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This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
For December, my long-distance book club chose, as our theme, to read one of the books nominated for a 2018 Goodreads Choice Award. We waited until the finalists were announced, because otherwise that doesn’t really help us narrow anything down, and then each made our suggestions. This one was mine! Though I have to be fair about how it won. Essentially there were just way too many great options and we couldn’t decide. So, I ended up taking all four of our choices, entered them into a random choice picking thing online, and spun the proverbial wheel. I realize it may seem like I cheated somehow, since my choice won and I also was behind the wheel spinning…but I videoed the whole thing for transparency!
This is a dual storyline novel. One perspective is that of Elisa, a 19-year-old living in Havana with her family (a wealthy sugar family) in the late 1950s, during Castro’s war to push Batista out of power. Although she has been mostly sheltered from the political unrest by virtue of her family’s privilege, all that changes when she meets and falls for a revolutionary. The other is present-day Marisol, who is traveling back to Cuba for the very first time (the very first person in her family to do so, since their exile after Castro’s coup) to honor her grandmother’s last wishes to scatter her ashes in the country of her birth. And while there, Marisol learns some deeply guarded family secrets and finds herself in the midst of a situation uncannily similar to her grandmother’s.
First, and totally unrelated to anything else, I just need everyone to know that I love the name Marisol. Like, so much. It’s gorgeous. So…back to the book itself. I really liked the way the dual storylines were used to show the ways things have both changed and not changed since the revolution. To be honest, this story-telling method sometimes gets overused, but what Cleeton does here is really well executed. She develops two separate storylines with very similar elements that, while happening in different eras, provide the same kind of inner glimpse into a culture over the years. Between the first and second ones, you know things have changed, for sure but seeing it in how the stories play out, it’s clear that they have not changed anywhere near as much as hoped. But at the same time, you cannot help but fall in love with these characters that continue to fight for the hope that, one day, the change they truly wish for, and deserve, will come. And her message that it’s possible, despite everything, is clear in the way that the two different stories end. Nothing is perfect, or easy. There is pain and heartbreak and impossible choices, but the possibility of a happy ending is perhaps more possible now than before. Although some of the plot choices and twists are a bit over-dramatic, and one at least I called from very early on, I cannot say that I didn’t enjoy reading them, or that I was any less emotional about them (yup – I cried a couple times over this book). Those moments are a large part of why this was such an easily “unputdownable til you’ve turned the last page” book.
I have to say that at some points, I was a little frustrated with how…unaware…both Elisa and Marisol were. I mean, I objectively do understand it. Elisa was sheltered (and lived in a different time period, especially for women) and Marisol was raised on romanticized memories. However, I think their lack of knowledge in both their inner thoughts and sometimes insultingly uneducated questions pushed the boundaries of believably (and, a little bit, likability). If I had to guess, the author used them as a vehicle for imparting information about the reality in Cuba then and now on a, presumably largely unaware, reading audience…and I get that. But I think it could still have been done with a little more subtlety, a little less telling and more showing (or, honestly, just less telling…the showing was great). It was just unfortunate that sometimes this delivery did a disservice to the author’s goals. Regardless, this imparting of knowledge about the real Cuba is truly the heart and soul of this novel, as it was meant to be. But I do love how thoroughly she explored the simultaneously feelings of belonging and not-belonging in both women, based on the lives they had led to this point and the ways they were sheltered/privileged/set apart. And I liked that they both wanted to understand, but didn’t give in or lose their own opinions too quickly or thoroughly in the face of their revolutionary men. Again, a great balance in representation of there being no true good of bad, right or wrong, at least in the base ideology of these conflicts, if not in the actions of the supporters. Overall, there are a number of moments of pure poignancy and insight. I felt that the impossible situations, the unstoppable heartache, the tension between classes and political perspectives, the choices between love of people and love of country were illustrated in such a complete way. The ever-present hope for a better option, for the chance that your country and people can become what/who you know they have the potential to be, and the disappointment when again and again that hope, those ideals, are thwarted or disillusioned - it is simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring. And Cleeton makes that come alive through her characters lives and the decisions they face. This is definitely a novel of setting and theme-ing. While the characters and plot are solid, the are developed only insofar as they serve to show us the heart of what it means to be Cuban. And to be honest, in this case, I do not necessarily mean that as a bad thing.
You can feel, throughout this novel, the love and awe that Cleeton has for Cuba. It comes through so clearly in her writing, the way she describes it. Each point of view we get is there to demonstrate how all the turmoil has, from both sides, only caused pain for the country. There is no right and wrong political group, only the fact that the land and people have suffered equally at the hands of both. But just like each of our characters, the faith she has in Cuba’s resilience, is a thread that binds all sides together…and so the hope for its future remains for them all. What starts as a lighthearted and entertaining story about a young woman looking to say good-bye to her grandmother and learn about where she came from turns into something more intense, more difficult, and infinitely deeper. However, the readability remained.
The bottom line is that this book is that it’s consummately binge-able. It’s one of those books where the story truly starts on the first page and once you get into it, you just can’t put it down. It’s a wonderful mix of drama, intrigue, romance (both doomed and otherwise), history and politics, and a clear homage to a country and a people that are strong and hopeful despite everything they have suffered…to what it means to be Cuban.
“I shake my head. ‘You hope for too much.’ ‘And you ask for too little.’”
“I fear I’m not equipped for these judgements, for the moral equivocacy war creates.”
“Perhaps that’s the double-edged sword to being Cuban – ewe are both pragmatic realists and consummate dreamers.”
For December, my long-distance book club chose, as our theme, to read one of the books nominated for a 2018 Goodreads Choice Award. We waited until the finalists were announced, because otherwise that doesn’t really help us narrow anything down, and then each made our suggestions. This one was mine! Though I have to be fair about how it won. Essentially there were just way too many great options and we couldn’t decide. So, I ended up taking all four of our choices, entered them into a random choice picking thing online, and spun the proverbial wheel. I realize it may seem like I cheated somehow, since my choice won and I also was behind the wheel spinning…but I videoed the whole thing for transparency!
This is a dual storyline novel. One perspective is that of Elisa, a 19-year-old living in Havana with her family (a wealthy sugar family) in the late 1950s, during Castro’s war to push Batista out of power. Although she has been mostly sheltered from the political unrest by virtue of her family’s privilege, all that changes when she meets and falls for a revolutionary. The other is present-day Marisol, who is traveling back to Cuba for the very first time (the very first person in her family to do so, since their exile after Castro’s coup) to honor her grandmother’s last wishes to scatter her ashes in the country of her birth. And while there, Marisol learns some deeply guarded family secrets and finds herself in the midst of a situation uncannily similar to her grandmother’s.
First, and totally unrelated to anything else, I just need everyone to know that I love the name Marisol. Like, so much. It’s gorgeous. So…back to the book itself. I really liked the way the dual storylines were used to show the ways things have both changed and not changed since the revolution. To be honest, this story-telling method sometimes gets overused, but what Cleeton does here is really well executed. She develops two separate storylines with very similar elements that, while happening in different eras, provide the same kind of inner glimpse into a culture over the years. Between the first and second ones, you know things have changed, for sure but seeing it in how the stories play out, it’s clear that they have not changed anywhere near as much as hoped. But at the same time, you cannot help but fall in love with these characters that continue to fight for the hope that, one day, the change they truly wish for, and deserve, will come. And her message that it’s possible, despite everything, is clear in the way that the two different stories end. Nothing is perfect, or easy. There is pain and heartbreak and impossible choices, but the possibility of a happy ending is perhaps more possible now than before. Although some of the plot choices and twists are a bit over-dramatic, and one at least I called from very early on, I cannot say that I didn’t enjoy reading them, or that I was any less emotional about them (yup – I cried a couple times over this book). Those moments are a large part of why this was such an easily “unputdownable til you’ve turned the last page” book.
I have to say that at some points, I was a little frustrated with how…unaware…both Elisa and Marisol were. I mean, I objectively do understand it. Elisa was sheltered (and lived in a different time period, especially for women) and Marisol was raised on romanticized memories. However, I think their lack of knowledge in both their inner thoughts and sometimes insultingly uneducated questions pushed the boundaries of believably (and, a little bit, likability). If I had to guess, the author used them as a vehicle for imparting information about the reality in Cuba then and now on a, presumably largely unaware, reading audience…and I get that. But I think it could still have been done with a little more subtlety, a little less telling and more showing (or, honestly, just less telling…the showing was great). It was just unfortunate that sometimes this delivery did a disservice to the author’s goals. Regardless, this imparting of knowledge about the real Cuba is truly the heart and soul of this novel, as it was meant to be. But I do love how thoroughly she explored the simultaneously feelings of belonging and not-belonging in both women, based on the lives they had led to this point and the ways they were sheltered/privileged/set apart. And I liked that they both wanted to understand, but didn’t give in or lose their own opinions too quickly or thoroughly in the face of their revolutionary men. Again, a great balance in representation of there being no true good of bad, right or wrong, at least in the base ideology of these conflicts, if not in the actions of the supporters. Overall, there are a number of moments of pure poignancy and insight. I felt that the impossible situations, the unstoppable heartache, the tension between classes and political perspectives, the choices between love of people and love of country were illustrated in such a complete way. The ever-present hope for a better option, for the chance that your country and people can become what/who you know they have the potential to be, and the disappointment when again and again that hope, those ideals, are thwarted or disillusioned - it is simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring. And Cleeton makes that come alive through her characters lives and the decisions they face. This is definitely a novel of setting and theme-ing. While the characters and plot are solid, the are developed only insofar as they serve to show us the heart of what it means to be Cuban. And to be honest, in this case, I do not necessarily mean that as a bad thing.
You can feel, throughout this novel, the love and awe that Cleeton has for Cuba. It comes through so clearly in her writing, the way she describes it. Each point of view we get is there to demonstrate how all the turmoil has, from both sides, only caused pain for the country. There is no right and wrong political group, only the fact that the land and people have suffered equally at the hands of both. But just like each of our characters, the faith she has in Cuba’s resilience, is a thread that binds all sides together…and so the hope for its future remains for them all. What starts as a lighthearted and entertaining story about a young woman looking to say good-bye to her grandmother and learn about where she came from turns into something more intense, more difficult, and infinitely deeper. However, the readability remained.
The bottom line is that this book is that it’s consummately binge-able. It’s one of those books where the story truly starts on the first page and once you get into it, you just can’t put it down. It’s a wonderful mix of drama, intrigue, romance (both doomed and otherwise), history and politics, and a clear homage to a country and a people that are strong and hopeful despite everything they have suffered…to what it means to be Cuban.
“I shake my head. ‘You hope for too much.’ ‘And you ask for too little.’”
“I fear I’m not equipped for these judgements, for the moral equivocacy war creates.”
“Perhaps that’s the double-edged sword to being Cuban – ewe are both pragmatic realists and consummate dreamers.”
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
I have a strange interest in reading about manipulative/obsessive f/f friendships. It’s not something I seek out overly often, because they can be very draining to read, but I am really fascinated by them. So, when one comes across my radar, I add it to my list. One of my last favorite ones in this genre was The Other Typist, by Suzanne Rindell. I read it years before starting a book review blog, so the only record I have is a short paragraph review on Goodreads – but it is a glowing review. In fact, I used the phrase “deliciously toxic” to describe the women’s relationship that is at the center of the novel, and I’d like to pat past me on the back for that wonderfully evocative description. In any case, it’s a weird sub-genre that I really enjoy, so when I was in the mood for it recently, I turned to this 2018 release that seemed like it would be right along those lines.
The relationship at the center of this novel is that of Alice Shipley and Lucy Mason. They meet at Bennington College in Vermont and soon become thick as thieves, but an accident towards the ends of their years there causes a rift and they fall out of contact. Over a year later, Alice is living in Tangier with her new husband when Lucy shows up, unexpectedly and unannounced, at her door. Although Alice has struggled to recover from that night at Bennington, and since then has not really adjusted to life in Morocco, she is still not altogether relieved to see Lucy’s familiar face. For a short time, things fall into a routine, with Lucy working to bring Alice out of her shell. But as that happens, Alice also starts to remember some details about their time in Vermont that make her uncomfortable. And when her husband goes missing, Alice begins to question not only her old friend, but her own mind.
From the very beginning, there is a foreboding and menacing feel to this story. Even at the beginning when there is no reason for the reader to think anything is wrong, there is an undercurrent of threat in the writing. I listened to this as an audiobook and the character’s narrators lean into this strongly. As the narration switches back and forth between Alice and Lucy’s POVs, so too do the narrators change. Alice’s voice was timid and questioning from the start, while Lucy’s was ominous and mastermind-y. There is no hiding who is who in this unhealthily symbiotic relationship. I am not sure if this would have come through quite as strongly if I had read instead of listened, but I think it would have. Mainly, this is due to the fact that the emphasis on creating a “dark” atmosphere was perhaps a little too manufactured. To that end, it was not just the voices themselves, but the written descriptions and exposition that played into the [partially] contrived suspenseful atmosphere. It seemed like the author forced the foreshadowing/past-shadowing just a little too much; like she tried too hard to infuse a negative influence-ing aura on Tangier. (And, really, on Alice’s husband… I mean, he’s definitely in no way a stand-up guy, but I felt like Mangan made him out to be the big bad guy with minimal motivation. Though, I guess to be fair, most of that inference came during Lucy’s sections, and you can see through her owns words/thoughts, as the book goes, how bias and unreliable her opinions are.) Regardless, even with it being a pushed a little to obviously, the book does have the general heavy feeling that every “good” toxic relationship story has.
As far as the actual relationship between Lucy and Alice. I did love the elements there. It starts in a legitimate way, not necessarily with ulterior motives. But it develops into something more through the combination of Alice’s childhood traumas and resulting mental “weaknesses” and Lucy’s needs and projection of “fixing” her perceived past inadequacies by pouring herself and her efforts into this relationship with Alice. I really enjoyed reading getting the background stories of each woman and analyzing how those experiences led them both to this point with each other. And as we learn the many ways that Lucy has controlled and manipulated Alice over the years, and the way that she has justified it to herself, it really creates a mesmerizing psychological study. Alongside that, the unfolding of events in real time, what actually happened to John and how far Lucy will go to “protect” Alice, and then to protect herself (regardless of Alice), is presented with finely handled details. In fact, the small details are one of the best parts of this novel - with small things from the distant past up to the very present popping back up, and being used by Lucy, to play mind games with Alice. The way these are consistently woven into the plot is executed with skill.
Although the entirety of the plot is not as subtle or delicately developed as I would have wished (when you fore/past-shadow that hard, even horrific acts don’t seem as bad because they are almost too expected), the eerie and obsessive nature of Alice and Lucy’s relationship was the general type of thing I was looking for. While I definitely liked The Other Typist better, since at the end of that one you are truly left unsure of what happened, what was reality (and having both women narrate this one leaves no doubt as to who the real “culprit” is), it’s still a deeply unsettling story. The way one women is able to completely dismantle the mind of the other, and knowingly does so, is terrifying and in line with the thrill I was looking for. A solid tale of a creepily manipulative relationship.
I have a strange interest in reading about manipulative/obsessive f/f friendships. It’s not something I seek out overly often, because they can be very draining to read, but I am really fascinated by them. So, when one comes across my radar, I add it to my list. One of my last favorite ones in this genre was The Other Typist, by Suzanne Rindell. I read it years before starting a book review blog, so the only record I have is a short paragraph review on Goodreads – but it is a glowing review. In fact, I used the phrase “deliciously toxic” to describe the women’s relationship that is at the center of the novel, and I’d like to pat past me on the back for that wonderfully evocative description. In any case, it’s a weird sub-genre that I really enjoy, so when I was in the mood for it recently, I turned to this 2018 release that seemed like it would be right along those lines.
The relationship at the center of this novel is that of Alice Shipley and Lucy Mason. They meet at Bennington College in Vermont and soon become thick as thieves, but an accident towards the ends of their years there causes a rift and they fall out of contact. Over a year later, Alice is living in Tangier with her new husband when Lucy shows up, unexpectedly and unannounced, at her door. Although Alice has struggled to recover from that night at Bennington, and since then has not really adjusted to life in Morocco, she is still not altogether relieved to see Lucy’s familiar face. For a short time, things fall into a routine, with Lucy working to bring Alice out of her shell. But as that happens, Alice also starts to remember some details about their time in Vermont that make her uncomfortable. And when her husband goes missing, Alice begins to question not only her old friend, but her own mind.
From the very beginning, there is a foreboding and menacing feel to this story. Even at the beginning when there is no reason for the reader to think anything is wrong, there is an undercurrent of threat in the writing. I listened to this as an audiobook and the character’s narrators lean into this strongly. As the narration switches back and forth between Alice and Lucy’s POVs, so too do the narrators change. Alice’s voice was timid and questioning from the start, while Lucy’s was ominous and mastermind-y. There is no hiding who is who in this unhealthily symbiotic relationship. I am not sure if this would have come through quite as strongly if I had read instead of listened, but I think it would have. Mainly, this is due to the fact that the emphasis on creating a “dark” atmosphere was perhaps a little too manufactured. To that end, it was not just the voices themselves, but the written descriptions and exposition that played into the [partially] contrived suspenseful atmosphere. It seemed like the author forced the foreshadowing/past-shadowing just a little too much; like she tried too hard to infuse a negative influence-ing aura on Tangier. (And, really, on Alice’s husband… I mean, he’s definitely in no way a stand-up guy, but I felt like Mangan made him out to be the big bad guy with minimal motivation. Though, I guess to be fair, most of that inference came during Lucy’s sections, and you can see through her owns words/thoughts, as the book goes, how bias and unreliable her opinions are.) Regardless, even with it being a pushed a little to obviously, the book does have the general heavy feeling that every “good” toxic relationship story has.
As far as the actual relationship between Lucy and Alice. I did love the elements there. It starts in a legitimate way, not necessarily with ulterior motives. But it develops into something more through the combination of Alice’s childhood traumas and resulting mental “weaknesses” and Lucy’s needs and projection of “fixing” her perceived past inadequacies by pouring herself and her efforts into this relationship with Alice. I really enjoyed reading getting the background stories of each woman and analyzing how those experiences led them both to this point with each other. And as we learn the many ways that Lucy has controlled and manipulated Alice over the years, and the way that she has justified it to herself, it really creates a mesmerizing psychological study. Alongside that, the unfolding of events in real time, what actually happened to John and how far Lucy will go to “protect” Alice, and then to protect herself (regardless of Alice), is presented with finely handled details. In fact, the small details are one of the best parts of this novel - with small things from the distant past up to the very present popping back up, and being used by Lucy, to play mind games with Alice. The way these are consistently woven into the plot is executed with skill.
Although the entirety of the plot is not as subtle or delicately developed as I would have wished (when you fore/past-shadow that hard, even horrific acts don’t seem as bad because they are almost too expected), the eerie and obsessive nature of Alice and Lucy’s relationship was the general type of thing I was looking for. While I definitely liked The Other Typist better, since at the end of that one you are truly left unsure of what happened, what was reality (and having both women narrate this one leaves no doubt as to who the real “culprit” is), it’s still a deeply unsettling story. The way one women is able to completely dismantle the mind of the other, and knowingly does so, is terrifying and in line with the thrill I was looking for. A solid tale of a creepily manipulative relationship.
Boy does this author have a voice! The first couple pages made me nervous because the whole thing was first person narrative, not a lot of dialogue. I was afraid it might be dry. WRONG. Beautifully developed characters, even the minor ones. A plot that was killer (literally!). So many small details that came into play continuously and she did a great job making the forshadowing clear but at the same time not too obvious. The play between Rose and Odalie was superb, their relationship deliciously toxic. The unreliable narrator was played perfectly. And even though you saw the end coming, you didn't see it coming! What twists and turns! And in the end, you aren't sure of what you though you were. What actually happened and who actually did it? The interplay was so great it could go either way and you aren't sure. And any holes are easily explained away through the narrator's unreliableness and complete worship of Odalie. I loved the indecision and confusion the ending leaves you with...it's a perfect way to wrap up a book like this one. I loved the whole thing. Plus, the author did a great job bringing such a vibrant time in history to life...she writes at the end it was her attempt at a homage to Gatsby and damn did she pull it off.
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
I had seen this one around a little when it came out a couple years ago. And it looked cute. But contemporary YA is probably the genre that I read the least of and it just wasn’t one I had at the top of my TBR…or to be honest, on it at all. But as I was looking through Netflix the other day, I saw that they’d adapted it into a movie. And the movie had JENNIFER ANISTON in it. Now, to each their own, but I personally LOVE her. So pretty much that did it: I was going to watch the movie. (Plus, the Netflix adaptation of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was really well done, so I’m inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt with YA adaptations right now.) And if I was going to watch it, we all know I have to read it first.
This is the story of Willowdean Dickson, a self-proclaimed fat girl living in small town Texas. She always been at home in her own skin, but between her aunt’s (who she was very close to) recent death and a big crush on her super-hot coworker (that, to her surprise, seems to be returned), things aren’t as clear as they have always been. When Willowdean makes a surprising decision, to enter the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant that her mother won years ago and now pretty much runs. It’s a really big deal in this small-town l setting and Willowdean does not look anything like the majority of the contestants. But her entry causes a whole group of “unusual suspects” to enter and things get interesting.
I was hesitant for a few reasons going in, but mainly because beauty pageants are super not my thing (other than Miss Congeniality, which is one of the best movies of all time) and I was worried that I just wouldn’t be that into reading about one. Also, Dolly Parton’s music clearly plays a big role…and she’s not really a favorite of mine either. But I was pleasantly surprised to learn that, while the pageant (and Dolly Parton really) is central to the plot, it’s not at all central to the development of the characters themselves, and really acts as more of a vehicle than anything else. Willowdean herself was a lovely and believable protagonist, neither totally ok with herself nor paralyzed by who she is/is not. I really enjoyed the realistic depth of the issues with her friends, with few clear right vs wrong lines, while still being handled in a reasonably high school-ish way. Also, the way she handled decisions/indecision about boys, as well as interactions/confrontations with her mom, were also understandable considering her age. And in general, the way the youth interacted with each other was just nicely well rounded – there were your normal jerks (there always are) but there were definitely also sensitive characters, as well as those that are taken the wrong way just because the face they present is the only one they know how to present.
As I mentioned, the plot itself is not as much about the pageant as I had expected…and I liked that. It became a great public manifestation of Willowdean and her fellow “unusual suspects” daily struggles with acceptance (both from others and of themselves). The way this represented and paralleled their inner turmoil and “coming-of-age” situations was nicely done. But at the same time, we get to dive deeper into each of the character’s lives/histories outside of the pageant than I was expecting…that that truly does make up the bulk of the book. With that, the message the book carries, about body positivity in general, as well as stepping up/being yourself, does take center stage. I was not as into the romances in this story…to be honest there wasn’t really a single one that felt like it had real chemistry and wasn’t just there because there needed to be one. It’s unfortunate, because I do agree, for the most part, that a couple of the relationships needed to be included…but they just were the low point of the story for me. On the other hand, the family- and friend-based relationships, as well as even some of the newer or more random acquaintances, felt much more real.
Altogether, this was a sweet, fast read. It addresses things that I don’t often see in YA books, or books in general: physical characteristics that are not considered mainstream attractive. The writing was smooth and capable, but not the focal point, so I was able to fly through the book in just a couple hours. Featuring a mother-daughter relationship that is struggling but has hope, boy problems, drag queens, Dolly Parton music, rural charm, and with a great group of “outcasts” at its center, this book carries an important message about body positivity, taking chances outside of your comfort zone and owning who you are. It’s cute and affirming and encouraging and definitely worth my time reading it pre-movie. Now I can’t wait to see how Netflix did adapting it!
“…no matter who you are, there will always be someone prettier or smarter or thinner. Perfection is nothing more than a phantom shadow we’re all chasing.”
“I think you gotta be who you want to be until you feel like you are whoever it is you’re trying to become.”
“…‘There’s a beauty queen in that cute, little fat girl.’ […] ‘No…That cute, little fat girl is a beauty queen.’”
“I guess the perfection we perceive in others is made up of a whole bunch of tiny imperfections, because some days the damn dress just won’t zip.”
I had seen this one around a little when it came out a couple years ago. And it looked cute. But contemporary YA is probably the genre that I read the least of and it just wasn’t one I had at the top of my TBR…or to be honest, on it at all. But as I was looking through Netflix the other day, I saw that they’d adapted it into a movie. And the movie had JENNIFER ANISTON in it. Now, to each their own, but I personally LOVE her. So pretty much that did it: I was going to watch the movie. (Plus, the Netflix adaptation of To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was really well done, so I’m inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt with YA adaptations right now.) And if I was going to watch it, we all know I have to read it first.
This is the story of Willowdean Dickson, a self-proclaimed fat girl living in small town Texas. She always been at home in her own skin, but between her aunt’s (who she was very close to) recent death and a big crush on her super-hot coworker (that, to her surprise, seems to be returned), things aren’t as clear as they have always been. When Willowdean makes a surprising decision, to enter the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant that her mother won years ago and now pretty much runs. It’s a really big deal in this small-town l setting and Willowdean does not look anything like the majority of the contestants. But her entry causes a whole group of “unusual suspects” to enter and things get interesting.
I was hesitant for a few reasons going in, but mainly because beauty pageants are super not my thing (other than Miss Congeniality, which is one of the best movies of all time) and I was worried that I just wouldn’t be that into reading about one. Also, Dolly Parton’s music clearly plays a big role…and she’s not really a favorite of mine either. But I was pleasantly surprised to learn that, while the pageant (and Dolly Parton really) is central to the plot, it’s not at all central to the development of the characters themselves, and really acts as more of a vehicle than anything else. Willowdean herself was a lovely and believable protagonist, neither totally ok with herself nor paralyzed by who she is/is not. I really enjoyed the realistic depth of the issues with her friends, with few clear right vs wrong lines, while still being handled in a reasonably high school-ish way. Also, the way she handled decisions/indecision about boys, as well as interactions/confrontations with her mom, were also understandable considering her age. And in general, the way the youth interacted with each other was just nicely well rounded – there were your normal jerks (there always are) but there were definitely also sensitive characters, as well as those that are taken the wrong way just because the face they present is the only one they know how to present.
As I mentioned, the plot itself is not as much about the pageant as I had expected…and I liked that. It became a great public manifestation of Willowdean and her fellow “unusual suspects” daily struggles with acceptance (both from others and of themselves). The way this represented and paralleled their inner turmoil and “coming-of-age” situations was nicely done. But at the same time, we get to dive deeper into each of the character’s lives/histories outside of the pageant than I was expecting…that that truly does make up the bulk of the book. With that, the message the book carries, about body positivity in general, as well as stepping up/being yourself, does take center stage. I was not as into the romances in this story…to be honest there wasn’t really a single one that felt like it had real chemistry and wasn’t just there because there needed to be one. It’s unfortunate, because I do agree, for the most part, that a couple of the relationships needed to be included…but they just were the low point of the story for me. On the other hand, the family- and friend-based relationships, as well as even some of the newer or more random acquaintances, felt much more real.
Altogether, this was a sweet, fast read. It addresses things that I don’t often see in YA books, or books in general: physical characteristics that are not considered mainstream attractive. The writing was smooth and capable, but not the focal point, so I was able to fly through the book in just a couple hours. Featuring a mother-daughter relationship that is struggling but has hope, boy problems, drag queens, Dolly Parton music, rural charm, and with a great group of “outcasts” at its center, this book carries an important message about body positivity, taking chances outside of your comfort zone and owning who you are. It’s cute and affirming and encouraging and definitely worth my time reading it pre-movie. Now I can’t wait to see how Netflix did adapting it!
“…no matter who you are, there will always be someone prettier or smarter or thinner. Perfection is nothing more than a phantom shadow we’re all chasing.”
“I think you gotta be who you want to be until you feel like you are whoever it is you’re trying to become.”
“…‘There’s a beauty queen in that cute, little fat girl.’ […] ‘No…That cute, little fat girl is a beauty queen.’”
“I guess the perfection we perceive in others is made up of a whole bunch of tiny imperfections, because some days the damn dress just won’t zip.”
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
Everyone that I had seen that had read this book gave it good reviews, so it had been on my radar. And I was in the library looking for a “light” end of year read when I spotted this on the shelves and the spine popped out at me (love that blush and rose gold combo). That’s pretty much all I have to say for background on this one. Not a very exciting intro. But sometimes that’s how picking up a book goes.
The book is told in alternating points of view. The first, Penny, has just graduated from high school and is heading into her first year of college at UT (which isn’t far from home, for her). The other is Sam, a 21-year-old barista in Austen and…a little lost. Penny is working through many of the normal “new to college things,” like breaking up with her boyfriend back home, struggling to live up to her (favorite) professor’s expectations of her writing, making new (any) friends, etc. Sam is dealing with an ex-girlfriend that he just cannot get over, financial issues, and what could easily turn into an addiction problem if he isn’t super careful. When they awkwardly meet, and end up exchanging numbers, they become text buddies like you’ve never seen before. Able to be weird together and share some of their deeper concerns (like artistic goals and difficult maternal relationships), the virtual relationships provides something deeply necessary to each of them. But, as things must, things escalate. And both of them are left wondering…can their compatibility carry over to the real world?
I fell right into this cute, fast, quirky romance for this digital age. From the very first page, the writing is smart and snarky, moving at a lightning speed that only gets better, and faster, and builds so smoothly, when Penny and Sam start texting. It’s a style that may not be for everyone (because if there is a back-and-forth you don’t totally get, there’s never a point where Choi stops and explains, so you have to be comfortable just moving on and understanding that it was cute and inside joke-y and that’s the main takeaway). But personally, I thought it was bomb dot com. It’s also the perfect way to develop a relationship like this – one that starts in a lighthearted and low-pressure way that nonetheless moves them inexorably into a real, moving intimacy. Spot on for our current YA/NA age bracket and so well done.
Outside of their text communications, Penny and Sam are just a really cute relationship. Both nervous and unsure and not great at positive interpersonal connections, it’s adorably painful to watch and read. But despite that, it still unfolds in a safe and healthy way, which is a type of relationship I can definitely get behind). Also, there are a few poignant moments that really spoke to me. I loved that, though one of their problems (their relationships with their mothers) has one that is clearly objectively “worse,” their interactions do a great job of evenly recognizing and sympathizing, without any real comparisons or attempts to one up the other with their issues. Also, no matter what intermediate/other issues arise, they are (at least outwardly and as much as possible) non-judgmentally supportive. I just can’t love that more. And the big one, for me, is when Penny admits something to Sam that she isn’t sure should “count,” as far as making her feel the way she does about it. And his response – an unequivocal but not overbearing recognition that it absolutely counts – melted my heart. Last, and a smaller thing, is that I just love that the things both Sam and Penny are most self-conscious about, are the exact things that they secretly like most about each other. Swoon.
The best relationships are the ones that just click, often in a way that outsiders don’t always “get.” I felt like Choi crushed it getting that across in a way that focused in on the exclusivity of Sam and Penny’s relationship (really making you feel it) while simultaneously not leaving the reader so far “out” that they felt removed or uninvested. This borderline YA/NA novel (which I’m here for, as more of an NA-aged person) was everything I was hoping for. It spoke deeply to my nerdy, punny, artsy, eccentric heart. And, as my second Swoon Reads novel that was super impressive and heartwarming, I have to say I’ll definitely be looking into more books/recommendations from them in the future! (As a reminder, the first that I loved was Queens of Geek – and we all know how much of an impact that book had on me…). Anyways, this is a great one!
“Just because Jude was fast and loose with her personal life and her therapy sessions didn’t mean the same setup worked for everyone. Some people’s coping mechanisms were all about festering and secrecy and ruminating until you grew yourself a nice little tumor in your heart with a side of panic attack. Different strokes.” (I love the grain of truth that is embedded in this biting/sarcastic insight. That combo is one of my favorites.)
“I know I love someone when I can’t remember what they look like in any real way. I can never seem to recall whether they’re handsome or ugly or if other people think they’re cute. All I know is that when I’m not with them and I think about them, where their face should be is this big cloud of good feelings and affection. […] It’s more this undeniable mood. It’s this warm, familiar and exciting feeling where you miss them already when you’re with them.”
Everyone that I had seen that had read this book gave it good reviews, so it had been on my radar. And I was in the library looking for a “light” end of year read when I spotted this on the shelves and the spine popped out at me (love that blush and rose gold combo). That’s pretty much all I have to say for background on this one. Not a very exciting intro. But sometimes that’s how picking up a book goes.
The book is told in alternating points of view. The first, Penny, has just graduated from high school and is heading into her first year of college at UT (which isn’t far from home, for her). The other is Sam, a 21-year-old barista in Austen and…a little lost. Penny is working through many of the normal “new to college things,” like breaking up with her boyfriend back home, struggling to live up to her (favorite) professor’s expectations of her writing, making new (any) friends, etc. Sam is dealing with an ex-girlfriend that he just cannot get over, financial issues, and what could easily turn into an addiction problem if he isn’t super careful. When they awkwardly meet, and end up exchanging numbers, they become text buddies like you’ve never seen before. Able to be weird together and share some of their deeper concerns (like artistic goals and difficult maternal relationships), the virtual relationships provides something deeply necessary to each of them. But, as things must, things escalate. And both of them are left wondering…can their compatibility carry over to the real world?
I fell right into this cute, fast, quirky romance for this digital age. From the very first page, the writing is smart and snarky, moving at a lightning speed that only gets better, and faster, and builds so smoothly, when Penny and Sam start texting. It’s a style that may not be for everyone (because if there is a back-and-forth you don’t totally get, there’s never a point where Choi stops and explains, so you have to be comfortable just moving on and understanding that it was cute and inside joke-y and that’s the main takeaway). But personally, I thought it was bomb dot com. It’s also the perfect way to develop a relationship like this – one that starts in a lighthearted and low-pressure way that nonetheless moves them inexorably into a real, moving intimacy. Spot on for our current YA/NA age bracket and so well done.
Outside of their text communications, Penny and Sam are just a really cute relationship. Both nervous and unsure and not great at positive interpersonal connections, it’s adorably painful to watch and read. But despite that, it still unfolds in a safe and healthy way, which is a type of relationship I can definitely get behind). Also, there are a few poignant moments that really spoke to me. I loved that, though one of their problems (their relationships with their mothers) has one that is clearly objectively “worse,” their interactions do a great job of evenly recognizing and sympathizing, without any real comparisons or attempts to one up the other with their issues. Also, no matter what intermediate/other issues arise, they are (at least outwardly and as much as possible) non-judgmentally supportive. I just can’t love that more. And the big one, for me, is when Penny admits something to Sam that she isn’t sure should “count,” as far as making her feel the way she does about it. And his response – an unequivocal but not overbearing recognition that it absolutely counts – melted my heart. Last, and a smaller thing, is that I just love that the things both Sam and Penny are most self-conscious about, are the exact things that they secretly like most about each other. Swoon.
The best relationships are the ones that just click, often in a way that outsiders don’t always “get.” I felt like Choi crushed it getting that across in a way that focused in on the exclusivity of Sam and Penny’s relationship (really making you feel it) while simultaneously not leaving the reader so far “out” that they felt removed or uninvested. This borderline YA/NA novel (which I’m here for, as more of an NA-aged person) was everything I was hoping for. It spoke deeply to my nerdy, punny, artsy, eccentric heart. And, as my second Swoon Reads novel that was super impressive and heartwarming, I have to say I’ll definitely be looking into more books/recommendations from them in the future! (As a reminder, the first that I loved was Queens of Geek – and we all know how much of an impact that book had on me…). Anyways, this is a great one!
“Just because Jude was fast and loose with her personal life and her therapy sessions didn’t mean the same setup worked for everyone. Some people’s coping mechanisms were all about festering and secrecy and ruminating until you grew yourself a nice little tumor in your heart with a side of panic attack. Different strokes.” (I love the grain of truth that is embedded in this biting/sarcastic insight. That combo is one of my favorites.)
“I know I love someone when I can’t remember what they look like in any real way. I can never seem to recall whether they’re handsome or ugly or if other people think they’re cute. All I know is that when I’m not with them and I think about them, where their face should be is this big cloud of good feelings and affection. […] It’s more this undeniable mood. It’s this warm, familiar and exciting feeling where you miss them already when you’re with them.”
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
I have no idea how I heard of this book or what it was that made me want to read it. What I can tell you though, is that it was one of the books I bought at Powell’s while visiting Portland last summer. So, there’s that. This might be my shortest intro of all time, haha.
The Arognauts is unlike anything I have ever read before. That’s not to say other books like this do not exist, but that I have not personally read or sought them out. It’s a memoir, sure, but it’s also a social critique and philosophical exploration of gender, motherhood, desire and more. And it’s all written/presented as a sort of journal type piece: short sections of thought that jump around a little as the follow an overall meandering path to the “finish,” with no chapter or section breaks at all. It’s sort of like a published collection of thought bursts, like ones you would write in a small notebook carried in your pocket/purse, there for the express purpose of gathering these thoughts at any time/place, before you forget them – just in this case, all the bursts center around the same theme(s). In any case, Nelson explores, throughout this short book, her relationship with her gender-fluid partner, the challenges they have face both internally and externally, as well as their journey to get pregnant, and her own efforts to create a stable family life to a step-child and a biological child within the confines of a culture that often doesn’t make it easy/simple to act as a family if you do not fit certain, specific, parameters. She does this both in reflections on her own thoughts and (re)actions, as well as through the lens of various philosophical strictures.
The language of this book was completely fascinating to me. At times, it was so esoteric that I had to reread (or relisten) to certain sections multiple times to understand what was being said (and even then I can’t say with any kind of confidence that I “got” it all). And at other times, the language was so explicit and candid that I was almost shocked by the simplistic brutality of it. I’m sure there’s a deep meaning and/or reason for this, but for me it was a stark contrast that I didn’t always understand the “why” of. However, even with that, I can’t say that I didn’t like it. I was kind of into the sharpness of it. I felt like it kept me on my toes as a reader.
As far as the actual content, Nelson tackles a number of incredibly complex and difficult issues. And she does it all in a way that is so concise, I can’t help but be impressed that she got in all into this short of a book in such a competent way. I think my favorite pieces were related to her exploration of the need for a binary system of understanding. She does this primarily in terms of gender and sexuality, questioning why there needs to be a clear dual-definition set up, why society still needs a person to claim either female or male, totally gay or totally straight, and why there is not wider acceptance of a grey area or blurred edges approach to these labels. But she also explores this concept in regards to more radical ideas as well, talking through how some LGBTQ activists/philosophies may even prefer to stay marginalized because more acceptance of their way of life into the “mainstream” disallows them from staying “revolutionary” in any way. Again, more one or the other labels that should be able to be applied with a wider lens and a greater nuance. It’s honestly fascinating. There was also quite a bit of similar delving into concepts and philosophies regarding motherhood and family, and what those terms mean. I won’t go into quite as much detail here for two reasons. One, because I think from the above descriptions/context, you can sort of understand the type of writing already. And at this point either you’re into it and plan to pick this book up yourself…or not. Two, because of the main topics covered in this piece, this was the part I was least into. I have no personal experience with motherhood or raising children, nor do I plan to, so while I respect the experiences and am vaguely interested in the insight of others on this topic, it’s not something I tend to seek out or be overly intellectually invested in. Just know, it’s included too.
I learned a ridiculous amount from this short piece. It’s philosophical, cerebral, and insightful. I was truly interested in most of the topics and I appreciate Nelson’s intelligence and writing. But I have to say that it was also super mentally taxing. I was glad I had both an audiobook (read by Nelson herself) and a physical copy – I needed both to keep up. It’s not a memoir that I would recommend to everyone, and I would also caution significant mental preparation before starting. But as I said, it was eye-opening, simultaneously tender and harsh, and very educational. If you have ever questioned, or had questions about, gender/gender-fluidity/false gender binaries, or if you are interested in philosophical love and motherhood, then this is a phenomenal place to start.
It should come as no surprise, after all the talk about how profound the language is, that I would have lots of passages that popped out at me while reading:
“A day or two after my love pronouncement, now feral with vulnerability, I sent you the passage from Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes in which Barthes describes how the subject who utters the phrase “I love you” is like “the Argonaut renewing his ship during its voyage without changing its name.” Just as the Argo’s parts may be replaced over time but the boat is still called the Argo, whenever the lover utters the phrase “I love you,” its meaning must be renewed by each use, as
“the very task of love and of language is to give to one and the same phrase inflections which will be forever new.”
“Words change depending on who speaks them.” (Possibly paraphrased – I did a voice note while driving/listening, but the point is that the “how” you say something changes the “what” that you say.)
“There’s something truly strange about living in a historical moment in which the conservative anxiety and despair about queers bringing down civilization and its institutions (marriage, most notably) is met by the anxiety and despair so many queers feel about the failure or incapacity of queerness to bring down civilization and its institutions.”
“The freedom to be happy restricts human freedom if you are not free to be not happy.” – Sara Ahmed
“…any bodily experience can be made new and strange, that nothing we do in this life need have a lid crammed on it, that no one set of practices or relations has the monopoly on the so-called radical, or the so-called normative.”
“If something needs to be willfully erased in order to get somewhere, there is usually a problem.” (Also possible paraphrased, dang driving and listening, but again, the point hit home for me and I wanted to make sure it got noted.)
“[..] a culture committed to bleeding the humanities to death, along with any other labors of love that don't serve the god of capital: the spectacle of someone who likes her pointless, perverse work and gets paid - even paid well - for it.”
“The peace is not total, but in the face of a suffocating anxiety, a measure of peace is no small thing.”
“It feels big but I feel big enough.”
I have no idea how I heard of this book or what it was that made me want to read it. What I can tell you though, is that it was one of the books I bought at Powell’s while visiting Portland last summer. So, there’s that. This might be my shortest intro of all time, haha.
The Arognauts is unlike anything I have ever read before. That’s not to say other books like this do not exist, but that I have not personally read or sought them out. It’s a memoir, sure, but it’s also a social critique and philosophical exploration of gender, motherhood, desire and more. And it’s all written/presented as a sort of journal type piece: short sections of thought that jump around a little as the follow an overall meandering path to the “finish,” with no chapter or section breaks at all. It’s sort of like a published collection of thought bursts, like ones you would write in a small notebook carried in your pocket/purse, there for the express purpose of gathering these thoughts at any time/place, before you forget them – just in this case, all the bursts center around the same theme(s). In any case, Nelson explores, throughout this short book, her relationship with her gender-fluid partner, the challenges they have face both internally and externally, as well as their journey to get pregnant, and her own efforts to create a stable family life to a step-child and a biological child within the confines of a culture that often doesn’t make it easy/simple to act as a family if you do not fit certain, specific, parameters. She does this both in reflections on her own thoughts and (re)actions, as well as through the lens of various philosophical strictures.
The language of this book was completely fascinating to me. At times, it was so esoteric that I had to reread (or relisten) to certain sections multiple times to understand what was being said (and even then I can’t say with any kind of confidence that I “got” it all). And at other times, the language was so explicit and candid that I was almost shocked by the simplistic brutality of it. I’m sure there’s a deep meaning and/or reason for this, but for me it was a stark contrast that I didn’t always understand the “why” of. However, even with that, I can’t say that I didn’t like it. I was kind of into the sharpness of it. I felt like it kept me on my toes as a reader.
As far as the actual content, Nelson tackles a number of incredibly complex and difficult issues. And she does it all in a way that is so concise, I can’t help but be impressed that she got in all into this short of a book in such a competent way. I think my favorite pieces were related to her exploration of the need for a binary system of understanding. She does this primarily in terms of gender and sexuality, questioning why there needs to be a clear dual-definition set up, why society still needs a person to claim either female or male, totally gay or totally straight, and why there is not wider acceptance of a grey area or blurred edges approach to these labels. But she also explores this concept in regards to more radical ideas as well, talking through how some LGBTQ activists/philosophies may even prefer to stay marginalized because more acceptance of their way of life into the “mainstream” disallows them from staying “revolutionary” in any way. Again, more one or the other labels that should be able to be applied with a wider lens and a greater nuance. It’s honestly fascinating. There was also quite a bit of similar delving into concepts and philosophies regarding motherhood and family, and what those terms mean. I won’t go into quite as much detail here for two reasons. One, because I think from the above descriptions/context, you can sort of understand the type of writing already. And at this point either you’re into it and plan to pick this book up yourself…or not. Two, because of the main topics covered in this piece, this was the part I was least into. I have no personal experience with motherhood or raising children, nor do I plan to, so while I respect the experiences and am vaguely interested in the insight of others on this topic, it’s not something I tend to seek out or be overly intellectually invested in. Just know, it’s included too.
I learned a ridiculous amount from this short piece. It’s philosophical, cerebral, and insightful. I was truly interested in most of the topics and I appreciate Nelson’s intelligence and writing. But I have to say that it was also super mentally taxing. I was glad I had both an audiobook (read by Nelson herself) and a physical copy – I needed both to keep up. It’s not a memoir that I would recommend to everyone, and I would also caution significant mental preparation before starting. But as I said, it was eye-opening, simultaneously tender and harsh, and very educational. If you have ever questioned, or had questions about, gender/gender-fluidity/false gender binaries, or if you are interested in philosophical love and motherhood, then this is a phenomenal place to start.
It should come as no surprise, after all the talk about how profound the language is, that I would have lots of passages that popped out at me while reading:
“A day or two after my love pronouncement, now feral with vulnerability, I sent you the passage from Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes in which Barthes describes how the subject who utters the phrase “I love you” is like “the Argonaut renewing his ship during its voyage without changing its name.” Just as the Argo’s parts may be replaced over time but the boat is still called the Argo, whenever the lover utters the phrase “I love you,” its meaning must be renewed by each use, as
“the very task of love and of language is to give to one and the same phrase inflections which will be forever new.”
“Words change depending on who speaks them.” (Possibly paraphrased – I did a voice note while driving/listening, but the point is that the “how” you say something changes the “what” that you say.)
“There’s something truly strange about living in a historical moment in which the conservative anxiety and despair about queers bringing down civilization and its institutions (marriage, most notably) is met by the anxiety and despair so many queers feel about the failure or incapacity of queerness to bring down civilization and its institutions.”
“The freedom to be happy restricts human freedom if you are not free to be not happy.” – Sara Ahmed
“…any bodily experience can be made new and strange, that nothing we do in this life need have a lid crammed on it, that no one set of practices or relations has the monopoly on the so-called radical, or the so-called normative.”
“If something needs to be willfully erased in order to get somewhere, there is usually a problem.” (Also possible paraphrased, dang driving and listening, but again, the point hit home for me and I wanted to make sure it got noted.)
“[..] a culture committed to bleeding the humanities to death, along with any other labors of love that don't serve the god of capital: the spectacle of someone who likes her pointless, perverse work and gets paid - even paid well - for it.”
“The peace is not total, but in the face of a suffocating anxiety, a measure of peace is no small thing.”
“It feels big but I feel big enough.”
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
This book has been making the rounds on bookstagram. Everyone is talking about it, saying how wonderful it is and, how even though it is quite long (almost 500 pages) it’s such a fast read. And we all already know how much of a sucker I am for books with lots of hype. Haha. I hate being left out. I have to know what all the talk is about. Plus, I do really love a good generational family saga. One of my favorites in this genre, that I read years before starting to write official reviews, is The Shoemaker’s Wife by Adriana Trigiani. And, of course, I have mentioned my love for The Bronze Horseman trilogy multiple times. In any case, all signs pointed to me reading this one…here we are.
Pachinko is, as I mentioned a generational family saga. Starting in Korea in the early 1900s, a young Sunja is impregnated by a wealthy stranger, and thus begins an account of her life, and her family’s life, in the decades that follow. Spanning from Korea to Japan to America and back from the early 1900s when we meet Sunja to the late 1980s when we bit adieu to these characters, the legacy of her decisions and her family’s starting circumstances will impact every part of the narrative.
I have to start by saying that, although everyone said this was a quick read, it was not one for me. That does not mean I didn’t thoroughly enjoy it, wasn’t super impressed by it, or didn’t learn anything from it…because all those things, and more, are true. It’s just that this was not a fast book for me. I read it slowly. Savored the characters and their development. Enjoyed the journey. I didn’t rush the read. That’s strange for me, as I am usually a speed reader. But something about this book made me slow down my pace. And I’m grateful for it. It made the impact of this family’s story all the greater. Lee’s prose is light and easy to follow, despite the intensity of the topics and the depth of the story, so I can understand why, for many, this book flew by. But at the same time, the breadth of issues and events that are covered during the time period this book was written are myriad, and for me to fully appreciate everything, I needed more time with it.
And my goodness did I learn a lot. I mean, I know about the general situation in WWII Japan, how the US ended things there, and how the situation led to a split in Korea, and the following Korean War and the North/South Korea situation that we are still dealing with today. But everything I knew was from a bird’s eye view sort of level. I had never considered, or been given a chance to see, the time period from a more personal, individual level. And I had no idea about the extent of the discrimination and disgust with which the Japanese treated and viewed immigrated Koreans. This book was phenomenally eye opening and educational for me regarding these immigrant issues. And it was something too, to see that immigrants historically and worldwide have been treated the way they still are today. It’s disheartening to see how little has changed. Yet at the same time, maybe comforting to realize that, as bad as things are now (worldwide and particularly in my own country), they are not without precedent and, at least partially (hopefully) have gotten a bit better…if slowly and not nearly as much as one would hope. Or perhaps nothing has changed or gotten better at all, and it’s just that the locations for these mistreatments are constantly moving/changing. It’s hard to address an issue that will not stay still. In any case, that’s all very off track from my review. The main point is that I learned quite a bit from this book. And after doing further research of my own after finishing (a habit I am in after finishing books on topics I am less familiar with – because I always find myself wanting to know more!), I am incredibly impressed with the amount of research and effort that clearly went into the crafting and writing of this novel.
Other than the universal immigrant experience that is the center point of this novel, Lee also tackles a number of other complex themes, such as familial love and loyalty, national loyalty, sacrifice, traditions (and challenging them), ambition, and the far-reaching implications of love (both positive and negative). We are introduced to a fascinating number of settings throughout the novel, from poor/remote Korean villages to Japanese cities and slums to busy marketplaces and restaurants to primary school playgrounds and elite university classrooms to the titular pachinko parlors and the insider view of the Korean criminal underworld that is the tie holding together every individual string of stories in this story. *Side note: I have no idea what pachinko was before reading, but after finishing I am so impressed with the way this game of “luck” was used both as a metaphor for the reality of life for Koreans in Japan, as well as a thread tying this entire novel together.* The development and characterization of the family members is richly detailed. I loved getting to know this family, loved the moral and physical strength of Sunja and the other women, loved the pacing and unfolding of the story and how each generation is impacted by the previous (some able to move on from the past and some more permanently marked by it). It’s fascinating to watch the years unfold and, when you get to the end, look back and see where you started and how much has changed.
Bottom line – the hype for this book is absolutely well deserved. This is a novel that is believable and emotional and pulls you right in. More than anything, I love when a “normal” family tale can become something celebrated in the hands of a great writer. These are the kinds of lives that represent whole peoples and generations, but, in the day to day when they are lived, are looked at as mundane and unremarkable. Lee takes these everyday lives and creates something grand with their struggles and reality. There is something truly beautiful, and so important, in this kind of
story-telling.
“There was nothing else he could think of, and he wanted to spare her the cruelty of what he had learned, because she would not believe that she was no different than her parents, that seeing him as only Korean – good or bad – was the same as seeing him only as a bad Korean. She could not see his humanity, and Noa realized that this was what he wanted more of all: to be seen as human.”
“Living everyday in the presence of those who refuse to acknowledge your humanity takes great courage”
“Learn everything. Fill your mind with knowledge—it’s the only kind of power no one can take away from you.”
“No one is clean. Living makes you dirty.”
“Patriotism is just an idea, so is capitalism or communism. But ideas can make men forget their own interests. And the guys in charge will exploit men who believe in ideas too much.”
This book has been making the rounds on bookstagram. Everyone is talking about it, saying how wonderful it is and, how even though it is quite long (almost 500 pages) it’s such a fast read. And we all already know how much of a sucker I am for books with lots of hype. Haha. I hate being left out. I have to know what all the talk is about. Plus, I do really love a good generational family saga. One of my favorites in this genre, that I read years before starting to write official reviews, is The Shoemaker’s Wife by Adriana Trigiani. And, of course, I have mentioned my love for The Bronze Horseman trilogy multiple times. In any case, all signs pointed to me reading this one…here we are.
Pachinko is, as I mentioned a generational family saga. Starting in Korea in the early 1900s, a young Sunja is impregnated by a wealthy stranger, and thus begins an account of her life, and her family’s life, in the decades that follow. Spanning from Korea to Japan to America and back from the early 1900s when we meet Sunja to the late 1980s when we bit adieu to these characters, the legacy of her decisions and her family’s starting circumstances will impact every part of the narrative.
I have to start by saying that, although everyone said this was a quick read, it was not one for me. That does not mean I didn’t thoroughly enjoy it, wasn’t super impressed by it, or didn’t learn anything from it…because all those things, and more, are true. It’s just that this was not a fast book for me. I read it slowly. Savored the characters and their development. Enjoyed the journey. I didn’t rush the read. That’s strange for me, as I am usually a speed reader. But something about this book made me slow down my pace. And I’m grateful for it. It made the impact of this family’s story all the greater. Lee’s prose is light and easy to follow, despite the intensity of the topics and the depth of the story, so I can understand why, for many, this book flew by. But at the same time, the breadth of issues and events that are covered during the time period this book was written are myriad, and for me to fully appreciate everything, I needed more time with it.
And my goodness did I learn a lot. I mean, I know about the general situation in WWII Japan, how the US ended things there, and how the situation led to a split in Korea, and the following Korean War and the North/South Korea situation that we are still dealing with today. But everything I knew was from a bird’s eye view sort of level. I had never considered, or been given a chance to see, the time period from a more personal, individual level. And I had no idea about the extent of the discrimination and disgust with which the Japanese treated and viewed immigrated Koreans. This book was phenomenally eye opening and educational for me regarding these immigrant issues. And it was something too, to see that immigrants historically and worldwide have been treated the way they still are today. It’s disheartening to see how little has changed. Yet at the same time, maybe comforting to realize that, as bad as things are now (worldwide and particularly in my own country), they are not without precedent and, at least partially (hopefully) have gotten a bit better…if slowly and not nearly as much as one would hope. Or perhaps nothing has changed or gotten better at all, and it’s just that the locations for these mistreatments are constantly moving/changing. It’s hard to address an issue that will not stay still. In any case, that’s all very off track from my review. The main point is that I learned quite a bit from this book. And after doing further research of my own after finishing (a habit I am in after finishing books on topics I am less familiar with – because I always find myself wanting to know more!), I am incredibly impressed with the amount of research and effort that clearly went into the crafting and writing of this novel.
Other than the universal immigrant experience that is the center point of this novel, Lee also tackles a number of other complex themes, such as familial love and loyalty, national loyalty, sacrifice, traditions (and challenging them), ambition, and the far-reaching implications of love (both positive and negative). We are introduced to a fascinating number of settings throughout the novel, from poor/remote Korean villages to Japanese cities and slums to busy marketplaces and restaurants to primary school playgrounds and elite university classrooms to the titular pachinko parlors and the insider view of the Korean criminal underworld that is the tie holding together every individual string of stories in this story. *Side note: I have no idea what pachinko was before reading, but after finishing I am so impressed with the way this game of “luck” was used both as a metaphor for the reality of life for Koreans in Japan, as well as a thread tying this entire novel together.* The development and characterization of the family members is richly detailed. I loved getting to know this family, loved the moral and physical strength of Sunja and the other women, loved the pacing and unfolding of the story and how each generation is impacted by the previous (some able to move on from the past and some more permanently marked by it). It’s fascinating to watch the years unfold and, when you get to the end, look back and see where you started and how much has changed.
Bottom line – the hype for this book is absolutely well deserved. This is a novel that is believable and emotional and pulls you right in. More than anything, I love when a “normal” family tale can become something celebrated in the hands of a great writer. These are the kinds of lives that represent whole peoples and generations, but, in the day to day when they are lived, are looked at as mundane and unremarkable. Lee takes these everyday lives and creates something grand with their struggles and reality. There is something truly beautiful, and so important, in this kind of
story-telling.
“There was nothing else he could think of, and he wanted to spare her the cruelty of what he had learned, because she would not believe that she was no different than her parents, that seeing him as only Korean – good or bad – was the same as seeing him only as a bad Korean. She could not see his humanity, and Noa realized that this was what he wanted more of all: to be seen as human.”
“Living everyday in the presence of those who refuse to acknowledge your humanity takes great courage”
“Learn everything. Fill your mind with knowledge—it’s the only kind of power no one can take away from you.”
“No one is clean. Living makes you dirty.”
“Patriotism is just an idea, so is capitalism or communism. But ideas can make men forget their own interests. And the guys in charge will exploit men who believe in ideas too much.”
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
Ok, the buzz around this book was off the charts at the end of last year. It seemed like it burst onto the scene out of nowhere and was inspiring some of the most hardcore love/hate reader reactions I have seen in a long time. There was no middle ground anywhere! When I realized it could fit the January theme (Mental Wellness Month) of my inaugural monthly reading challenge, I figured there was no time like to present to see what the fuss was about. To be clear, when I chose mental health as the first theme, I really was planning to read something a little more…serious…like a memoir (similar to Furiously Happy) or realistic contemporary fiction focused on this topic (similar to Everything Here is Beautiful). However, plans change and here we are. Ah well. Plus, that cover is intriguing on so many levels…it just completely overrode all my well-intentioned ideas.
This book follows a year in the life of our unnamed narrator, a young, attractive, wealthy, female, WASP living in NYC in the late 1990s and early 2000s who, for a number of reasons, decides to spend an entire year in a drug-induced sleep stupor to “reset” her life. Quitting her job and removing herself from the public completely, with the exception of the two Egyptians at the bodega on the corner (where she gets her daily coffee) and her one “friend,” Reva, the narrator begins her year long journey. Aided and abetted, in regards to prescription provision, by what has to be the
least competent psychiatrist ever, she begins her year of “rest and relaxation.”
The entire story seems written for maximum shock value. I totally recognize that that was the point, that the beauty of the satire is in the extremes portrayed, but damn…there were multiple times that I cringed while reading, sometimes for but mostly because of, our narrator. Although at times I think that even the excessive satire, the purposeful facetiousness of the story, went too far and seemed slightly forced, it didn’t happen often enough for me to be disgusted past the point that I was supposed to be. At a certain point, actually, the shocking enters into the absurd in a way that makes you forget any criticisms about how contrived the story is/might be. So, from that perspective, the writing was a success. Relatedly, the momentum of the words was hard to avoid. I read this in three sittings, three large chunks. Each time, it took me about 5-10 pages to really get [back] into things, but then I found that it was much harder to stop reading than it ever had been to start. The entire experience was like watching a train that’s lost its breaks and speeds past (read: directly through) hurdle after hurdle on a downward sloping track and you know it will end in flames (more flames than its already created even) but you cannot look away. And it was completely enveloping. This is helped, I am sure, by the attention paid to the little details. Even with such dramatic and ridiculous larger plot points, the author still manages to include small things, like points about the random things our narrator notices when she enters a room, or parts of other people’s physical (or other) traits that are just especially poignant or discerning in their exactness. This added a fascinating edge of reality into this otherwise sensational tale. It was a juxtaposition that made all the difference in my overall feelings for this book.
Moving past the writing and into the plot…as I’m sure you can imagine, the narrator’s year is, in fact, anything but restful and relaxing. As I’ve mentioned before, I really love reading flawed, and even unlikable, characters, as they are often some of the most interesting. And let me tell you, the protagonist here (whose name I don’t think we ever learn – a small detail that I really liked) might actually be the least likable character I’ve ever read. So, while I struggled to truly feel empathy for her, even after we learn some more about her background, I did absolutely enjoy every minute I spent reading about her. She was fascinating and awful in the best way(s). Secondary to our narrator, we also had her friend, Reva, psychiatrist, Dr. Tuttle, art colleague, Ping Xi, and ex-kinda boyfriend, Trevor. And oh my goodness the unlikable character boat is so full in this book. Each of them is terrible in their own insecure, narcissistic, abusive and incompetent ways – and I loved them all for it. This was such a darkly riveting story, sometimes even slipping into shady hilarity because there is no other option. I particularly enjoyed the scenes with the psychiatrist…reading her little monologues on pseudoscience and her justifications for our narrator’s many prescriptions legit made me laugh a few times, in a weird, “that’s not ok” sort of way.
At the same time though, there is also a definite commentary on mental illness, mental health, and the way it’s acknowledged and treated in this country. Most obvious are the misconceptions that exist around taking medication to treat and stabilize, from both angles (the benefits and the disturbing side-effects). But there’s also quite a bit of time spent developing the narrator’s background story, which provides commentary on the affect seeing one’s parents choose to use substances can have on the children’s choices to do so (creating a level of acceptability around it and criticizing the “do and I say not as I do” mentality). There’s also exploration on the role grief can and often does play if the ability to process it effectively is not present, in connection with the resulting loss/lack of real human contact, both physical and emotional. Plus, we get to see a lot in regards to the role self-esteem, and how you understand the way others see you, plays in the way you interact with others, how you think you deserve to be treated and the manifestation of what that makes your life/relationships look like - obviously, that creates mental strain. So, basically, very legitimate mental health concerns are addressed throughout the novel. It’s just done in a unique and polarizing way.
The one thing I’m truly undecided on, as far as my pro-/con feelings about this book, is the ending. The very last chapter addresses a particularly sensitive moment in US history in a way that, while very in line with the overall irreverence of the story, confused me with its presence. It’s not necessarily that I was upset about the way it was handled, but more that I wasn’t sure why it was included in the first place, since I felt like it’s such a pivotal moment in recent history that it draws the story’s shock and awe unnecessarily far from the character we’ve been following so closely. I don’t hate the message the author writes with into it, and I actually really like how/why our narrator is obsessed with it (in fact, it fits her character perfectly), but…was there no other way to end the book that would better keep the focus on our protagonist? It just happens so quickly, the outside world entering our perspective for the first time so suddenly, and essentially just on the last page of the book…I just felt a little unmoored by it. If you’ve read this – what are your thoughts on the ending?
This novel is a character study unlike anything I have ever read before. It’s biting and crude and cringe-worthy and mesmerizing, with the occasional insight that is so spot on (and is especially affecting because you aren’t ever expecting it when it hits you). It’s chock full of some amazing-to-read unlikable characters and highlights an important current issue, mental health, in the exact way a satire should. I think, on the love/hate scale readers seem to have adopted for their reactions to this book, I’m leaning towards love.
Some pull-quotes/passages:
“It was to easy to let things come easy and go nowhere.”
“This was how I knew the sleep was having an effect: I was growing less and less attached to life. If I kept going, I thought, I’d disappear completely, them reappear in some new form. This was my hope. This was the dream.”
“Have a trash chute was one of my favorite things about my building. It made me feel important, like I was participating in the world. My trash mixed with the trash of others. The things I touched touched things that other people had touched. I was contributing. I was connecting.” (This thought – more in context than on its own, but you’ll have to read the book to ger that full feeling – struck me with surprising heaviness and profundity. One of those insightful moments that really took my breath away with it’s unexpectedness.)
“Rejection, I have found, can be the only antidote to delusion.”
“And that was exactly what I wanted – my emotions passing like headlights that shine softly though a window, sweep past me, illuminate something vaguely familiar, then fade and leave me in the dark again.”
Ok, the buzz around this book was off the charts at the end of last year. It seemed like it burst onto the scene out of nowhere and was inspiring some of the most hardcore love/hate reader reactions I have seen in a long time. There was no middle ground anywhere! When I realized it could fit the January theme (Mental Wellness Month) of my inaugural monthly reading challenge, I figured there was no time like to present to see what the fuss was about. To be clear, when I chose mental health as the first theme, I really was planning to read something a little more…serious…like a memoir (similar to Furiously Happy) or realistic contemporary fiction focused on this topic (similar to Everything Here is Beautiful). However, plans change and here we are. Ah well. Plus, that cover is intriguing on so many levels…it just completely overrode all my well-intentioned ideas.
This book follows a year in the life of our unnamed narrator, a young, attractive, wealthy, female, WASP living in NYC in the late 1990s and early 2000s who, for a number of reasons, decides to spend an entire year in a drug-induced sleep stupor to “reset” her life. Quitting her job and removing herself from the public completely, with the exception of the two Egyptians at the bodega on the corner (where she gets her daily coffee) and her one “friend,” Reva, the narrator begins her year long journey. Aided and abetted, in regards to prescription provision, by what has to be the
least competent psychiatrist ever, she begins her year of “rest and relaxation.”
The entire story seems written for maximum shock value. I totally recognize that that was the point, that the beauty of the satire is in the extremes portrayed, but damn…there were multiple times that I cringed while reading, sometimes for but mostly because of, our narrator. Although at times I think that even the excessive satire, the purposeful facetiousness of the story, went too far and seemed slightly forced, it didn’t happen often enough for me to be disgusted past the point that I was supposed to be. At a certain point, actually, the shocking enters into the absurd in a way that makes you forget any criticisms about how contrived the story is/might be. So, from that perspective, the writing was a success. Relatedly, the momentum of the words was hard to avoid. I read this in three sittings, three large chunks. Each time, it took me about 5-10 pages to really get [back] into things, but then I found that it was much harder to stop reading than it ever had been to start. The entire experience was like watching a train that’s lost its breaks and speeds past (read: directly through) hurdle after hurdle on a downward sloping track and you know it will end in flames (more flames than its already created even) but you cannot look away. And it was completely enveloping. This is helped, I am sure, by the attention paid to the little details. Even with such dramatic and ridiculous larger plot points, the author still manages to include small things, like points about the random things our narrator notices when she enters a room, or parts of other people’s physical (or other) traits that are just especially poignant or discerning in their exactness. This added a fascinating edge of reality into this otherwise sensational tale. It was a juxtaposition that made all the difference in my overall feelings for this book.
Moving past the writing and into the plot…as I’m sure you can imagine, the narrator’s year is, in fact, anything but restful and relaxing. As I’ve mentioned before, I really love reading flawed, and even unlikable, characters, as they are often some of the most interesting. And let me tell you, the protagonist here (whose name I don’t think we ever learn – a small detail that I really liked) might actually be the least likable character I’ve ever read. So, while I struggled to truly feel empathy for her, even after we learn some more about her background, I did absolutely enjoy every minute I spent reading about her. She was fascinating and awful in the best way(s). Secondary to our narrator, we also had her friend, Reva, psychiatrist, Dr. Tuttle, art colleague, Ping Xi, and ex-kinda boyfriend, Trevor. And oh my goodness the unlikable character boat is so full in this book. Each of them is terrible in their own insecure, narcissistic, abusive and incompetent ways – and I loved them all for it. This was such a darkly riveting story, sometimes even slipping into shady hilarity because there is no other option. I particularly enjoyed the scenes with the psychiatrist…reading her little monologues on pseudoscience and her justifications for our narrator’s many prescriptions legit made me laugh a few times, in a weird, “that’s not ok” sort of way.
At the same time though, there is also a definite commentary on mental illness, mental health, and the way it’s acknowledged and treated in this country. Most obvious are the misconceptions that exist around taking medication to treat and stabilize, from both angles (the benefits and the disturbing side-effects). But there’s also quite a bit of time spent developing the narrator’s background story, which provides commentary on the affect seeing one’s parents choose to use substances can have on the children’s choices to do so (creating a level of acceptability around it and criticizing the “do and I say not as I do” mentality). There’s also exploration on the role grief can and often does play if the ability to process it effectively is not present, in connection with the resulting loss/lack of real human contact, both physical and emotional. Plus, we get to see a lot in regards to the role self-esteem, and how you understand the way others see you, plays in the way you interact with others, how you think you deserve to be treated and the manifestation of what that makes your life/relationships look like - obviously, that creates mental strain. So, basically, very legitimate mental health concerns are addressed throughout the novel. It’s just done in a unique and polarizing way.
The one thing I’m truly undecided on, as far as my pro-/con feelings about this book, is the ending. The very last chapter addresses a particularly sensitive moment in US history in a way that, while very in line with the overall irreverence of the story, confused me with its presence. It’s not necessarily that I was upset about the way it was handled, but more that I wasn’t sure why it was included in the first place, since I felt like it’s such a pivotal moment in recent history that it draws the story’s shock and awe unnecessarily far from the character we’ve been following so closely. I don’t hate the message the author writes with into it, and I actually really like how/why our narrator is obsessed with it (in fact, it fits her character perfectly), but…was there no other way to end the book that would better keep the focus on our protagonist? It just happens so quickly, the outside world entering our perspective for the first time so suddenly, and essentially just on the last page of the book…I just felt a little unmoored by it. If you’ve read this – what are your thoughts on the ending?
This novel is a character study unlike anything I have ever read before. It’s biting and crude and cringe-worthy and mesmerizing, with the occasional insight that is so spot on (and is especially affecting because you aren’t ever expecting it when it hits you). It’s chock full of some amazing-to-read unlikable characters and highlights an important current issue, mental health, in the exact way a satire should. I think, on the love/hate scale readers seem to have adopted for their reactions to this book, I’m leaning towards love.
Some pull-quotes/passages:
“It was to easy to let things come easy and go nowhere.”
“This was how I knew the sleep was having an effect: I was growing less and less attached to life. If I kept going, I thought, I’d disappear completely, them reappear in some new form. This was my hope. This was the dream.”
“Have a trash chute was one of my favorite things about my building. It made me feel important, like I was participating in the world. My trash mixed with the trash of others. The things I touched touched things that other people had touched. I was contributing. I was connecting.” (This thought – more in context than on its own, but you’ll have to read the book to ger that full feeling – struck me with surprising heaviness and profundity. One of those insightful moments that really took my breath away with it’s unexpectedness.)
“Rejection, I have found, can be the only antidote to delusion.”
“And that was exactly what I wanted – my emotions passing like headlights that shine softly though a window, sweep past me, illuminate something vaguely familiar, then fade and leave me in the dark again.”
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
Confession: I received a copy of this book back in July, before it was even published (through First to Read), and JUST NOW read it. Embarrassing. I mean, I realize you can’t always keep up with what you plan. But I really have no excuse for it other than just not picking it up sooner. Ah well, you win some, you lose some. And I figure better late than never, right?
The Air You Breathe follow Dores, an orphaned girl working in the kitchen of a sugar plantation in 1930s Brazil, and Graça, the daughter of a sugar baron who moves to the plantation. Despite the fact that the girls are wildly different, and from wildly different backgrounds, they bond over a shared discovery and love of music. Graça has a naturally better voice, while Dores is the one that can hear words in the melodies and writes the lyrics that match. But what objectively should be a natural pairing is often not as smooth as it would seem. And although throughout their lives the intimacy of their relationship is what pushes each of them forwards, it also remains competitive and volatile in a way that could, and sometimes does, hold them back.
To be honest, this book started in a way that makes me very nervous. The “old woman looking back from current day into the past” is an opening/structure that, at least for me, feels overused. It also usually injects an intense level of foreshadowing (past-shadowing?) into the story-telling that, since it usually takes all book to build to that twist/shock in the past, ends up feeling overdone for what that eventual “big event” actually is. In this case, the present-day elderly lady POV sections learned more introspective and philosophical than anything else, which helped mitigate that effect. But overall I still felt like the build-up leading into Graça’s tragedy made it seem too predictable. On the flip side, I did love that each time we moved into a new “section” of the story, with a reflection from current day to start before jumping back into the meat of the story in the past, it began with a set of sing lyrics that Dores wrote. It was really cool to see what samba lyrics actually look/flow like. And I enjoyed that each set of lyrics premeditated and reflected, topically and emotionally, the part of the story we were about to get. As for the writing in general, it was very smooth and smart. And though, at times, I felt like the pacing was a little too slow (and the story dragged a bit at times because of this), and didn’t seem to speed up no matter how invested in the story I got (which was a strange experience for me), I didn’t hate the extra time spent reading the author’s writing.
As far as the history and music are concerned, I found this book fascinating. I knew literally nothing about samba going into the book, but I feel like I’m coming out of it with real knowledge about its importance and place in Brazilian culture. I also learned quite a bit about the more general traditional and cultural landscape in Brazil before, during and after WWII. Although there is actually little to nothing in the book about the war itself, as far as the plot or our characters are concerned, it’s affects on the atmosphere of the country (and in the way it reacts to our characters after they spend time in America) are more central themes. I felt similarly about the political aspects of Brazil. I didn’t come away with a clear timeline or ideological understanding of Brazilian politics during the time, I do have a better feel for things based on the way our characters were affected/treated. It was actually a really unique person-based way to demonstrate the day-to-day reality of things. It’s also very self-centered, but I think that fits the overall larger themes and personalities perfectly, so I liked that choice.
Finally, and naturally most importantly, the relationship between Dores and Graça. It was the center stage of this novel from beginning to end and, as is natural and expected for a book of this length, was wonderfully intricate. From the very beginning they are on uneven footing, with Dores being an orphan and house servant, while Graça is the spoiled daughter of the family Dores works for. The tension is there from day one, but also the fascination and, as the only two girls/children of that age around the house, a natural companionship. Graça pushes boundaries and breaks rules from the beginning, and Dores, many times, has no choice but to support her (though is not shy about voiceing her concerns). It’s a dynamic that continues into adulthood. Graça is the one with the big hopes and dreams, always wanting more, while Dores would be content to be content. But Dores’ admiration, loyalty and love for Graça end up meaning she stands behind her, quietly cleaning up messes and keeping them both afloat (sometimes with extreme measures). The interdependence that develops between them advances to an absurd, unhealthy degree. Graça wouldn’t actually survive without Dores, while Dores would never have even come close to the kind of freedoms and success (and joy) that she experienced in her life without Graça. Both think they are single-handedly propping up the other without any recognition/gratitude from the other. And both are incredibly, and not subtly (except perhaps to themselves), jealous of what the other has. Honestly, it was mesmerizing to read how deep into this intertwined hole they fell together, to the exclusion, really, of all other people and, at times, of reality. And yet, through it all, they created an icon, brought samba to the world, and lived a bigger life than Dores ever would have thought possible. A life that neither truly appreciated until it was too late to really do so.
This is a story of a gloriously complex relationship between two women who both need each other more than anything, yet simultaneously wish it wasn’t so. And it’s an ode to music, to samba, the music of a culture, of a nation. It’s deep and sweeping, while remaining close and personal. If you like books that you can sink your teeth into, that you can lose yourself in the pages of, then put this one on your list.
“How incredible then that, despite the precariousness of my existence, despite the coarseness and violence that always threatened to suffocate me, there was this beauty, this grace, that had found me through music, and that no on could take from me.”
“When we are young, we give ourselves completely. We allow our first friends or first lovers or first songs inside us, to become part of our unformed being, without ever thinking of the consequences, or of their permanence within us. This is one of the beauties of youth, and one of its burdens.”
“Can something be called a memory if it is untrue?”
“We all take for granted / things that come too easily. / That’s why I can’t let you go - / you’re always a challenge to me. / Here’s my vow to you, here’s all I believe: / For you I’ll stay invisible. I’ll be the air you breathe.”
“Being a woman is always a performance; only the very old and very young are allowed to bow out of it. The rest must play our parts with vigor but seemingly without effort. Our bodies must be forms molded to fit the requirements of our times: pinched, dyed, squeezed, injected, powdered, snipped, sloughed, moisturized, fed or unfed, and on and on, until such costumes seem innate. Everywhere, you are observed and assessed: walking down the street, riding the bus, driving a car, eating in a café. You must smile, but not too widely. You must be pleasant, but not forward. You must accommodate and ingratiate but never offer too much of yourself, and never for your own pleasure. If you do this, it must be secret. Any deviance from this role has the potential for disaster […] If you think I am exaggerating, or that I am trapped in a harsh past and times have changed, then listen carefukly to what I am telling you now: when you have no power in this world you must create your own, you must adapt to your environment and try to foil the many dangers around you […] The performance may cripple us, but it keeps us alive.”
“You can’t disappear if you’ve never existed.”
“Samba in the roda had mirth but it wasn’t a party; it was a lament. When you play samba in the roda you laugh at your own misery. You and your loneliness hold hands and traipse through the music, in awe of how pathetic and glorious you both are.”
“Try to trace samba back and you will find no on origin. Try to inventory its key players, and you will never have enough room on your list. Samba came from masters and slaves, from parlors and slums, from cities and plantations, from men and women. […] Samba does not abide simplification and neither should people.”
“A star is nothing more, nothing less, than the public face of private desire.”
“For some it’s easier to imagine death than to face the person who the choices and burdens of life have forced you to become. But death robs us of many things, including the chance to redeem ourselves.”
“We are all beautiful in our youth. And we are all forgiven. In the roda, there are no grudges that can’t be put aside, no wounds that can’t be healed. Music is the greatest kind of reciprocity. For a taut string to make sound, it must be pulled from its stillness. The musician plucks the string, and the string expands as it strives to return to its original place. And in this return is vibration, and in this vibration is sound. A song couldn’t exist without first having stillness. Music couldn’t exist without a steady disruption, and a continuous return to what was, and what can be.”
Confession: I received a copy of this book back in July, before it was even published (through First to Read), and JUST NOW read it. Embarrassing. I mean, I realize you can’t always keep up with what you plan. But I really have no excuse for it other than just not picking it up sooner. Ah well, you win some, you lose some. And I figure better late than never, right?
The Air You Breathe follow Dores, an orphaned girl working in the kitchen of a sugar plantation in 1930s Brazil, and Graça, the daughter of a sugar baron who moves to the plantation. Despite the fact that the girls are wildly different, and from wildly different backgrounds, they bond over a shared discovery and love of music. Graça has a naturally better voice, while Dores is the one that can hear words in the melodies and writes the lyrics that match. But what objectively should be a natural pairing is often not as smooth as it would seem. And although throughout their lives the intimacy of their relationship is what pushes each of them forwards, it also remains competitive and volatile in a way that could, and sometimes does, hold them back.
To be honest, this book started in a way that makes me very nervous. The “old woman looking back from current day into the past” is an opening/structure that, at least for me, feels overused. It also usually injects an intense level of foreshadowing (past-shadowing?) into the story-telling that, since it usually takes all book to build to that twist/shock in the past, ends up feeling overdone for what that eventual “big event” actually is. In this case, the present-day elderly lady POV sections learned more introspective and philosophical than anything else, which helped mitigate that effect. But overall I still felt like the build-up leading into Graça’s tragedy made it seem too predictable. On the flip side, I did love that each time we moved into a new “section” of the story, with a reflection from current day to start before jumping back into the meat of the story in the past, it began with a set of sing lyrics that Dores wrote. It was really cool to see what samba lyrics actually look/flow like. And I enjoyed that each set of lyrics premeditated and reflected, topically and emotionally, the part of the story we were about to get. As for the writing in general, it was very smooth and smart. And though, at times, I felt like the pacing was a little too slow (and the story dragged a bit at times because of this), and didn’t seem to speed up no matter how invested in the story I got (which was a strange experience for me), I didn’t hate the extra time spent reading the author’s writing.
As far as the history and music are concerned, I found this book fascinating. I knew literally nothing about samba going into the book, but I feel like I’m coming out of it with real knowledge about its importance and place in Brazilian culture. I also learned quite a bit about the more general traditional and cultural landscape in Brazil before, during and after WWII. Although there is actually little to nothing in the book about the war itself, as far as the plot or our characters are concerned, it’s affects on the atmosphere of the country (and in the way it reacts to our characters after they spend time in America) are more central themes. I felt similarly about the political aspects of Brazil. I didn’t come away with a clear timeline or ideological understanding of Brazilian politics during the time, I do have a better feel for things based on the way our characters were affected/treated. It was actually a really unique person-based way to demonstrate the day-to-day reality of things. It’s also very self-centered, but I think that fits the overall larger themes and personalities perfectly, so I liked that choice.
Finally, and naturally most importantly, the relationship between Dores and Graça. It was the center stage of this novel from beginning to end and, as is natural and expected for a book of this length, was wonderfully intricate. From the very beginning they are on uneven footing, with Dores being an orphan and house servant, while Graça is the spoiled daughter of the family Dores works for. The tension is there from day one, but also the fascination and, as the only two girls/children of that age around the house, a natural companionship. Graça pushes boundaries and breaks rules from the beginning, and Dores, many times, has no choice but to support her (though is not shy about voiceing her concerns). It’s a dynamic that continues into adulthood. Graça is the one with the big hopes and dreams, always wanting more, while Dores would be content to be content. But Dores’ admiration, loyalty and love for Graça end up meaning she stands behind her, quietly cleaning up messes and keeping them both afloat (sometimes with extreme measures). The interdependence that develops between them advances to an absurd, unhealthy degree. Graça wouldn’t actually survive without Dores, while Dores would never have even come close to the kind of freedoms and success (and joy) that she experienced in her life without Graça. Both think they are single-handedly propping up the other without any recognition/gratitude from the other. And both are incredibly, and not subtly (except perhaps to themselves), jealous of what the other has. Honestly, it was mesmerizing to read how deep into this intertwined hole they fell together, to the exclusion, really, of all other people and, at times, of reality. And yet, through it all, they created an icon, brought samba to the world, and lived a bigger life than Dores ever would have thought possible. A life that neither truly appreciated until it was too late to really do so.
This is a story of a gloriously complex relationship between two women who both need each other more than anything, yet simultaneously wish it wasn’t so. And it’s an ode to music, to samba, the music of a culture, of a nation. It’s deep and sweeping, while remaining close and personal. If you like books that you can sink your teeth into, that you can lose yourself in the pages of, then put this one on your list.
“How incredible then that, despite the precariousness of my existence, despite the coarseness and violence that always threatened to suffocate me, there was this beauty, this grace, that had found me through music, and that no on could take from me.”
“When we are young, we give ourselves completely. We allow our first friends or first lovers or first songs inside us, to become part of our unformed being, without ever thinking of the consequences, or of their permanence within us. This is one of the beauties of youth, and one of its burdens.”
“Can something be called a memory if it is untrue?”
“We all take for granted / things that come too easily. / That’s why I can’t let you go - / you’re always a challenge to me. / Here’s my vow to you, here’s all I believe: / For you I’ll stay invisible. I’ll be the air you breathe.”
“Being a woman is always a performance; only the very old and very young are allowed to bow out of it. The rest must play our parts with vigor but seemingly without effort. Our bodies must be forms molded to fit the requirements of our times: pinched, dyed, squeezed, injected, powdered, snipped, sloughed, moisturized, fed or unfed, and on and on, until such costumes seem innate. Everywhere, you are observed and assessed: walking down the street, riding the bus, driving a car, eating in a café. You must smile, but not too widely. You must be pleasant, but not forward. You must accommodate and ingratiate but never offer too much of yourself, and never for your own pleasure. If you do this, it must be secret. Any deviance from this role has the potential for disaster […] If you think I am exaggerating, or that I am trapped in a harsh past and times have changed, then listen carefukly to what I am telling you now: when you have no power in this world you must create your own, you must adapt to your environment and try to foil the many dangers around you […] The performance may cripple us, but it keeps us alive.”
“You can’t disappear if you’ve never existed.”
“Samba in the roda had mirth but it wasn’t a party; it was a lament. When you play samba in the roda you laugh at your own misery. You and your loneliness hold hands and traipse through the music, in awe of how pathetic and glorious you both are.”
“Try to trace samba back and you will find no on origin. Try to inventory its key players, and you will never have enough room on your list. Samba came from masters and slaves, from parlors and slums, from cities and plantations, from men and women. […] Samba does not abide simplification and neither should people.”
“A star is nothing more, nothing less, than the public face of private desire.”
“For some it’s easier to imagine death than to face the person who the choices and burdens of life have forced you to become. But death robs us of many things, including the chance to redeem ourselves.”
“We are all beautiful in our youth. And we are all forgiven. In the roda, there are no grudges that can’t be put aside, no wounds that can’t be healed. Music is the greatest kind of reciprocity. For a taut string to make sound, it must be pulled from its stillness. The musician plucks the string, and the string expands as it strives to return to its original place. And in this return is vibration, and in this vibration is sound. A song couldn’t exist without first having stillness. Music couldn’t exist without a steady disruption, and a continuous return to what was, and what can be.”
This review originally appeared on the book review blog: Just One More Pa(i)ge.
This is the third book in the past couple months that I’ve read from Swoon Reads. And as I mentioned in the reviews for my earlier choices (Queens of Geek and Emergency Contact) I have been really impressed with their content! The books are all nice, light stories, with a perfect amount of romantic and interpersonal drama, that read quick and easy, as a nice rest between heavier reads. And, without exception, the diversity and representation are spectacular. Plus – look at that cover! I am not usually into covers with people on them, but this one is just wonderfully visually striking and I love it.
This particular story is all about Alice. She has two best friends, Feenie and Ryan – they’ve been a threesome for years, but are starting to drift apart now that Feenie and Ryan are engaged. She has a loving, if slightly overbearing family, which has been fine for years, but now they’re pressuring her to go to law school and she knows that isn’t for her. She has an insanely good-looking new colleague at work, Takumi…but she is having a hard time sorting out her feelings for him. Because there’s one other thing about Alice that almost no one knows: she’s a biromantic asexual. And she’s struggled for years with what that means for her romantically. This book is all about Alice – trying to figure that out while living the rest of her life.
There were some things I really loved about this book. The first, and most obvious, is that it addresses a severely underrepresented sexuality. That’s actually why I picked this one up in the first place. I saw it on a list of LGBTQ reads and it was one of the first I’d ever seen (other than books by Alice Oseman, and if you read my review of Radio Silence last year, then you’d know how much I love it) that addressed asexuality. The bi piece of it was just a wonderful added bonus. In any case, that part of the book was beautifully developed. I don’t have a lot of knowledge about asexuality and this book does a really wonderful job of explaining and developing and exploring what that means. It makes it clear that it’s a spectrum, that different asexual people experience feelings of romance and attraction in different ways. Just as with everything else, there is no clear definition or answer, which makes things extra complicated for the person themselves, as well, of course, as anyone they want to have a relationship with. The way the Alice deals with figuring out what it means for her, internally, felt very authentic to me. I also really liked the way the counselor Alice sees was portrayed. Although it is, of course, not always the case, I am glad that it was a positive experience for her. Showing that speaking to someone to help sort things out is an important message. I also appreciated that, while Alice struggled with this for herself, she pushed away her friends, even though they were very supportive. This is so real! And last, I definitely have a little book crush on Takumi. He’s (as we hear often) super attractive, thoughtful, he cooks, and it’s clear that he has great emotional range. In fact, I think there’s a chance he’s too perfect to believe, but in a book like this, that’s kind of what I’m looking for. And he’s the exact right type of person to place opposite Alice as she works through some bad past experiences and learns that there’s a chance to have the relationship she’s always wanted and own who she really is.
On the other hand, I was less enamored of other parts of the book. Alice’s relationships with her family members just didn’t hit right for me. It’s not that they weren’t realistic or possible, it was just that I wasn’t feeling that part of the story. It was a good device to use as she got closer with Takumi, an area of her life other than her sexuality that he could support her through. And it worked similarly with Feenie later in the story. But I just didn’t get into it. Also, I enjoyed some of the quirks and quick back and forth between Alice and Takumi, but it did get lost in itself sometimes. There were a couple points where I had to reread the dialogue because it lost me…and even then, I didn’t follow some of the jumps. And last, Alice herself, as a character definitely got on my nerves a few times. I know she was dealing with a lot, and I don’t disagree with a lot of how she felt/reacted, but I was annoyed with how much she tried to avoid it all. I just got frustrated with her being annoyed that her friends didn’t understand her, but simultaneously refusing to confront or speak with them about what she was going through or why she was irritated with them. And it didn’t happen just once, but over and over – I think that’s what finally got to me by the end.
Overall though, I’m really glad I read this book. I felt for Alice and so many times I just wanted to give her a hug and say that she is who she is and there’s nothing wrong with her, she is beautiful and important and exactly what she was meant to be. And anyone that tells her, or even suggests, otherwise is just plain wrong. So, I am glad this book exists, to help teach people and make a norm of something that is considered abnormal. To that end and, as a light, swoon-y, read – I’d recommend this one.
“Love shouldn’t hinge solely on exposing your physical body to another person. Love was intangible. Universal. It was whatever someone wanted it to be and should be respected as such.”
“The bottom line was her body had never shown so much as a flicker of sexual interest in anyone. But that didn’t mean she liked being alone. That didn’t mean she wasn’t lonely. That didn’t mean she didn’t want romance and didn’t want to fall in love. It didn’t mean she couldn’t love someone just as fiercely as they loved her.”
This is the third book in the past couple months that I’ve read from Swoon Reads. And as I mentioned in the reviews for my earlier choices (Queens of Geek and Emergency Contact) I have been really impressed with their content! The books are all nice, light stories, with a perfect amount of romantic and interpersonal drama, that read quick and easy, as a nice rest between heavier reads. And, without exception, the diversity and representation are spectacular. Plus – look at that cover! I am not usually into covers with people on them, but this one is just wonderfully visually striking and I love it.
This particular story is all about Alice. She has two best friends, Feenie and Ryan – they’ve been a threesome for years, but are starting to drift apart now that Feenie and Ryan are engaged. She has a loving, if slightly overbearing family, which has been fine for years, but now they’re pressuring her to go to law school and she knows that isn’t for her. She has an insanely good-looking new colleague at work, Takumi…but she is having a hard time sorting out her feelings for him. Because there’s one other thing about Alice that almost no one knows: she’s a biromantic asexual. And she’s struggled for years with what that means for her romantically. This book is all about Alice – trying to figure that out while living the rest of her life.
There were some things I really loved about this book. The first, and most obvious, is that it addresses a severely underrepresented sexuality. That’s actually why I picked this one up in the first place. I saw it on a list of LGBTQ reads and it was one of the first I’d ever seen (other than books by Alice Oseman, and if you read my review of Radio Silence last year, then you’d know how much I love it) that addressed asexuality. The bi piece of it was just a wonderful added bonus. In any case, that part of the book was beautifully developed. I don’t have a lot of knowledge about asexuality and this book does a really wonderful job of explaining and developing and exploring what that means. It makes it clear that it’s a spectrum, that different asexual people experience feelings of romance and attraction in different ways. Just as with everything else, there is no clear definition or answer, which makes things extra complicated for the person themselves, as well, of course, as anyone they want to have a relationship with. The way the Alice deals with figuring out what it means for her, internally, felt very authentic to me. I also really liked the way the counselor Alice sees was portrayed. Although it is, of course, not always the case, I am glad that it was a positive experience for her. Showing that speaking to someone to help sort things out is an important message. I also appreciated that, while Alice struggled with this for herself, she pushed away her friends, even though they were very supportive. This is so real! And last, I definitely have a little book crush on Takumi. He’s (as we hear often) super attractive, thoughtful, he cooks, and it’s clear that he has great emotional range. In fact, I think there’s a chance he’s too perfect to believe, but in a book like this, that’s kind of what I’m looking for. And he’s the exact right type of person to place opposite Alice as she works through some bad past experiences and learns that there’s a chance to have the relationship she’s always wanted and own who she really is.
On the other hand, I was less enamored of other parts of the book. Alice’s relationships with her family members just didn’t hit right for me. It’s not that they weren’t realistic or possible, it was just that I wasn’t feeling that part of the story. It was a good device to use as she got closer with Takumi, an area of her life other than her sexuality that he could support her through. And it worked similarly with Feenie later in the story. But I just didn’t get into it. Also, I enjoyed some of the quirks and quick back and forth between Alice and Takumi, but it did get lost in itself sometimes. There were a couple points where I had to reread the dialogue because it lost me…and even then, I didn’t follow some of the jumps. And last, Alice herself, as a character definitely got on my nerves a few times. I know she was dealing with a lot, and I don’t disagree with a lot of how she felt/reacted, but I was annoyed with how much she tried to avoid it all. I just got frustrated with her being annoyed that her friends didn’t understand her, but simultaneously refusing to confront or speak with them about what she was going through or why she was irritated with them. And it didn’t happen just once, but over and over – I think that’s what finally got to me by the end.
Overall though, I’m really glad I read this book. I felt for Alice and so many times I just wanted to give her a hug and say that she is who she is and there’s nothing wrong with her, she is beautiful and important and exactly what she was meant to be. And anyone that tells her, or even suggests, otherwise is just plain wrong. So, I am glad this book exists, to help teach people and make a norm of something that is considered abnormal. To that end and, as a light, swoon-y, read – I’d recommend this one.
“Love shouldn’t hinge solely on exposing your physical body to another person. Love was intangible. Universal. It was whatever someone wanted it to be and should be respected as such.”
“The bottom line was her body had never shown so much as a flicker of sexual interest in anyone. But that didn’t mean she liked being alone. That didn’t mean she wasn’t lonely. That didn’t mean she didn’t want romance and didn’t want to fall in love. It didn’t mean she couldn’t love someone just as fiercely as they loved her.”