#biblivio

[biblivio]

Normal People, Sally Rooney

Hogarth Press, 8/2018

Plot: 

Marianne and Connell are opposites: Connell is the most popular guy at their high school. Marianne is isolated and intensely private. Yet the connect deeply. They keep their romance a secret afraid of what the other kids might say about them, which ultimately causes the dissolution of their brief but intense relationship. In college, the tables are turned. Connell struggles socially but succeed academically, while Marianne has found her footing and a new social group but starts down a path of self-destruction.  Over and over again the two find themselves coming together, drawn closer by their innate connection. They find solace from their public personas within each other, but as many times as they find themselves together, they also fall apart. 

Reflection: 

As I’ve said before, I have a special fondness for Irish literature, and Normal People continues in its matter of fact yet profound tradition. Of the books I’ve read recently, this is one of my favorites, yet I find myself struggling to articulate exactly why that is.

Eloquence isn’t something that Rooney struggles with, however. In the words of NPR’S Heller McAlpin, “Rooney’s dialogue, like her descriptive prose, is slyly ironic, alternately evasive and direct, but always articulate.” The use of third person present tense feels almost anthropological, and entirely appropriate for the clinical way Rooney drops in throughout Connell and Marianne’s journey—yet, even with the analytical nature of the novel, emotion is not sacrificed. Normal People is evocative and staggering, speaking to the very individual but also universal nature of personal and interpersonal suffering.

Thematically the book asks, “what does it mean to be a normal person?” And in the vein of so much Irish literature before it, Normal People answers the question through an exploration of identity. It feels true to youth, and greater human nature, that as one’s sense of identity evolves as a result of relationships formed and intimacy shared, it too affects those relationships. The ebb and flow and constant changes of Marianne and Connell’s relationship dynamic feels almost like an emblematic ouroboros for personal identity development.

Normal People is a coming of age story for the modern age, rife with wry observation and raw representation of what it means to be a person, finding that “normal” is a relative term.

[biblivio]

Hunger Point, Jillian Medoff

Harpercollins, 1/1997

TRIGGER WARNING:

This book deals with themes regarding suicide, eating disorders, depression, and death of a loved one.

Plot: 

Frannie Hunter just moved back home. On top of her own depression, Frannie’s driven and perfectionist sister is anorexic, her mother is having an affair with her boss, her father doesn’t seem to care and there’s talk of sending her elderly grandfather to a home. Still Frannie navigates this all with wry humor and sharp observation. Just when things take a dire and dark turn, Frannie’s personal life is turned around-- now if only she can seem to care about it. 

Frannie Hunter just moved back home. On top of her own depression, Frannie’s driven and perfectionist sister is anorexic, her mother is having an affair with her boss, her father doesn’t seem to care and there’s talk of sending her elderly grandfather to a home. Still Frannie navigates this all with wry humor and sharp observation. Just when things take a dire and dark turn, Frannie’s personal life is turned around-- now if only she can seem to care about it. 

Reflection:

This was not an easy read, and I don’t think it was meant to be. There was a wryness to Frannie’s voice that did add some levity, but by no means does this book shy away from some truly profound internal darkness.

Not only does this book capture the toxic nature of diet culture that is still unfortunately prevalent over twenty years after it was first published, it’s also one of the most accurate depictions of depression I’ve ever read—at least how I experience my mental illness, I realize it isn’t the same for everyone.

As someone who has struggled with depression and body image issues for a large portion of my life, this book was complicated. I feel very similar to Frannie in a lot of ways, more so than most of the protagonists in books I read and that was very uncomfortable for me. But when the book ends, Frannie is healing: going to therapy, working on her relationships, etc. It’s a relatively optimistic ending, the kind that someone who has experienced Frannie’s trauma can realistically hope for, and seems achievable. So while this book felt really bleak, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and if any of this resonated, there’s light for you too.

If you need help, do not hesitate to call these resources:

National Eating Disorder Hotline: [phone]

Suicide Prevention Hotline: [phone]

[biblivio]

Descendant of the Crane, Joan He

Albert Whitman & Company, 4/2019

Summary: 

Princess Hesina of Yan finds herself the queen of an unstable kingdom after her beloved father is murdered. While she is reluctant to lead, Hesina is determined to find her father’s killer. Unsure of who to trust when it seems everyone around her has their own agenda, Hesina enlists the help of a convicted criminal with a reputation for brilliance.

Reflection: 

Against the common axiom, I chose this book because of its cover. But in fairness to me and my aesthetic needs, just look at it! It’s gorgeous!

I had a horoscope recently that said, “there is no truth, just varying degrees of complexity,” and while I’m not entirely sure how that applies to my life, it certainly feels apt in describing Joan He’s Descendant of the Crane.

The story deals with themes of justice and truth in a way that accommodates the nuance and evolving nature of human morality. It ultimately seems to ask the question: do good intentions negate bad actions? And it does so in a tender and multilayered way.

I read it twice before committing to reflect on it, and in the first read I missed what made it special. While I still felt the story lagged in the beginning, the world of Descendant of the Crane is vivid and steeped in tradition that He does a beautiful job paying homage to. I’m so used to Euro-centric fantasy, that Descendent of the Crane was a refreshing change.

Even though it took me awhile to get into the story, once it gets going it’s rife with action and compelling emotion just simmering under complex characters that you want to know more about. It seems to set up for a sequel that I’ll be happy to read and am excited to learn more about He’s forthcoming The Ones We’re Meant to Find.

[biblivio]

Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut

Delacorte, 1959

Plot: 

Malachi Constant is the most debaucherous man on earth. Conversely, Beatrice Rumford is cold and unsullied. Naturally, the two despise each other the instant they meet. Yet, they’re destined to have a child and traverse the universe together as prophesied by Beatrice’s own husband. The two do everything they can to avoid their fate, but destiny is too great a force for either to combat. 

Reflection: 

There is a recording of a Kurt Vonnegut lecture in which he describes story in nearly mathematical terms— and it’s this understanding of story that allows him to subvert norms in such a compelling way.

Like so many of his books, Sirens of Titan wryly twists toward an ultimately nihilistic conclusion but manages to end with a tenderness and poignancy I haven’t found in my other readings. The story seems to be driven by the machinations of a larger than life earthling who travels through space and time, only to find that he is a pawn in what is an almost menial scheme of delivering a single word greeting from one end of the universe to the other—a job that’s impossible as the universe is infinitely expanding.

Despite everything the characters in the book do, there is no contradicting their future revealed in the first chapters. Perhaps this is Vonnegut subverting the idea of character arcs and growth by giving us the answer before the equation and offering his own meditation on the age-old battle between destiny and free will.

In a way that is uniquely Vonnegut, Sirens of Titan asks its audience to examine what is at the root of wanting to know our future and purpose so badly? Why do we assume it’s something great, when likely it’s nothing special? What’s the point of searching endlessly for a purpose if you’re going to be disappointed in that purpose when you find it? If things are inevitable and predetermined maybe the best we can do is go along for the ride.

[biblivio]

The Mars Room, Rachel Kushner

Scribner, 2018 

Summary: 

Romy Hall reflects on her life growing up in San Francisco and her young son Jackson as she is confronted with arbitrary violence while serving two life sentences in a woman’s prison in California’s Central Valley.

Reflection:

I came across The Mars Room when it was announced as one of the books on the long list for the Man Booker Prize. Of all the books on the list, it was the premise I was most excited to explore. When I finally got to reading it, the book took a lot out of me emotionally and intellectually. It wasn’t what I expected at all. This is the super cliched part where I write something like, “it was more,” but that doesn’t really cover the nuance of my relationship with Rachel Kushner’s writing.

I suppose I wasn’t ready to be confronted by the stark reality of The Mars Room, and as advertised it does not hold itself back from darkness or devastation. It’s ironic (and I believe I’m using the word correctly) that what attracted to me to the novel in the first place was it’s description of being “gritty and unsentimental” but when I finally read it, the bluntness of life was what made it so difficult. I was severely depressed by the nihilism of not the characters, but the book itself and it took me way longer to read this one than it usually does. It challenged me in a way I wasn’t entirely ready for.

What makes it so compelling though isn’t the schadenfreude of watching another human being experience just unimaginable misery and desperation, but the irreverence and caustic tone that makes Kushner’s grim subject matter more digestible. Romy’s story wasn’t trying to be a great American tragedy, and acknowledge that there are a million great tragedies happening every second. Everyone experiences their own, at varying levels but those tragedies are no less personally devastating regardless of media coverage or renown. And truly there is a bleak humor in contemplating what amounts to saying, “everyone has a unique experience” is exactly the same as saying, “no experience is actually unique.” The Mars Room, through the exploration of so many lives gone awry implies that the human experience, though individualized, is not unique.

I really respect Rachel Kushner for giving her audience not the ending they wanted for Romy, but the one the story deserved. She did not hold back or pander, making allowances that wouldn’t happen in real life just because what she was writing is fiction. The ending felt appropriate which I find sometimes is more important than feeling satisfying, because sometimes life is like that— bleak, unfulfilling and ultimately unhappy. This isn’t a book about resilience or the triumph of the human spirit, rather it’s a pragmatic and wry meditation on the ways it can be broken.

[biblivio]

Here I Am, Jonathan Safran Foer

Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2016

Summary:

Jacob and Julia Bloch’s marriage is falling apart throwing them and their three sons akimbo. Meanwhile a devastating earthquake strikes Israel escalating the conflict. Both Jacob and Julia consider how they got to this point, the current geopolitical climate and the state of their fracturing family.

Reflection:

This is my first time reading Jonathan Safran Foer and it really was a unique experience. Safran Foer has an incredibly distinctive voice and his writing is intensely visual. Here I Am is probably one of the most cinematic books I have read.

His characters feel real and lived in. They have a rich inner life that Safran Foer explores deeply making for a very intimate experience between the characters and reader. There’s something very edgy and sarcastic about the novel’s content but it also feels emotionally honest and authentic enough that even though Here I Am has a very caustic tone, it also has a bittersweet core making it a realistically tender family portrait.

There’s also something really interesting going on with the content and the way it’s structured.

Jacob and Julia’s relationship crumbling, and the resulting dissolution of their family is paralleled in the geopolitical issues and natural disaster happening in Israel. Their relationship is Israel and the geopolitical quagmire of the Middle East is all the day to day complications of life. There is a tenuous harmony until the earthquake sets off a chain of events that devastates the area— not just in the obvious ways but also plunges the area into war. Similarly, when Julia discovers “sexts” on Jacob’s phone, it shakes an already shaky foundation, accelerating the amount of time to what seem an inevitable— less explosive than the Israeli conflict but no less emotionally devastating to their little world. Safran Foer is smart to do this in such a way that is not immediately obvious, which gives Jacob’s mounting interest verging on obsession with the Israeli conflict more significant given the context of his own deteriorating personal life.

This puts even more weight on the “fictional” life motif Safran Foer has written into the novel. Jacob is a television writer who has been working endlessly on a TV show about his family and he is constantly comparing his own life to the perception he has of his Israeli cousins. Julia is preoccupied with the optics of family life— how things should appear. Their oldest son, Sam plays a game called “Other Life” in which he’s a completely different person living in a virtual world.

It makes me wonder what Safran Foer is saying about the lives we perceive, reality and the space in between those two things.

To me, it’s about how spending too much on either side can be damaging— dwelling on what isn’t there or what could be breeds resentment within yourself and in those around you. Grounding too much in their reality makes both Jacob and Julia feel like they are “settling” and thus creates a stagnancy that’s ultimately causes Jacob to seek excitement in an online relationship and Julia to become overly concerned with appearances. Sam skirts the danger of both extremes at different points of the novel— at one end is his obsessive playing of “Other Life” and at the other, the cold and almost mercurial way he handles his parents’ divorce and death of his great grandfather. When his gaming profile is accidentally deleted by Jacob, Sam finds himself in a state of nihilism that causes him to confront why he felt the need to seek solace in the game in the first place.

A major event in the novel is Sam’s bar mitzvah. It is being meticulously planned by Julia and is of relatively little concern to Sam— until he’s forced to occupy the space between his nihilism and delusion.  With Sam coming into his own understanding of himself and adjusting his world view the event is downgraded to a much more humble but significant affair. This seems especially important to the novel when you consider the symbolism of a Mitzvah in the first place— to take one’s place in the Jewish community. Sam finds his place in the space in-between and is thus more a part of the communities around him than he ever was before.

I am a firm believer that coming of age stories can happen at any time in a character’s life— that they are more of a “coming into one’s own” than arriving at a specific age. Here I am definitely qualifies as a coming into one’s own kind of story and not just for Sam, but for the rest of his family as well. It asks the question of how we can live our most fulfilling life and addresses that there is no one correct way and that some people never really get there. It’s an uncomfortable truth but one that makes Here I Am feel all the rawer and more authentic because of it. 

[biblivio]

Not That I Could Tell, Jessica Strawser

St. Martin's Press, 2018

Summary:

After a ladies night of drinking wine and gossiping around the fire pit, Kristen disappears with her children leaving her doctor husband, beautiful home and seemingly perfect life behind. The neighborhood is left reeling at the mystery, especially as the investigation continues with no answers increasing the mounting suspicion of Paul, Kristen’s mildly domineering and seemingly aloof husband. This fear is especially acute for Kristen’s closest neighbor Clara who lost a friend to domestic violence— a secret she holds close to her. The neighborhood’s newest addition, Izzy is less convinced of Paul’s culpability and sees in him someone who is nursing heartbreak similar to her own. As the investigation continues, it becomes apparent that these neighbors do not know as much about each other as they originally thought.

Reflection:

Jessica Strawser creates a colorful and visual world in her suspense Not That I Could Tell. It’s a mystery that asks the question, “how well do you actually know your neighbor?” Truly its funny to think that you may be willing to give this person a key to your house, but they could have another life and persona you’re completely unaware of. It’s an uncomfortable and frightening truth, which is probably why it makes such a great thematic premise for a suspense.

Not That I Could Tell is a pretty straightforward suspense that exists somewhere in between the domestic noirs of Liane Moriarty and the atmospheric elusive thrillers of Gillian Flynn. It was an intensely enjoyable fast read and I completely recommend for fans of the genre or either of the above authors.

I always appreciate a female centric story, especially one that is focused on women helping other women instead of competing or stepping on each other. Not That I Could Tell does this beautifully and has some really awesome and unique female characters that I really enjoyed exploring through the novel. Another important thing about this book is that it points out that domestic violence/abuse isn’t always the most obvious iteration. There’s more to it that explosive outbursts of anger and violence. Not that I Could Tell speaks to the importance of checking in and keeping vigilant. The more knowledge we ecru, the more comfortable we are discussing it, adept at picking up the warning signs, the more proactive we can be about preventing it.

If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic abuse, do not hesitate to call The National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1800.799.7233 or visit there website www.thehotline.org where you can chat confidentially with highly trained advocates without having to speak. The website has a lot go good resources to learn more about healthy relationships and staying safe as well as ways to get involved.

[biblivio]

History of Wolves, Emily Fridlund

Atlantic Monthly Press, 2017

Summary:

Teenaged outsider Linda finds purpose in babysitting her new neighbors’ young son, Paul while living with her aging hippie parents on an abandoned commune in rural and frigid Minnesota. She also experiences a feeling of belonging with Paul’s mother that she’s never had before. Linda finds herself drawn to her neighbors’ secrets, which obscure her judgement and alter her perception leading her to make decisions that will affect her life for many years to come.

Reflection:

Something about this book drew me in, and I’m pretty sure it was the bare trees on the white snow and stark font used on the book’s jacket. I know that I literally judged the book by its cover, but in this case, it turned out to be a positive thing.

This isn’t the type of book I usually read, rather seek out, but the whole point of making a book list and writing reflections on what I read was to branch out from the same novels I was becoming bored with. I’m all about whatever attracts you to a book, the cover, the author, the premise, the writing style, etc. If you like one of those things, there’s a good chance you’ll like some of the others as well. ANYWAY…

History of Wolves is a slow burn towards a pretty predictable inevitability that doesn’t feel any less devastating or shocking even though you see it coming. The prose style is very stark and matter of fact (like the cover… so I guess sometimes you can judge a book by its cover), which feels appropriate for the protagonist Linda. It’s told as a reminiscence, with her looking back on a particularly formative time in her life with little asides that give us clues about how that period affected her in the long run.

It’s a quiet little story, that is nonetheless impactful because of the way it is simply, yet powerfully told. The pragmatic and largely unadorned writing style enhances the poignancy of Fridlund’s storytelling pathos, making for not only a compelling work of contemporary fiction but one with an underlying psychological suspense to it that distinguishes it from other similar novels.  Put simply, History of Wolves catches you by surprise. It flows so naturally, feels so lived in and conversational that it was over before I knew it, and though it was a quick read, it left a big impression.