I’ve been wanting to get into Nghi Vo’s works, and a few friends recommended The Chosen and the Beautiful as they knew I liked The Great Gatsby. I read Vo’s retelling in one sitting, on a very long train ride.

 In a world with casual magic, Jordan Baker is the adopted, Vietnamese heir to a white family’s fortune. She parties with the best of them, and NYC is her current playground. She pointedly ignores problems like her lack of marriage/job prospects, her friend’s intimate partner violence, and the paper-cutting magic simmering in her veins. In fact, her hot girl summer’s going great until Gatsby rolls into town. Inevitably, she sucked into the drama of him, Daisy, Nick et al.

The Chosen and the Beautiful more or less follows the same plot beats as the original book. To its determinant, I think—big chunks were painful waiting for the canon to start. Tom’s character is flattened to be almost comically horrible. I suppose his exaggerated terribleness makes Daisy’s final decision all the more heart-wrenchingly cruel. Jordan’s disinterest in magic frustrates me, especially since her abilities present an easy solution to so many problems. However, this quibble has the tang of a personality clash. Jordan’s just being Jordan. Being bored of the lush glitz and vast glamor is Vo writing her true to form.

What gaps Vo does fill are filled well. Jordan Baker’s interiority is fully explored and fleshed out. Fitzgerald’s novel doesn’t discuss race, and Vo brings the topic to the fore. The queerness is explicit and delightful. I think some of the best scenes were Jordan and Daisy’s childhood, which only received a few sentences in Fitzgerald’s work. I wanted more of these spaces, and more new spaces. I’d love a sequel.

Underneath the low fantasy, The Chosen and the Beautiful has the feel of a brilliant Jordan Baker character study. Vo absolutely nails her.

As Yet Unsent was included in my digital copy of Harrow the Ninth, so I was lucky enough to read it pretty much immediately. What made me very excited was the more direct interrogation of Empire, as a concept and reality. Recently, a lot of fantasy media I’ve read casually throw out the word “empire” to describe their setting, but they fail to address the terrible violence that word contains. Muir’s going the distance! Have you ever witnessed the brainwashed watch someone else get differently brainwashed! Nobody is getting away with anything! 

What kind of primordial queer scream can I emit that hasn’t already been echoed across the cavernous chambers of the Locked Tomb fans’ hearts? 

Sadly, I didn’t write a proper review of Gideon the Ninth. Without that book as a base, it’s impossible to describe Harrow the Ninth. Both books are intricate, multi-layered masterworks. I can’t describe the plot because the plot is a spoiler. One character is Find + Replaced. The soup scene was hysterical. Vast sections of Harrow are in the second person, and it’s a unique, effective use of the second person. I liked how the Lyctors acted as futures and foils to Harrow and Ianthe. It’s been a thousand pages and I’m not over the juxtaposition of butt jokes and florid descriptions of Gothic Catholic architecture. Overall, I feel so lucky to be alive in the time of Muir. We are so lucky to read these books. They’re beautifully wrought, watery as bones.

Earlier this year, it finally twigged that I like the Gothic genre. I decided to learn more, and this decision led me to Professor Lori A. Paige’s lecture on “Romancing the Gothic - 300 Years of Gothic Romance” on Youtube. Her fascinating lecture gave me a ton of classic Gothic recs, including the first gay Gothic romance, Gaywyck by Vincent Virga. Unfortunately, my library doesn’t have a copy, but they did have Dragonwyck on audiobook. I figured I might as well read what Gaywyck spoofs, and now I’m 16 hours older with an Experience.

Like so many women before her, Miranda dreams of more than this provincial life on her family farm. It’s work, work, work from sunrise to sunset, and a steady diet of strict Protestant moralizing in between. Miranda’s favorite time of day is when she takes her baby sister out to the fields to play, because she can bring her latest romance novel along. This routine is interrupted by a letter from a second cousin. Hailing from a much wealthier branch of the family, Lord Nicholas Van Ryn wants a governess for his daughter. Miranda leaps at the chance and from the get-go is captivated by Van Ryn's Dragonwyck estate. The land's beauty and noble occupants are just like her novels. Little does she know that, also like in those novels, a dark undercurrent waits to pull her down.

 Dragonwyck is more a Gothic historical fiction than a pure Gothic pulp. Lucky me, I like both! I liked learning about 1840s Hudson River Valley and the end of the medieval-esque poltroon system. Quite a few reviews compare Dragonwyck to Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, but to me that’s like comparing peaches to plums. Seton’s story eschews the murky fairy tale non-place of typical Gothic stories in favor of fully occupying its historical setting. Various famous historical figures say hello, including Edgar Allen Poe, and the Van Ryns get inserted into the Astor Place Riot. To tick the boxes of the other genre, the socio-political systems which kept the Van Ryns in power decay and rot before Miranda’s eyes. Those who can neither let the past die nor meet the past’s demands for justice get their comeuppance. 

Speaking of the past, reading Dragonwyck reminded me that I haven’t read twentieth century American literature in a hot minute. Seton took pains to put realistic 1840s racism in her book…on top of the period typical racism one might expect from a book written in the 1940s. Ouch. There is so much fatphobia in this book. Lady Van Ryn is a beautiful fat woman. Every time she’s on page, the narration comments on her weight in a derogatory manner. I hated it. 

My other caveat is for misogyny. Both our Gothic anti-villain Nicholas and our regular hero Jeff dismiss Miranda’s feelings, opinions, and (occasionally) autonomy. Both insist they know better than she does about her own life. In one scene, Jeff praises the pastoral life he has zero experience with. Miranda tries to explain farming is difficult, endless drudgery, but he waves her off. He insists that the countryside is more morally pure and good for the health. Worse, the circumstances surrounding the book’s ending seem to punish and squash Miranda until she agrees with Jeff’s opinion. She comes to the incredibly Protestant American conclusion that having nice things is evil. The book’s ending tastes bitter in my mouth.

The book had its bright points. Seton uses frequently the word “gay” to mean “happy,” and each time I chuckled. In her adventures, Miranda meets Peggy, an Irish immigrant, and the sapphic vibes are Strong. The plot and pace are top-notch. The descriptions were lovely, when they weren’t being insulting. If you squint, you can see the beginnings of socialist thought—oh, to live in a world where everyone gets moderately nice things. Though I have a few reservations, Dragonwyck overall was a solid read. I’d recommend it to people who want to read Gothic-flavored historical fiction, and I’d give them some content warnings.

Romancing the Gothic – 300 Years of Gothic Romance lecture by Lori A. Paige on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5fOuVY-PGA

My friends and I have a sapphic book club, and one of our number nominated Ten Steps to Nanette as our next book. Ultimately, we decided against it since not all of us had seen the titular comedy special. I watched it awhile ago, so I decided to read the memoir on my own. As like, a mini-book club within the book club, haha. Regardless, it got me reading, which got my mind blown.

As the title suggests, Ten Steps to Nanette chronicles the parts of Gadsby’s life that lent themselves to the Nanette show. Though the book is marketed as a memoir, it has the breadth of an autobiography (birth to present day). Gadsby’s writing has beautiful cadence—even without the audiobook, the words have a soothing rhythm. 

Very rightly, Gadsby insists the reader meet her memoir on her terms. For example, the ten steps aren’t in chronological order, but an order that makes sense to her. She brings in socio-political and colonial context to her story landscape, of which her child self didn’t know. Multiple times she implores people to not play “truth detective,” i.e. find the people she’s purposefully obscured. She focuses on elements that are important to her, when they’re important—not what’s sensational. If Ten Steps to Nanette had been one of the first memoirs I’d read, I’d have gotten into the genre much sooner. The sensationalism in memoirs like Running with Scissors don’t appeal to me.

Honestly, Ten Steps to Nanette made me question why I read memoirs. Gadsby’s life isn’t all peaches and roses, and I took breaks to rail against the toxic cocktail of capitalism, homophobia, and ableism that brought this book and some of its contents to my hands. Why should she have to do this, to share this? Yet I can’t deny that I’ve greatly benefited from Gadsby’s sharing. I have a viscerally better grip on autism and ADHD. My empathy has grown immensely, and I’m fired up to create art, to fight for justice; to love people better. I wish Gadsby well in the future. She’s more than earned her prime.

My review of Running With Scissors: https://app.thestorygraph.com/reviews/cb3f0e7c-79f9-4ba7-b543-31466ec1ddff

Feminine Pursuits was the perfect series for our sapphic book club, and the worst part is that it’s over! The Hellion’s Waltz had us all in a tizzy.

The Roseingrave family revolves around music, and Sophie is no exception. When a con man exploits Sophie and her family’s passion, the Roseingraves are left practically penniless. Leaving their London home for slow-paced countryside, Sophie vows to never be swindled again. Or let anyone else be, if she can help it. Which is great, until she falls in instant lust for Madeline Crewe, who is neck-deep in the swindle of the decade.

The Hellion’s Waltz was a breath of fresh air after The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows. While both books center level-headed women who err on the side of practicality, Agatha and Penelope’s story was the wrong kind of slow-burn agonizing. Sparks fly instantly for Madeline and Sophie, and they communicate well to boot. Most of The Hellion’s Waltz conflict is external to the romance, and this change of pace was quite welcome. Waite included just the right amount of fun facts about pianos, weaving, and con artistry. There were more characters of color and casually queer people, whose lack were our major quibbles with the first two books. Literally the only critique we could muster the strength to utter was we missed fuller cameos of Lucy, Catherine, Agatha, and Penelope. Our former protagonists more haunt the background—Sophie tutors Lucy’s little cousins; Agatha’s yellow dress and Penelope’s honey make appearances. These details were pretty tiny.

The first two Feminine Pursuits books establish Waite’s great prowess as a writer, and The Hellion’s Waltz is where she seems to truly find her rhythm. Thought I wish the series was longer (where is my beer brewer romance??), I’m eager to see to where Waite goes next.

Though I’m posting this review in November, I listened to The Phantom of the Opera audiobook back in August. The hot weather had me in a Gothic mood, and who would pop up under the Gothic Classics tab but Erik. I love the 2004 movie adaptation and have blasted multiple soundtracks directly into my tender eardrums. Ralph Cosham’s audiobook performance was also my first time using the Libby app. It worked well!

While I didn’t bat an eye at the serialized nature of the original story, two other storytelling elements immediately surprised me. First, there’s a whole frame narrative. Raoul’s surviving family want to know what happened at the Opera, since Raoul took his secrets to his grave. They hire an unnamed detective to dig up the mysterious, tragic events, and the main story is the detective’s investigation. Second, Raoul is the protagonist, not Christine. The point of view does roam a little, but we see through Raoul’s eyes most consistently. We’re literally never in Christine’s head, even though she’s the center of the maelstrom. 

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical follows the remaining story beats fairly closely, and I can see why. It’s a lot more fun to be in the thick of the action. That being said, Christine’s absence meant that Raoul had to fill the role of swooning Gothic heroine full of fevered emotion. The genre gender reversal was a treat. Erik is a softer, more viable love interest, but I still think Christine should have chosen Meg, who loves her as she is. Many scenes had me riveted. One scene involving a masked man and rats raised the hair on my nape.

The Phantom of the Opera has been out a hundred years, and it’s still got it. If you love the musical, I heartily recommend the book. An enjoyable adventure from start to finish.

My journey to this book is a little kooky (it involves an RPF vampire visual novel), but I made it. And got my mind blown in the bargain!

Since it would have helped past me, here’s a run down on Ningen Shikkaku VS No Longer Human VS A Shameful Life. Arguably Dazai-san’s most famous work, Ningen Shikkaku was first published in 1948. The author died soon after, so he didn’t live to see his work become one of the bestselling books in Japan. In 1958, scholar Donald Keene translated and published Ningen Shikkaku to American audiences. Keene’s translation is seen as the definitive one and probably what one would see in a bookstore. The phrase “ningen shikkaku” literally translates to “disqualified from being human,” and Keene translated this phrase to the more stylistic “no longer human.” Under the title No Longer Human, this book has been adapted to many, many mediums, including live-action films, anime, animated movies, and manga.

Keene’s translation is also HELLA popular at my local library, like all of Dazai-san’s works. I could wait 8 holds deep, or read Mark Gibeau’s lesser known 2018 translation, A Shameful Life. In the back matter, Gibeau explains that he and some grad students were at a bar one night and decided, for fun, to translate Ningen Shikkaku’s delicate, winding sentences. In true Dazai-san fashion, what started as a drunk game became a serious endeavor. Gibeau positions his translation not in competition, but in conversation with Donald Keene’s—and to avoid confusion, he chose a different title.

No matter the translation, the protagonist and plot remain. An unknown person finds three journals and photos of Ōba Yōzō. Like footage meant to be found, Ōba wrote the journals to record and reveal his true, terror-stricken personality behind his mask of class clown. The autobiography goes from his childhood to late twenties. He has various misadventures, including failing out of university, becoming a popular cartoonist, joining the forbidden Communist party, suffering from addiction, and having various affairs with women. Throughout, Ōba feels intense alienation from other people and struggles to figure out the “rules” of existence. He mimics other people’s behavior and makes them laugh—but inwardly feels lonely and miserable.

If the plot summary seems brief, it’s because the plot isn’t the focus of the novel. I read A Shameful Life in one sitting, and by the end my mind was aswirl with names, places, feelings, images, and self-imposed wretchedness. Instead of everyday mundanities, Dazai-san intensely focuses on Ōba’s inner world. Sometimes I wonder how many of Ōba’s problems would disappear if he rolled in the mud for a bit. Get out of your brain, boy! It sucks in there, with all the depression, alcoholism, and addiction. More seriously, reading was like looking in a fun house mirror for me. My brain is also a sucky place to live sometimes.

To add another mirror, Ōba acts an anthropologist of his own life, trying to figure out “humanity,” just like a teenage me (and, interestingly, Nell in The Haunting of Hill House). How does one define “humanity” as a concept? I cheered when Ōba realized that society isn’t a punishing monolith so much as individuals within society acting cruelly. Probably because I’ve had these thoughts before, I didn’t find the novel depressing so much as intriguing. The most bleh part was Ōba’s dismissive treatment of the women around him.

I haven’t read much Japanese literature, besides manga. I want to explore more! A Shameful Life is a rich body of work, and I could viscerally feel my lack of ability to dissect it. Gibeau’s afterward explained the i-novel and authentic novel movements, which was great. I got the main theme about the impossibility of understanding and being understood, of truly knowing another. But there’s so much more! I can tell why universities have entire classes on Dazai-san’s books.

A Shameful Life easily earns 5 stars, and I may be a Dazai-san fangirl now.

Reading Lolita in Tehran hasn’t sat neglected on my shelf as long as other books have (apologies to The Scarlet Letter), but the prospect of reading it exuded a certain level of Ominous. I needed a push to pick it up. That push came in the form of my mother loving audiobooks + bookstore audiobook sale + Mother’s Day shopping = Mother-Daughter book club time! With her new audiobook and my tattered paperback, we kept pace with each other fairly well. Apparently, I inherited my feast-famine reading pace from her, haha. We texted and chatted about our reactions and thoughts. The paperback version has reading guide questions in the back matter, so we promised to go over those in person next time we meet. In prep for our future discussion and due to the sheer amount of revelations I had while reading, this review is like a long, detailed summary.

This book, sadly and creepily, became extremely relevant with Mahsa Amini’s murder earlier this year. One of Dr. Nafisi’s students goes through a similar experience, though she survives. Seeing the headlines, reading this book, and writing this review—it gives me a strange sense of dislocation in time and space. Nothing has changed—everything has changed. Living in the USA through 9/11 and the Bush presidency as a white Catholic woman, Iran is this big blank space in my mind. I have to dig through layers of Islamophobia, xenophobia, and racism to get at the smallest kernel of reality. As a memoir, Reading Lolita in Tehran is a primary source on life during the Iranian Revolution and Islamic Republic of Iran, but it has a controversy section on Wikipedia all the same. I can’t let the education end here, which is why Fatemeh Keshavarz’s Jasmine and Stars and Geraldine Brooks’ Nine Parts of Desire are on my To Read List. I’d love more recs!

Dr. Nafisi splits her memoir into four sections. Each section covers a different era of her life, and Dr. Nafisi examines her experiences through the lens of Western literature classics. It’s not necessary to have read the books she mentions—Wikipedia summaries served in a pinch. As one might expect, I found it easier to follow her analysis if I’d read the work. The first section is titled “Lolita,” and discusses Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita and Invitation to a Beheading. Through these works, Dr. Nafisi goggles at the absurdities inherent in totalitarianism and begins her secret book club in post-Revolutionary Iran. I was especially struck by the contradiction in women’s power. The government is in the process of stripping more and more of their political rights. The roving bands of morality police hack away at women’s right as humans. The veil is a major symbol that women and “evil American influences” have been “defeated.” One would guess that women have no power. Except if a woman takes off her veil in public, she can trigger a riot. With the simple act of removing a bit of clothing, women can bring about days-long chaos in the streets. That’s such a weird societal place to inhabit.

The next section is “Gatsby.” At the start of the Iranian Revolution and about 11 years before “Lolita,” Dr Nafisi still teaches Western Literature classes at university. Some students are more obsessed with purity politics than what F. Scott Fitzgerald has to say, so Nafisi hits upon the brilliant idea to put The Great Gatsby on trial. The conservative student “lawyer” demands The Great Gatsby be struck from the syllabus because it glorifies a rich, American lifestyle. As he argues, his words lose focus and morph into a basic propaganda speech—making it clear to everyone that he’s not read the book. The irony is Fitzgerald hates the ultra-rich Americana, just like the conservative students. The liberal student lawyer points this irony out through careful reading of the text. Meanwhile, Communist students also want The Great Gatsby thrown out, because it doesn’t support Communism. This section was absolutely hair-raising for me, because I see these anti-intellectual, neo-puritanism debates play out over tumblr…like, every day. Fundamentalism is fundamentalism, no matter which religion’s coat of paint’s on top. This section made me realize that “radical politics” means extreme left OR extreme right. Whether book banners claim to be a liberal or conservative political party, they still harm society by banning books.

Stepping further back in her timeline, Dr. Nafisi touches on the broken American dream, as depicted in Gatsby, and contrasts it with her youthful dream of Revolution. This theme continues in the next section, “James,” which centers “Daisy Miller” and “Washington Square” by Henry James. When Dr. Nafisi attended university in the USA, she protested American imperialism and chanted violent slogans. The Revolution was supposed to be her generation’s time to shine and bring about a better world. However, the generation didn’t think their “better world” through. The slogans didn’t remain slogans, but became real-world violence. Dr. Nafisi feels at once a deep betrayal and a deep horror at her actions. They realized their “dream,” and it was terrible. The Iran-Iraq War compounded Dr. Nafisi’s misery, as she’s expelled from university and bombs fall near-constantly on Tehran. Imagine raising two small children during all of that!

The last section centers on Jane Austen, particularly Pride and Prejudice. This section mostly ties up everything in a bow, but raises important points about art. We circle back to the book club to find out how it broke apart and what led Dr. Nafisi to leave Iran (she’s officially banished from the country, nowadays). In the barren wasteland of totalitarianism, the people hunger for art, no matter the quality. Dr. Nafisi makes an incredibly mind-blowing point about Jane Austen’s refusal to put geo-politics in her work. In all Austen’s work, you don’t hear about the Napoleonic Wars, or slavery, or whatever the Regent is doing. This daring storytelling decision asks that even though the personal is political…should it be? We want politicians OUT of our bedrooms, toilets, and doctors’ appointments. We want to live and let live, so long as no harm’s done.

Overall, Reading Lolita in Tehran was a revelation. It made me think about myself and my world—while expanding my view on what that world contains. It’s the perfect book to discuss in a club. Throughout, Dr. Nafisi emphasizes the triumph of empathy and compassion, and how these heroic traits are honed through reading. I couldn’t agree more. Reading Lolita in Tehran certainly did that.

A tiny review for the most polished tiny book! The Great Atlantean Battle Royalchemy sees our heroes in top form, all snuggly and cute and badass. The centerpiece mystery is enticing and well-plotted. Reading this novella felt like a sneak peek at the character dynamics for the next book. Rune and Brand are more secure in their parenting roles, and Max finds his footing as their son, which is a nice mini-arc for these mini-books. As the title suggests, we get a few more crumbs of how the magic system works (alchemy = spooky chemistry). If you only have time to read one of these in-between installments, I recommend this one heartily.