Most of the characters in The Invisible Man is unlikeable, and I really enjoyed reading a book with that quality. From Mrs. Hall and her morbid curiosity about what's under Griffin's bandages when she thinks he's disfigured, to Griffin's descent from general asshole willing to rob a priest to villainous murderer, few of the characters in the novel have redeeming qualities. Reading a novel where the large majority of the cast of characters are inherently flawed was a different from what I normally read. Modern novels often try to appeal to the reader's empathy, but H G Wells actively wrote a main character that is easy to hate and who is the antagonist of everyone else's stories. The Invisible Man was a fun and easy read, and it's a good book to recommend to readers who are trying to get into the classics or older literature. It has some of the issues most older books have, along the lines of racism, antisemitism, sexism, etc., but not to the extent where it cannot be edited out. I switched back and forth between an old and new edition of the book, and the new one lacked a lot of the bigotry the original copy had.

Banned Book Club was a great introduce to recent Korean history. It's well written with beautiful illustrations and it shows how a country so deeply divided on political issues can fracture families and lead to greater unrest and violence before peace can be made. The issues they faced are eerily similar to the current political/moral schism happening in the US in 2022 and the actions the government has taken to suppress protesters. Huyn Sook's reflection on her life and protesting at the end of the novel give me hope for a brighter future.

The Girl from the Sea is a wonderful slice of life coming of age story with a fun cast of characters. Ostertag's use of text conversations between Morgan and her friends to further the narrative fits really well with the story telling and illustration style. The struggles the characters face fit well for the intended age group (coming out, big life changes, fear of losing friends, etc.), but there's also a strong undertone to the narrative about capitalism and ecological conservation. Morgan's mom's reaction to her sexuality was one of the sweetest, most wholesome things I've ever read. It wasn't super serious, but it also didn't make light of the situation. Having a queer author write a scene with a parent accepting their child's sexuality filled a void I didn't realize there was in coming out scenes. There's a levity to this book that makes me want to redo my whole childhood again with it at the forefront of my mind, reminding me not to give up on my dreams, but that it's also okay to reach out to others for help and that it's okay to make mistakes.

I'm writing my review of Normal People before I decide on a rating, in the hopes that it'll help me sort out my thoughts on the book. The progressions of Marianne and Connell's emotional wellbeing in relation to years at university was uncannily accurate to my own experiences and that of what I saw in my friends and classmates. The quality of the writing in the large middle section of the book that describes the social contentment and complete security in herself that Marianne feels her first year of university, only for the group to crumble and the bubble to burst completely, leaving her stranded and struggling to understand her place in the world felt raw, tangible, and familiar. Marianne and Connell's internal lives playing such a strong role in the story telling made it a unique and enjoyable readings experience. It allows the reader to get inside their heads and try to under how the miscommunications that tore them apart came to be. That change took what is usually a comedy trope and inverted it towards tragedy.

Connell's confession that he was trying to ask Marianne to let him stay the summer was heart wrenching. I didn't like to see the complete degradation of Marianne's character and inner life, but with the way she was struggling, it is realistic. Her supposed need to be hurt being revealed to be a warped perception of her need to feel special, loved, and protected was heart breaking. The meticulous control she expresses over her food intake and her hitting her breaking point in the photography studio show her shattering, but not having any idea how to pick up the pieces. I did enjoy that there was a gradual shift towards and then away from suicidal ideation and meticulously controlled disordered eating for Connell and Marianne. There wasn't a quick fix for either issue offered up in the book, but they were there for each other and their gradual growth in their respective mental health was really well written. I am frustrated by the ending of this book, not for the possibility of their romance being doomed, but because in the last few pages there was another moment of the acknowledged toxic perspective that men just want sex and aren't capable of higher thinking/needs in Marianne's accusing Connell of loving Darcy. It also frustrated me how closely Marianne resembles the manic pixie dream girl trope at the end of the novel, when she was such a robust character at the beginning. With Marianne's sexual promiscuity, Peggy's focus on both Marianne and non monogamy, and Peggy and Jamie's shared terrible character traits, I was convinced that Peggy and Jamie were going to try to both date Marianne and/or sexually take advantage of her. In a way they did.

The casual way sex is discussed between character is distinctly foreign to American readers, and the freedom afforded by it that isn't really a part of American purity culture made the novel an interesting read as it shifted from familiar to foreign and back again.

Normal People is going to be a book I cherish in the future, but in the way a classic is cherished. The writing was magnificent and I was enthralled by the plot.

Reading My Ántonia felt like reading the Little House on the Prairie books for the first time again. It was a calm, immersive experience, and I greatly enjoyed it. It didn't trivialize the hardships the early settlers faced, but it also showcased their joy and love.
Following the lives of these characters from childhood through adulthood made them all the more lovable, and I was happy that many of them found joy in ways that they hadn't been predicted to when they were young.
I fell a little bit in love with Lena Lingard. Her early characterization as the town whore, followed by an in depth look at her reality as a sweet, beautiful girl whose beauty and personality drew people in, and who just wanted to have an adulthood far different than the one she watched her parents have made her so likable. I loved that there wasn't really a rivalry between the young women in the novel, and that Jim was able to love them all in a variety of ways without the relationship being sexual or causing tension in their group. Jim was an interesting character. His marriage that was mentioned in the beginning of the book felt impulsive in a way that he doesn't seem to be in the rest of the novel. He, in all of his adventures and life stages reads as a friendly, sexually non-threatening man, and I love him, the novel, and Will Cather all the more for it.

I picked up Carnivalesque on a recommendation that it's similar to Erin Morganstern's The Night Circus. While they shared a similar setting Carnivalesque fell flat. There's meant to be an air of mystery to the carnival, which I believe is in reference to the inconsistent nature of the carnies and what Dany refers to as something along the lines of a tumble dry setting in his brain.
Jordan stretches this story a bit too thin for it to make sense. It's full of beautiful language, literary references, and interesting characters, but they end up being a façade that doesn't deepen because there isn't enough time to do so within the pages of the book. The plot is concentrated on the first and last 30 pages of the book, and in general I feel like I need a better background in the classic canonical British poets that young boys in the UK learn about to understand the sections by and about Walter and appreciate any literary jokes. The big evil at the end of the book also felt underdeveloped. The reader was told there would be something to fear, but

the dewman's  willingness to kill and desire for the dew we're described in such a way that I felt as disconnected from them in the section about Eileen, which often felt more tangible, as I did in the section about the carnival.

If Neil Jordan ever decided to write a fantasy psychological thriller about Eileen, I would read it in a heartbeats.

The impact of Dany, formerly Andy's, disappearance and the moments in her relationship with the replacement Andy have on her, as well as her public descent into madness is some of the strongest writing in the novel. She is the only tangible character we have as the reader and she, out of all of the characters we're given, is the only one I am able to really find lovable. She loves her son so much that she is able to tell that he's been replaced, and even though she is thought to be crazy at the end of the novel, she's in the right. The fact that Jordan didn't get that same kind of depth in the carnival character gives them an ethereal quality of being unknown to the reader, while the intention seems to be to have them be unknowable to the humans that delighted in their sideshows.

My biggest complaint with the book is Mona and Dany's relationship. She is an ancient being and he's a child. For the first and largest section of the book, Mona discusses him with other characters as being the child she didn't realize she wanted in terms of motherhood, but she kisses him romantically at the end of the novel.

Overall, Carnivalesque was enjoyable. It felt like a fever dream with it's combination of folklore, carnival, and slasher tropes.

I wanted to read Queer Threads as a queer fiber artist, and I really enjoyed it. It's nice to see an art book dedicated to queer art and art that queers the viewer's perspective. It's messy, intricate, and fun. One thing I loved was that the interviewers often intimately know the artists they interviewed. It feels like being invited into a conversation between old friends. My only complaint is that the book is separated out into the art in the first section and the interviews in the second section. I found it made the experience disjointed when trying to figure out which images from the first half of the book relate the stories being told in the latter half. I think it would have been a 5 star read had the images been integrated into the interviews to form a cohesive narrative for each individual artist.

This is the second time I've read and loved this book. The first time I read it was a week before I got a concussion. I don't remember a lot of details about that summer and I didn't remember much about On a Sunbeam prior to this read through, except for the feeling of how much I loved it. This was one of the first books I've read that is actively, lovingly queer. The queerness in this story isn't a controversy or a point of being othered. It just is, and it is beautiful.

That being said, it doesn't downplay the impact of issues like misgendering and the need for mutual respect. Tillie Walden does a wonderful job with Jules's righteous anger at their temporary boss's disregard for El's pronouns and her viewing El's selective mutism as an act of insubordination.

Romance isn't a genre I normally gravitate to, but Mia and Grace's love story circumvent most of the romance genre's tropes that disinterest me.

Mia and her found family being willing to risk their lives for the possibility of Mia being able to see Grace again, if only to say goodbye, redefines the limits of what someone would do for the one they love.

The Reader is a book that pulls you in. Schlink's narrative style, clipped sentences, and the reflective nature of the content creates a tangible window into Michael's world and the dilemmas faced by the generation of Germans born right after the Holocaust. I did not particularly like Michael or Hanna. Both are intrinsically flawed individuals, but their characters and the way they interact are written in a relatable way. You can understand them even as you hate what they are justifying. I've read this book repeatedly and with every re-read I am older and

more disturbed by the content  and the characters' continued justification of pedophilia and Michael's active sympathize for Hanna despite knowing she was a Nazi who sent Jews to their deaths, all to avoid her illiteracy being made common knowledge. I like that she was offered no absolution by the last living member of the group of women she guarded, and I think the unsatisfactory ending fits well with the realities of life after reconciling with the unforgivably actions of a loved one. Part of me wishes there was more direct acknowledgement of the way Hanna's sexual and emotional abuse impacted Michael. The other part of me knows that Michael's continued devotion to her in sending the cassettes, keeping her letters, and his inability to form and maintain close interpersonal relationships is indirectly addressing that impact, and that directly addressing it would have taken away from the reflective, almost voyeuristic nature of the novel.

David Almond has a gift for writing truly immersive fiction. The first time I read Skellig, I was the same age as Michael and Mina. Now in my twenties, the sense of wonder and atmosphere Almond is able to weave with the setting and characters, and the way they change, is just as easily accessible. I really enjoy how round of a character Michael is. His stillness in the face of fear conflicts with his deep desire to help himself, Skellig, and his sister. The ways he acts when he's with Coot and Leaky, versus when he's with Mina, and his frustration when his two lives collide violently give a glimpse of the depth of emotion and growth possible in seemingly simple childhood situations.
Almond's depictions of fear, anxiety, and grief in Michael and both of his parents are unique to their age groups and vividly reflect real life and real emotions. This book is more religious than I remember it being, but that's not a bad thing. I think it's a really interesting way to inject Christianity into children's literature without making it didactic.
It was wonderful to read through Skellig again, but the second time through wasn't as magical as the first.