBLE MAN is a layered book that speaks to the many experiences of being American and being black in America; the book is set in the 20s and 30s, but much still resonates today. Invisibility of a person or people: there is much to be said about suffering in this country, and what goes ignored. My mind also thought a lot about those in charge and the current state of immigration. After such an arduous journey, the last uttered line gave me a shiver: "Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?"

There were times while reading this book that I put my hand to my heart in sorrow. Much of the time, though, my jaw was clenched in anger. The protagonist, Ana Falcón, is a woman from Peru, trying to keep her family together by any means necessary after immigrating to New York City. There are forces and unspoken rules beyond her control everywhere she turns, determining her fate. The people around Ana seem increasingly dangerous to her well-being, from loan sharks to in-laws and more. There are moments of pure horror; one scene so intense I had to pause because I felt it unfold so viscerally. I'm talking realistic, modern day, living-in-this-world-every-day horror. The most insidious.

Rivero creates an immersive experience through her protagonist; she manages to paint a portrait of Ana that is a test of the reader's empathy. Ana is doing her best, and we are privy to why she makes certain decisions. I would guess most readers are reading this novel from a privileged vantage; we will never be asked to make these same decisions or face similar circumstances. This prods you to find that common ground: you know, being human. Rivero's writing captures Ana's struggle in such a way that asks us to examine ourselves. It's powerful.

I'm not sure you could read this book without having an emotional reaction. I highly recommend, and I think it'd be a great book club pick, too.

I lingered with this 200-pager. It's intensely readable, though Griffith has a sharp way of telegraphing a lot in a small space. This book made me look at my own non-disabled existence and how often I take it for granted. No other book has made me make a doctor's appointment, that's for sure (scheduled for next Monday for some lingering pain I'd chosen to ignore for two months). I'm looking at the world differently, too: there was a headline the other day about a young mother who was carrying her infant in a stroller down the subway steps and fell. There was no access to an elevator at that station. She died (the baby survived). That is a f*ck*ng dire end in "the greatest city in the world": and there are people, everywhere, living with that inaccessibility. Griffith, by putting you in the perspective of her angry protagonist, makes you look at structures in a new way. Because: what if you knew you would be disabled one day soon?

Okay, I'll start again: in SO LUCKY, Mara's wife has just left her and she goes to the doctor after her body fails her during a normal gesture. Mara is diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. She's left to think of how to continue her life when faced with a future of disability. She's still the same independent Mara, and now she has to learn how to navigate a world where her karate-experienced body will no longer be a tool she can use to defend herself (among many other things). Defense and vulnerability are at play in the author's work, Griffith herself being disabled due to multiple sclerosis. It's a fascinating read that bends unexpectedly in places, but I quite liked where it went weird (you know me).

I highly recommend this short, rousing novel. There are parts of this book that made me think of another book that hit me in a similar way a few years ago. It's a poetic memoir called [b:Tender Points|25572095|Tender Points|Amy Berkowitz|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1477259463s/25572095.jpg|45372322] by Amy Berkowitz, about being diagnosed and living with fibromyalgia. Both five star reads. Both allowing me to see different lives through their eyes, and I'm grateful for so much having read them.

I feel almost indebted to Alexander Chee. I read all three of his major works this year and his writing, particularly in this group of essays, is so generous. Some people talk about writing as a gift, but um, Chee's writing is a gift... to me? To readers everywhere? To EVERYONE? I'm not exaggerating. It may sound hyperbolic, but have you read Chee?!

The longer essays invited me to linger with Chee and his journey; the shorter ones would devastate me (read "1989"). And I want to hear more stories about being Chloe Sevigny's neighbor. I read his novel THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT 🎭 in January and loved the sweeping novel, and thought it was probably not so autobiographical. But I still gained some insight. And having read this before EDINBURGH (I read the books chronologically backwards), I wonder about that context that I brought to my reading of it, and how personal perspective has bearing on how we take in art.

As someone who grew up as the perpetual new girl, and was asked 'what are you' inevitably, and dealt with one guy in middle school on the first day of a new school telling me "go hang out with those kids, they're mixed, too," the section called "My Country" in the essay "Girl" is heavily, heavily underlined. There are swaths of this book that I've underlined. I'd share all the quotes, but there's not enough room and you'd do well to discover them on your own, within your own context. I guarantee he'll speak to you, too.

I am not one that immediately reaches for the American Western story, whether it be in book or celluloid. I've been proven wrong time and again for shying away from genres that I associate with traditional masculine perspectives, though. I do love those Game of Thrones books, I do like Cormac McCarthy. And yet when I opened the decidedly Western-feeling In the Distance, I was not at all prepared for what awaited me.

This is not Western adventure; In the Distance is a meditation on loneliness and solitude in the form of a journey. First, we meet Håkan, our protagonist, (our dear Håkan!) as an old, towering Swede emerging from a hole in a frozen-over sea. And then he begins to tell his life's tale, one that found him on opposite sides of the country from his brother when he was just a boy, over a century ago, and we travel with him, and see him learn, and love, and lose—truly staggering losses, felt keenly by the reader.

There is something dazzling about Diaz's sentences and how he beautifully renders the plot from Håkan's perspective. He reveals the horror and ugliness of humanity, but still makes a quiet hero of Håkan. I want to include a quote here of a paragraph that I read perhaps ten times, but to do so would be depriving you from encountering it on your own. It's a remarkable, tightly-written pivotal moment that is at once violent, action-filled, and yet the reader remains mesmerized in the mind of Håkan. The bond that Diaz creates between reader and protagonist is rare; especially for me, in a man.

I read this two months ago, but I haven't forgotten my love for this beautiful, heartbreaking book. Picking it up just now to write this, I nearly dove back in to read it all over again. And I know I will revisit Håkan someday, and glory in Diaz's writing once more.

You ever start a book after reading the synopsis and think, I will be surprised if I like this? When Soft Skull Press reached out and asked if I'd like a copy, and then briefed me on the plot, my eyes hesitated on the words "evil pornographer." I'm pretty sure I'm not the right reader for a book with any sort of pornographic setting. ...Or am I?

KING OF JOY is much, much more than the synopsis could ever hope to encapsulate. For a small book, there's a lot to meditate on, and Corvus, our protagonist—our heroine!—is a great character to embark on this journey of rumination and suspense. There were elements to Corvus that I was surprised to find I related to: her introversion, attachment to an extroverted friend, and how she spaces out. Growing up in the military, I feel trained in being able to stare out the window and think for long, long (cross-country, even) periods of time. A transportation of another sort. Corvus allows us to follow her into her memories, the weird people and places she encounters, and the glimpses of happiness through her despairing grief.

Chiem's writing is atmospheric, eloquent, and loves to slowly reveal the place and action. There was probably a moment or two where my mouth was agape while reading because I was trying to figure out what sinister creature was lying in wait—animal or human or... ? And while it's mesmerizing and thoughtful, it's FUNNY, too. There's something Chiem gets perfectly about the central friendship; especially when a Robyn song comes over the car radio.

So yes, I was surprised that I fell so in love with this book. I was surprised that the dreamy writing and character exploration also gave way to a tension-filled plot. And I was surprised that there were moments to laugh amid all the grieving. Thanks Soft Skull PRess for thinking of me and sending me a copy! The book comes out today, 3/5, friends, and you should probably pick it up if you want something trippy, quick to read, and oddly magnetic!

An impulse borrow from my library's digital app, I felt in the mood for some poetry. It has some good snippets, and overall presents a strong and empathetic writer with a story to tell. It's quick to read and digest; it does not require a lot of time like other poetry sometimes does.

Just thoughts.

It was interesting to read OUTLINE while also reading Alexander Chee's HOW TO WRITE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOVEL. There was a span of books I read that felt like they talked to each other, since I read THE FRIEND soon after. When I learned Susan Choi had gone to a Houston-area performing arts school while reading TRUST EXERCISE. EDINBURGH, of course. Even this morning on the train, reading LOST CHILDREN ARCHIVE, Valeria Luiselli, her protagonist (herself?) overhearing a patron in a book store mentioning that a certain book may have been "about the impossibility of fiction in the age of non-fiction."

In OUTLINE, Cusk's main character, Faye, tells her story in ten conversations with other people in which she does little of the talking. The reader gets glances of Faye, an outline of the space she occupies. She tells her story through others, and I loved this structure as it felt like commentary. We don't exist alone, we exist because others see us (literally and metaphorically—I exist as someone whose words you are reading). And these characters Faye (& we) are listening to in OUTLINE, they are telling Faye aspects of their own stories. It may be auto-fiction or meta or just a story. I’m okay not categorizing it.

I know it felt philosophical and poignant, and made me think of the people I have conversations with. I snapped a photo of a paragraph I’d marked and sent it to my best friend without comment. She responded asking what the book was, and that that paragraph could've saved her years of therapy. Hyperbolic words, we knew, but a shorthand in our friend language. I understood how she would respond, as she is someone I know very well. She is part of my story, and no autobiographical novel of my life would be complete without her, or the meaning of our connection.

I’m eager to read the rest of the trilogy and hope to very soon. Cusk entranced me and I wonder where the next two books take Faye. I have a feeling there are an infinite amount of angles on this book as there would be on the telling of your own life story.

The book I sadly avoided because I thought it was a dog book. I'm fine with dogs, but I'm mad at myself for assuming something about a book before reading a word. This is a book about grief, writing as a woman, and how we read or process novels. Plus, there's a dog.

What we do here is talk about books and reading. And I enjoy hearing everyone's opinions on the subjects, and I love differing opinions. I go deep on these discussions in real life, too. A little while ago I sat with someone who has worked with books for decades; whose job is literally to read books all day every day (#thedream) and we talked about how the reading culture is changing. In some ways for better, in others worse. But change can be good, ultimately, in my opinion. THE FRIEND discusses this culture change, too.

Nunez's protagonist writes about a friend (not the dog) that does not deal well with change; having been a privileged participant yesterday, and a kind of relic in the new era. There is an idea of him that is dying or dead; and there is also him, physically, that is dead (or is he?). I loved Nunez's pointed perspective, observing details that others are missing, and debating with her friend, but also internally (like many people are these days). The fact that this book won the National Book Award makes me feel like the industry may be listening.

Soon after I finished THE FRIEND, Elena Ferrante wrote in the NYT: "The female story, told with increasing skill, increasingly widespread and unapologetic, is what must now assume power." And I think that speaks a lot to what Nunez, and a lot of books I've read recently, are doing.

For such a slim volume, it goes in on a lot more than I could parse here.