octavia_cade's Reviews (2.64k)

I enjoyed this, but I have to wonder if I would like it better if I had more familiarity with the history and culture involved. There are really two stories going on here: the first, which frames the narrative, is a fictionalised account of the imprisonment and subsequent execution of the Uzbek writer Abdulla Qodiriy in one of Stalin's many purges of people who might have disagreed with him even once, or could potentially do so in the future. I've had a similar story published on the Soviet biochemist Lina Stern, who was also persecuted in this way (but who thankfully survived) so I was interested to read a longer and more writer-centric version. Qodiriy was apparently working on his own historical novel, also set in Uzbekistan, at the time of his arrest. This work has been lost, and Ismailov tries to recreate it, having Qodiriy plotting out the story during his detention... but the stories begin to blur together, as deprivation, torture, and fear make Qodiriy stumble through his own creation. 

It's very cleverly done - or at least I can see it's been cleverly done, even if I don't understand the extent of the cleverness. There's clearly a lot of historical and literary resonance here that I just don't get - time to add some central Asian history books to my to-read pile - and that's especially so when it comes to the poetry that's been included here. Uzbekistan, apparently, has a long and distinguished history of poetry, and of course I don't know anything about that either (I say with exasperation, annoyed at my own ignorance). Oh well, more background reading for me to do, then. As it is, there are times when I found this a little scattered, a little too fragmented... but I'm pretty sure it's my own lack of understanding that's contributing most to this impression. 

This reminds me somewhat of Bret Easton Ellis' Less Than Zero, which I did not like at all. Caicedo's novel is more entertaining, simply because the prose is substantially better (although I did read it in translation, which probably mutes the effect). I really did enjoy the prose, and even though I know nothing about dance and Latin American music from the 1970s - or even, let's be honest, from now - I found the setting and the emphasis on music compelling.

As with all the other drug-fueled self-obsessive teens of this type of story, though, I don't give a damn about the characters. They're all so melodramatic, and even Caicedo's prose can't make Maria any less tiresome. It could be that I'm just old, but honestly, even when I was her age she would have annoyed the shit out of me. I'm more interested in the fact that, according to the introduction, Caicedo killed himself the day he received his author copies. I suppose that's one way not to have to deal with critics... which seems a little harsh, but a hundred and fifty pages of Maria has left me replete with overdoses. 

I really enjoyed the artwork here - Teaero has both written the poems and provided the illustrations. It's not often I come across an illustrated poetry collection (one not directed at children, that is) so that was a nice surprise.

The poems themselves are also enjoyable, and while I wouldn't call them environmental poetry, exactly, they very much lean into the idea of Kiribati being part of the wider Pacific, both on a cultural and geographical level. This is partly due to the author himself, who lectured at the University of the South Pacific and who traveled widely in the region (each poem has a little note at the bottom, saying where it was written and/or first performed). It gives a sense of context that I appreciate; this is especially evident in the poems that take a rather ironic look at disconnection. There are poems, for instance, about fishing and lovely fresh fish, only to be presented with a meal of tinned meat because the fish have been sent off to export, or the old, leftover gun emplacements from WW2 that continue to squat on shifting sands, horribly out of place. It was this odd pop of disconnection, embedded within the rest of the text, which stood out for me the most, I think. 

This is a very readable piece of historical fiction, but it also comes across, sometimes, as an awkward mix of subjects. Half of the novel is a look at the effects of Dutch colonialism and the sugar industry during Suriname in the 1700s, primarily through the lens of slave labour, and the examples are horrific. A quick look at the Wikipedia history of Suriname indicates that the treatment of slaves at this place and time was among the very worst, and it's not a pleasant read. It is, however, enormously sympathetic to the community of escaped slaves that started an uprising - a very successful uprising, at that - and that's a part of history that I'm not at all familiar with and would like to learn more about.

The other half of the novel is straight soap opera. It focuses on two Jewish step-sisters, one of whom is a cast-iron bitch and the other who might as well be one of Dicken's ministering angels of the home. There's even a love triangle between the two sisters and the latter's husband, and all I'm left with is a general feeling of weary disgust, because two of these people are awful and one is utterly spineless. I guess that this selfish behaviour is meant to illustrate how slave-owning can warp the moral behaviour of slave-owners in every single aspect of their life, but these people are not the victims here. Furthermore, tonally it could sometimes be jarring to go from the serious historical novel to the soap opera of staring through keyholes and throwing tantrums because the latest bout of adultery is going poorly. Am I really supposed to feel sorrow for, or interest in, Sarith's romantic and family woes after she's had someone whipped to death? Because I don't. Bitch. 

This was a cute, quick read: a graphic memoir aimed at kids, written by an author who went deaf at four after contracting meningitis. The bulk of it's about how her hearing loss, and the hearing aids that somewhat mitigated that loss, affected her relationships with other young kids and at primary school. There are all sorts of aspects to hearing loss at that age that I'd never considered - being at a sleepover, for instance, and the other girls are giggling and talking and Bell is able to take part, but then when the lights go out she can no longer see to lipread, and so ends up feeling left out and alienated. Small things like that, which are really not small things at all and which clearly (and understandably!) feel enormous to a little girl. Also things like not really hearing well enough to understand what was going on in P.E. kickball classes and getting an unsatisfactory grade because of it, although I felt both less and more sympathy there; I could hear perfectly well as kid and still sucked at sport. Some experiences are universal.

I do think the ending peters off a little and could be much stronger, but overall it's a gentle, friendly way to introduce kids (and adults!) to life with hearing loss. 

I picked up this little book from the university library; it's less than a hundred pages so I got through it quickly. I love the idea of it - that back in 1938 these old legends were written down in order to keep them from being lost, but I have to admit that the legends weren't the most compelling part of this for me. The book is separated into three parts, and while the first and last sections are these transcribed stories, there's some repetition to them (unavoidable, I expect, in the recording of oral literature). The middle section, however, is a record of the practices of daily life and aspects of traditional culture. It talks about things like fishing customs and how pregnant women are treated and inheritance and the teaching of children... and as much as I like stories, the everyday details of how people live is just as much, if not more interesting.

 

I thoroughly enjoyed this - the stories collected here aren't exciting, really, in any way. They're just quiet and observant and finely polished, and most of all they're domestic. All of them are about women living in small communities in Bhutan, and even though I've never been to Bhutan and don't know a thing about it (aside from the Gross National Happiness measurement) the stories are just instantly relatable. And they're of such everyday things - the mother getting photos from her son, who's off getting an education overseas. The irritation felt when there's a mouse infestation in the house and a terribly lazy cat. Passing on fabric techniques and stories and getting older, losing memories. Getting stuck with the household chores while other family members are off doing more interesting things. Getting a belly button ring. And, my particular favourite, "I am Like This," which tells of the particular embarrassment felt when one's mother gets drunk at a funeral. 

I write short stories myself; it's easy to make them appealing when they're about exciting things. Making small stories appealing is much harder. It relies so heavily on characterisation, and the characterisation here is absolutely spot on. 

This was excellent, and I'm happy to know (through Googling, once I finished the book) that the author has been reunited with her young son. They should never have been separated, and the horrible behaviour of Qaderi's ex-husband - divorcing her by text, what a cowardly tool! - is frankly indicative of the terrible toll that fundamentalist religion can take on both men and women. I say that with mouth pursed, trying to be fair in that the temptation to hurt those weaker than you when society says it's fine to do so must be hard to resist, but for goodness sake... all the gumption in that family was clearly with Qaderi.

The choice to refuse the limitations of life in Afghanistan for a writing career outside that country seems an easy one, at first glance, but having to leave behind a baby in order to do so is a high price. Especially when that child is told that their mother is dead, and the courts side with the father in removing the mother entirely from a child's life. There's that myth, isn't there, of the maternal pelican plucking out its last feather and giving its last drop of blood for its chick, but that's always struck me as horrifying. Women are more than vessels, and self-determination and the freedom to excel and fight for the rights of oneself and others can - and sometimes should - outweigh maternal sacrifice. Not having children myself, that's easy for me to say. It must be immeasurably harder to do, but Qaderi's faith in literacy and its connection to women's rights is both profound and inspiring. 

This little book isn't very in-depth, but it really does succeed in communicating that sense of wonder that so often accompanies science. As a young boy in Peru, Ruzo heard stories from his grandfather about a mysterious boiling river somewhere in the depths of the Amazon. As an adult, and a geologist, he went looking for it, hoping that the legend had some basis in reality. It turns out that not only did the river exist, but that it wasn't exactly a secret. It wasn't well-known, but it wasn't lost either... although arguably, that lack of popular recognition acted as some measure of protection. The river has the potential to become a massive tourist trap, after all, and while the appeal of it might also contribute to its conservation, Ruzo is careful to communicate the need for balance, and for tourists and researchers to remain respectful both of the river itself and the community that has built up around it.

It's an appealing short memoir, and I can see it being one of those books that encourages people who are not perhaps very interested in science to take a second look. It's more adventure than anything else - a sort of geological taster - and if that can inspire readers to find science more appealing then I for one am all for it. 

You remember when you were a kid, and your mum said You need to go outside and get some fresh air? This book's that, basically, with sides of eat well and enjoy yourself. There's nothing particularly astonishing in the sentiments, and it's mostly a collection of encouraging, nature-based quotes in service of it's sunny out why are you still inside, but what underlines the basic good nature here is the art. Most pages are paintings, with the quotes and exhortations woven into flora, and the whole effect is just very pretty. If you have to read a self-help book at least this one has aesthetics.