Erewhon

Samuel Butler's Erewhon is the namesake of the trendy overpriced Californian grocery store known for over-the-top celebrity smoothies, playing on the fact that the Erewhonians take health so seriously that having any sort of illness is condemned as a crime. Knowing this, it's a pretty funny/extreme take on health culture, and makes me question if the creators are scamming us all 😂

Anyway, I've gotten off track. Back to the book.

It felt as if the narrative were written in three distinctive parts (though they didn't seem intended to be split that way). The first being an adventure story somewhat reminiscent of the style of Frankenstein, the second as a series of philosophic musings/essays, and the third composed of three or so very short chapters that almost felt like an epilogue. It started out so fun and exciting, but then it tapered off into all of these ideologies that were interesting enough, but not exactly *thrilling*. Then, at the end, it sort of tried to mix the two together in a half-ass way in a mad rush to get to the point which was just that...man sucks. lol. All in all, I'd say the experience felt a little disjointed and confusing...but then again...maybe that's just a reflection of how the main character felt during his journey?

Idk but here's a fun fact: the name Erewhon is derived from "nowhere" spelled backwards...with the h and w transposed. Everyone else probably noticed that besides me.

The House of the Spirits

Tragic and poetic, and mixing a bit of fantasy with the harshness of reality, Isabel Allende's The House of the Spirits challenges readers to look life's roughness in its face and cherish the romantic moments as best we can. Through the pages, one traverses generations of the Alba family's histories; hating some, loving others, and growing old with all of them.  Allende doesn't shy away from exposing the follies of her central characters, and its that fact that makes the story all that much more real. 

In the epilogue that sums up the memory of all that has passed, the reader gets a true sense of nostalgia as if they themselves lived and knew each of the characters' lives. Having recently reflected on generational histories myself with the loss of my grandmother, reading the end felt like a beautiful homage to the experience of being part of a family.

One ding I give this book? The sporadic and random shifting between narrators was a bit confusing and I didn't see much reason for it. In honesty, I only even realized what was happening there like a third of the way into the book, and then I had to Google wtf was happening. If it were up to me, I'd toss that.

Wise Children

Angela Carter’s writing is always so delightfully feminine…in the best way. Reading her stories feels like looking at a rococo painting…all pink and lacey and girlish…even when the characters display a sense of raunchiness, dirt, and decay. Wise Children is characteristically Carter, displaying all of the glamour of the stage (the last one I read by her took place at a circus, similarly) amid family mess and chaos. There’s something in here about wealthy excess and bygone beauty, Shakespearean tragedy and incestual chaos…but I can’t quite place my finger on what exactly the allusion actually is. 

Instead, all I can say, is that this novel is a quick ride and a good time, just like its leading ladies. It’s even better when read aloud. Carter writes Dora’s narration as perfectly natural dictation, and you practically step into her memories as you voice her words. It’s a romp, with glimpses of emotion and wistfulness that are true to the experience of growing up. Four legs up.

The Unconsoled

What the actual fuck did I just waste months of my life on. I spent 535 pages convinced that SOMETHING, ANYTHING would eventually happen or some sort of clarity to be revealed, but it NEVER DID.  I knew I didn't like Ishiguro's writing, but my god, is he just a master of trolling his publishers with straight garbage and jumbles of words that have no meaning?

I guess what he does well is create the ambiance of a real dream that you're trapped in and can't make sense of. But that's where any praise ends. The experience is extremely unpleasant, stifling, and at times, like you're straight up being gagged. Conversations are mundane and everyone takes five hours to spit one coherent thought out. 

The book is divided into parts, and every time I would get to the beginning of a new one, some fresh hope would awaken in me that something would change. But no, FALSE. WHY BREAK THE STORY INTO PARTS IF NO TIME OCCURS BETWEEN THEM, AND NO SHIFT HAPPENS IN THE STORY? JUST TO TORTURE US????

And why even introduce plot points if you're never going to explain them? Sattler? WHO THE FUCK IS HE WTF. Gustav? DO YOU KNOW HIM OR NOT WTF. 

I hate this book. I hate it so much. I'm so glad it's over. That's all I can even say.

The Summer Book

 

The Summer Book by Tove Jansson (of Moomin fame) reads like a playful picture book. Jansson's writing is calming, like something intended to keep a child soothed and interested, but also has a tinge of nostalgia in it that is clearly catered for adults. 

The relationship between Sophia and her grandmother is loving, though often surprising (at least to an American) as the two often swap roles and subvert traditional expectations of what a granddaughter and grandmother should behave to one another. When they speak, Sophia (and sometimes the grandmother, too) uses jarring, harsh language that often made me question whether it was intentional or a strange translation choice. She often swears, or "screams" at her grandmother when she disagrees, and displays the selfish cruelty that children have, but are almost never portrayed with, in almost every interaction she has. Grandmother, on the other hand, balances patience with carelessness, seesawing between being Sophia's constant playmate and equal, to her guardian and mentor. 

Overall, it's a pleasant little collection of short vignettes that's perfect for a dreamy summer afternoon spent outside or near a window, close to nature. With Jansson's lovely descriptions of the island, and her adorable illustrations, it's almost certain you'll feel transported to the little Finnish oasis, and to feel your heart rate slow to a pleasanter, calmer, (happier?) tempo.

The Talk of the Town

The author, Ardal O'Hanlon, is described on the back cover as an "award-winning stand-up comedian and actor...best known for his portrayal as loveable dimwith Father Dougal Maguire in Channel 4's comedy, Father Ted", which led me to expect a lighthearted, sarcastic romp of a novel. But turns out O'Hanlon's first go at writing was much more nuanced than that. Quite gritty and obscene, it's a realistic (as far as a 30-something asian lady in America can tell) look at what it means to be a teenager/young adult in middle class Ireland. 

It reminds me a bit of a handful of TV shows that have gained popularity recently. Netflix's Adolescence, for instance, is quite similar in addressing boys' angst and the irrational mood swings that go on inside their heads. In the same way, this story ultimately ends in violence with an unclear, yet certain sense of doom that hangs in the air, weighing the consequences of uncalculated outbursts. I wonder if the novel inspired the show in any way.

Anyway, it's a modern novel that is easy to read in terms of length and jargon...so at times I felt reprieve in reading something from this list that never felt pretentious. I never felt bored or disliked the plot, yet it isn't something I think I would tap for a re-read. Perhaps I can find something more upbeat for my next read.

Asphodel

The forward by editor Robert Spoo is interesting. In it, he says that H.D.'s transcript, which he used as a basis for this published version, was full of misspellings and errors that made it unclear as to whether the words written were unintentional misses or creative choices. It's a tough job, I think, to be in those shoes—to be on the hook for representing an author's true intent but only being able to use educated guesses and when it comes down to it, your own gut judgment. I enjoyed having this insight, and it made me respect the work (both his and H.D.'s) and the history behind it in a deeper and more humanized way.

As Asphodel is based on the author's own life (though still considered to be fiction), I leaned quite heavily on the appendix to teach me how the characters related to those in H.D.'s life. Layering "Hermione"'s emotions onto the author's real life experiences felt quite intimate, and made me feel very close to this author that I so looked up to in college. 

At times, the stream of conscious style of writing was hard to follow, but there was always a poetic aspect to it that always had me thinking in the back of my head about a writer's intentionality. This work is more than just a one-note story of a woman's life. There's something else there, full of pain and relief, struggle and nostalgia, all of it wrapped in a bare honesty that sways back and forth between the meaningful and meaningless.

"There are no fields of asphodel this side of the grave."