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I think many people were excited to get more reading done during this time, and I think many people found—unexpectedly, though logical in retrospect—that they couldn’t gather the focus. Mid month, it took me ten days to finish one book; that’s a third of a month! But this past week I’ve been feeling out a new rhythm, so things are looking up. Plus, I started a 2020 book thread on Twitter to track my reads (inspired by Katie and Nicole), which I’m sharing with a single favourite quote from each read, and have already updated it with the 18 books I’ve read so far this year, so that’s been fun.
In other news, my library is closed, like everyone else’s library, but luckily I have plenty of ebooks, ARCs, and other unread books on my shelf to work through.
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
★★★★.5 // Goodreads // Buy it // Full review on blog // Reading buddies: Amanda, Sonia
It was a larger sadness, one that seemed to encompass all the poor striving people, the billions he didn’t know, all living their lives, a sadness that mingled with a wonder and awe at how hard humans everywhere tries to live, even when their days were so very difficult, even when their circumstances were so wretched. Life is so sad, he would think in those moments. It’s so sad, and yet we all do it. We all cling to it; we all search for something to give us solace.
An intimate look at male friendship, following a group of friends bonded by their devotion to Jude, “a man scarred by unspeakable trauma.”
Harrowing. I have never reacted so viscerally to a story. Would not push a recommendation because you have to be in the right headspace for it.
The Boy Who Followed His Father into Auschwitz by Jeremy Dronfield
★★★★ // Goodreads // Buy it // (Gifted)
Yet only through solidarity and kindness could people stay alive for any length of time.
It’s as the title says. As the author notes: “This is a true story. Every person, every event, twist, and incredible coincidence is taken from historical sources… I have brought the story to life with all my heart. It reads like a novel. I am a storyteller as much as historian, and yet I haven’t needed to invent or embellish anything; even the fragments of dialogue are quoted or reconstructed from primary sources.”
Really, Dronfield said it all in that note, and he delivered on it. It read like fiction; it wasn’t as dry as nonfiction can get when bogged down by dates/data/sources, but all that information was readily available in footnotes, endnotes, and an index—very nonintrusive, which is great for fiction readers who like to follow a narrative. The detail in this account was astonishing, and though detailed, did not overindulge in graphic horror. Again, Dronfield did not need to embellish anything. What Gustav and Fritz Kleinmann had to endure was horrific enough.
In four parts—”Vienna,” “Buchenwald,” “Auschwitz,” “Survival”—this memoir tells a story of love, devotion, solidarity, kindness, resourcefulness, and endurance against all odds. It’s unbelievable, but we must remember it.
Excavation by Wendy C Ortiz
Excavation begins and at first glance it is a sign of progress. And yet there is a dismantling that must occur first—perhaps a demolition of buildings that came before, then a cut in the earth, an opening, then the dig.
Ortiz wrote an amazing article on gatekeeping in the publishing industry, published in Roxane Gay’s online magazine, Gay Magazine: “Adventures in Publishing Outside the Gates.” I subsequently searched for Ortiz’s memoir, which I had to request via an interlibrary loan, and this huge sticker was plonked on the cover, which I found kind of hilarious. I hope they didn’t have too hard a time removing the sticker after I returned it!
On the surface level, this is simply an account of how Ortiz’s eighth-grade English teacher, 15 years her senior, started a sexual relationship with her. But this is not a straightforward story of how an innocent child was taken advantage of. This is also a coming-of-age story that captures the nuances of a girl discovering her burgeoning sexuality. As one Goodreads reviewer put it: “The way in which Ortiz is able to detail her own vulnerability, her own desire, and her own seeming complacency within a larger context of a sinister situation in which she is still absolutely the victim is profound.”
You may or may not be aware of the controversy surrounding Excavation and Kate Elizabeth Russell’s My Dark Vanessa. The conversation around yet another case of “a white woman writing a book that fictionalizes a story many people have survived and…receiving tremendous backing and promotion” has twisted itself into accusations of how My Dark Vanessa plagiarised from Excavation. I’m currently reading My Dark Vanessa, and while the subject matters and some plot points in the two books are very, very similar, the storytelling of the two books are completely different; to say that My Dark Vanessa plagiarised Excavation is a stretch.
Excavation almost read like diary entries and didn’t follow the typical structure of a narrative; the story didn’t gradually intensify to a climax and resolve. Some may find it boring. But it’s real and honest. My Dark Vanessa was more dramatised and had more suspense, and the structure and writing style felt more mainstream with its flowing narrative.
There were similarities, for sure. But I’m not surprised, as I believe that these stories are—unfortunately—common realities. Nevertheless, the conversation about gatekeeping in the publishing industry is still important. #OwnVoice authors need to be heard. As Roxane Gay said, it is frustrating when an author of colour “[encounters] closed doors, time and again, to a story about [their] lived experience, while those same doors open to a fictional version of a similar story and all too often, whether doors are open or closed depends on your race/ethnicity.”
Voices from Chernobyl by Svetlana Alexievich
I remember discussions about the fate of Russian culture, its pull toward the tragic. You can’t understand anything without the shadow of death. And only on the basis of Russian culture could you begin to make sense of the catastrophe. Only Russian culture was prepared for it.
I added this book to my TBR as soon as I finished binging the Chernobyl docu drama on HBO.
It wasn’t what I expected. Rather than unfolding the facts of the event like the HBO doc did, it compiled a collection of monologues from some of the people who were affected by Chernobyl, such as resettlers, liquidators, soldiers, journalists, doctors, scientists, and more. The book was aptly titled. As the author notes: “Why repeat the facts—they cover up our feelings. The development of these feelings, the spilling of these feelings past the facts, is what fascinates me.”
Each chapter was another monologue, and with each one I had to re-find my place in the narrative; I used what I learned from the HBO doc to give me more context. As such, the monologues felt disjoint, and it didn’t help when the monologues were vaguely titled. With some, I couldn’t place who was speaking until the end of the monologue, where there’d be a sign off with a name and occupation. I put so much effort into placing the context that I didn’t tap into the emotional aspects of these stories as much as it seemed most other readers did (Goodreads ratings are mostly 5s, then mostly 4s). However, my disconnect was likely partially attributed to being scatterbrained as of late, due to the current state of the world.
But that’s not to say that there weren’t any striking moments. There were two especially poignant monologues, which were the first and last, both titled “A Solitary Human Voice,” given by the wives of the deceased; those monologues were longer, more intimate, more emotional. In addition to those personal stories, it was striking to learn about how Chernobylites were so unaware of the danger they were in, partly because of politicians who were actively covering up the extent of the danger, partly because they didn’t believe the danger of an invisible enemy (radiation) anyway. And yet, despite so much uncertainty, people continued to sacrifice themselves for something they didn’t fully understand, such was their culture of devotion to the collective.
Diagnosis by Lisa Sanders
In medicine, it is essential to rule out diseases that can kill, and then move on to those that may only make you wish you were dead.
I added this book to my TBR as soon as I finished binging the Diagnosis docuseries on Netflix, and again, it wasn’t what I expected.
In most cases, doctors can recognise combinations of symptoms and immediately give a diagnosis. Sanders investigates the cases that aren’t immediately obvious. (If that reminds you of House, it’s because House was inspired by Sanders’ New York Times Magazine column Diagnosis.)
The Netflix docuseries was so emotional, but also informative and medically interesting. The book wasn’t emotional; it flew through cases quickly, each one covered in about five pages, compared to Netflix’s 45 minute episodes per case. The chapters were very formulaic, quickly taking you through the [educated]-guess-and-check-and-guess-again-and-check-again process before reaching the final diagnosis without very much suspense about it. It focused more on the symptoms and doctors than it did on the patients, though the last 1-2 paragraphs of each chapter would be more personal regarding the patients. Formulaic.
Because of the repetition, perhaps this isn’t a book to read in one go, despite its slim size. This is a book for people who are specifically interested in medical cases, rather than those who are interested in, say, how life-and-death situations bring clarity to universal truths about the human condition. Luckily I did have some interest in medical cases specifically.
Braised Pork by An Yu
★★★ // Goodreads // Buy it // (Giveaway win)
How can you really know someone? Even if I take my heart out, dissect it into pieces, and explain each piece in intricate detail to you – in the end, I would still have to stuff the whole damn thing back into my own chest.
Jia Jia finds her husband drowned in the bathtub. He leaves her nothing but their Beijing apartment and a mysterious drawing of a fish with a man’s head. She sets off on a journey to understand the sketch, which takes her through Beijing and to Tibet.
This is not a plot-driven story and not quite character-driven either; it’s dreamlike, atmospheric. It’s slow-moving, with magical realism and lots of water imagery. (Water plays a bigger role in this story than braised pork, in case you were wondering.)
Jia Jia is not particularly emotive, and her marriage was loveless, so I wasn’t affected by the circumstance of her husband’s sudden death. This did not read like a mystery or thriller. What drew me to this story wasn’t the grief I expected, but rather the journey of self-discovery that came with her liberation from her marriage.
Braised Pork reminded me of Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata, and a few readers have also compared it to Murakami (I’ve only read one of Murakami’s works, but it seems like an accurate comparison).
Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me by Gae Polisner
★★★ // Goodreads // Buy it // Full review here // (eARC)
And, yet, it isn’t about me, suddenly. It’s what you have decided. You have judged me as one thing, and at some point, I will disappoint you by proving you wrong.
This coming-of-age story follows JL as she grapples with the different relationships in her life: family, best friend, first love. JL contends with the scrutiny every girl experiences growing up, particularly when it comes to sexual exploration. This conversation had a lot of potential, but the end was too rushed and tidy, leaving much unresolved.
A last note…
In March, I was supposed to see Jia Tolentino (author of Trick Mirror), Rebecca Solnit (author of Recollections of My Nonexistence, A Field Guide to Getting Lost, Men Explain Things to Me, and more), Cathy Park Hong (author of Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning), and Bernardine Evarsito (author of Girl, Woman, Other), but those events were cancelled due to the coronavirus. I’m disappointed that I wasn’t able to meet them, but I’m glad that we’re all staying safe.
What was your favourite read this month?