rickjones's Reviews (1.66k)

My Dark Vanessa illustrates a relentless and necessary portrait of a grooming survivor who remains tangled in the web of lies her groomer presented as love, even as she grows into an adult. This book is a bared-teeth, growling response to the lush literary canon that mythologizes young girls, asserting that they have a corruptible power over the adult men who do not see them as anything more than an imprintable sexual fantasy. It was difficult to read this book, and has been even more difficult not to continue pouring over it in my head once I finished it. 

Russell's use of language, symbols and respected literary texts is purposeful and horrifying. With each violation made by her teacher I felt genuine fear for Vanessa, yet still understood why she ignored her own worries to please this man who made her feel singled out and special. The complexities of grooming are on full display in this story. Vanessa's abuser's words are strategic and intentional, and Russell ensures that we understand the weight of them on Vanessa's life each time. I appreciated that Vanessa was not a hero. She is a woman whose development as a girl was interrupted by a predator, who is slowly learning to remove the veil of "love story" to understand her predation as it truly happened. She is also a deeply flawed person who is denying herself the growth necessary to build healthier relationships with herself and others. She is vengeful, yet turns her anger to those undeserving while repeatedly acquitting her groomer. She understands she was violated, yet tells herself she wanted this, she is being loved, she is nothing like a true victim, in order to spare herself the pain of admitting her hurt. Her story does not end with a rushed exacting of revenge that would feel insultingly unrealistic. Instead, we leave Vanessa as she is slowly learning to forgive herself and those who tried to help her, and start a life that her predator will never see, never touch and never know. 

I would recommend this book only to those prepared to read graphic depictions of underage sexual exploitation. Russell writes these passages for us to simultaneously understand how Vanessa is being taken advantage of and why she feels that she isn't, why she feels responsibility for what a much older man has primed her to tolerate. These scenes are written with a thick disgust instead of titillation, but I understand that they may still be too disturbing for people to expose themselves to. 

In conclusion, this is the only novel I've read where I felt genuine, raw grief for the protagonist to the extent that it was difficult to remind myself that her story was fiction. Yet while Vanessa is fictional, there are too many girls in this world who share her story, or who were at risk to be similarly preyed on as they formed their teenage identities around romanticized depictions of underage sexual exploitation. Russel states in her acknowledgements that she thanks "the Los I've met over the years who carry within them similar histories of abuse that looked like love, who see themselves in Dolores Haze. This book was written for nobody but you". Her story has been needed for so long, by so many people, so they may recognize the carnivorous horror of grooming for what it truly is. This is a sickening but triumphant book to experience. 

While I'm not entirely sure I understood the philosophy of this book, I did find it interesting and engaging to divulge into Meursault's apathetic perspective. The short, bold sentences were easy to follow, creating a quick pace for the book as Meursault headed towards doom. I don't have much else to say about the book right now. I enjoyed the absurdity of it, and how Meursault's distance from human emotions both repulsed me and made sense. I would definitely like to read it again academically if I have the opportunity, and my only real grievance with it is how the characters' racism and misogyny seem almost accepted within the narrative. 

This is definitely one of the weirder books I've read, and I'm not sure I fully understood the themes it was trying to represent. While it does have merit as an exploration of sexuality, shame, internalized homophobia, secrets and family, I often found myself repulsed by the causal ableism and racism exhibited by the leading characters. Though these bigoted thoughts and comments may be accurate for the time the book is set in, I felt them off-putting and extreme. Yet for what it's worth, this was an extremely engaging read and I enjoyed the darkly humorous tone and relentless honesty of Gowdy's writing. Much of this book revolves around the sexual exploits of the four oldest members of the Canary family, starting in adolescence. While many of these affairs are shameful and humiliating to the characters involved, Gowdy still manages to describe even their lowest moments with enough sensitivity so that the book does not feel mean-spirited or exploitative. Yet the final glaring flaw of this book is in the treatment of Joan, who is not a well depicted disabled character and was likely never intended to be. Instead, Joan is a personified representation of the Canary family's need for truth. She absorbs their secrets her entire lifetime, listening intently until she discovers a way to communicate through others' words. She is less of a person than a symbol to inspire the abled characters, which disabled people are too often reduced to, even when given starring roles. I remain torn on this book because I do feel it has worth, depth and meaning, yet there are issues with it too prominent and offensive to ignore. 

The Guncle is a story that successfully balances humor with tragedy by exploring our protagonist's unresolved grief as he works to understand himself in order to understand his grieving niece and nephew. Despite these tough themes, the novel is ultimately a lighthearted one, characterized by a sunshine-y, idyllic tone. Patrick is a flawed protagonist, and one desperately out of touch with the world, yet he did endear himself to me as the book went on and we learned more about why he treats life as a stage with himself in the starring role. I appreciated the themes of how trauma warps ourselves until it warps our relationships with our families, and how we have a responsibility to be kind to ourselves so that we may be kinder to the next generation. Rowley was great at writing expanded descriptions of locations and emotions, and in supplying a joke whenever possible. While this story may feel unrelatable to many because of Patrick's wealth, I would still recommend it to other readers looking for more gay narratives. 

Metrophage is an engaging read about a futuristic world where all of society's ills are amplified. Exploitation, addiction, disease, racism, poverty, xenophobia, organized crime, law enforcement brutality and despair are pumped up to an eleven, creating a hopeless and disorienting setting for our protagonist to navigate. Though the characters could have been fleshed out more I did feel invested in their survival, especially the ones who remained optimistic when surrounded by hostility and violence. I also liked envisioning the variety of locations Jonny found himself in, usually after waking up from injury-induced unconsciousness. Yet the science fiction elements were my favorite part of this book.  The technology advancements, body upgrades and new drugs presented by Kadrey felt unique while still plausible, especially for people searching for meaning and pleasure in this ruthless narrative. While the ending was unfulfilling, it did feel right for this story. Jonny is not a hero, he's a man with a mission that ultimately becomes meaningless as he travels further down the rabbit hole of corruption and loses one part of himself after another in the process.