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pushingdessy's reviews
441 reviews
Severance by Ling Ma
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
This was a really unique novel. It's a dystopian, nighmarish scenario, but told in the pacing and narrative structure of litfic, so even though there are horror elements, it’s not scary, just reflective and melancholic. While it wasn’t a 5⭐ read for me, I get it.
For some reason I’m thinking of “Exciting times”, a book that I profoundly disliked but that was touted as representative of the Millennial generation, except, after reading it, it felt mostly derogative. “Severance”, however, feels more authentic.
We see Candace’s life as the daughter of Chinese immigrants who uprooted her and their lives for the USAmerican dream; her struggles as she tries to live up to her parents' expectations; her grief at the loss of her family; her dedication to a job that doesn’t really fulfill her but pays the bills and spares her from the rest of the experience of living; the way it becomes her last stand as the plague takes over New York. All those points of severance, threatening to untether her from herself, unravel in a dual timeline, before the pandemic and in the aftermath of the devastation. Obviously this context is doubly-poignant when you read it after (during?) our own most recent global pandemic, even with the dystopian factor. At times it felt like two separate stories -severed, in fact- but, slowly, everything connects.
While I didn’t find this to be mind-blowing, it was a really nice, thoughtful read. Two more things I have to say:
1- LOVE that someone was making dulce de leche in the apocalypse 🥹
2- HATE the description of a penis as a slimy, veiny sea cucumber, why the FUCK was in there 😭
(Also, the cover design is so subtly brilliant in context? Packaged like a book proof, with the mould peeking through a crack. Amazing.)
For some reason I’m thinking of “Exciting times”, a book that I profoundly disliked but that was touted as representative of the Millennial generation, except, after reading it, it felt mostly derogative. “Severance”, however, feels more authentic.
We see Candace’s life as the daughter of Chinese immigrants who uprooted her and their lives for the USAmerican dream; her struggles as she tries to live up to her parents' expectations; her grief at the loss of her family; her dedication to a job that doesn’t really fulfill her but pays the bills and spares her from the rest of the experience of living; the way it becomes her last stand as the plague takes over New York. All those points of severance, threatening to untether her from herself, unravel in a dual timeline, before the pandemic and in the aftermath of the devastation. Obviously this context is doubly-poignant when you read it after (during?) our own most recent global pandemic, even with the dystopian factor. At times it felt like two separate stories -severed, in fact- but, slowly, everything connects.
While I didn’t find this to be mind-blowing, it was a really nice, thoughtful read. Two more things I have to say:
1- LOVE that someone was making dulce de leche in the apocalypse 🥹
2- HATE the description of a penis as a slimy, veiny sea cucumber, why the FUCK was in there 😭
(Also, the cover design is so subtly brilliant in context? Packaged like a book proof, with the mould peeking through a crack. Amazing.)
Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego by Mariana Enríquez
dark
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
3.75
Enríquez explora temáticas un tanto similares en todos sus libros: demonios, fantasmas, monstruos, maleficios y asesinos brutales, puestos en un escenario local y entrecruzados con el horror más mundano de la pobreza, la discriminación, la enfermedad mental, la imagen corporal, el abuso, la infelicidad, el abandono.
En lo particular, esta antología me pareció más tranqui que "Los peligros de fumar en la cama" en cuanto al terror y lo sanguinolento (y lo escatológico), aunque "El chico sucio" y "El patio del vecino" son particularmente macabros 😖 Me sorprendió "La casa de Adela", que evidentemente fue reutilizado para "Nuestra parte de noche" - fue interesante ver qué elementos quedaron y cuáles cambiaron. Algunas cositas de "Tela de araña" también resultaron familiares en ese sentido.
Me suele pasar con los cuentos de Enríquez que los finales me parecen un poco decepcionantes, como que termina la historia y ya. Los que me parecieron más satisfactorios y con un final más redondo fueron "El chico sucio", "El patio del vecino", "La casa de Adela", "Bajo el agua negra" y "Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego".
Dicho esto, creo que Enríquez es una voz muy particular en el género de terror latinoamericano y se lee muy rápido, así que recomiendo darle una chance y definitivamente voy a leer "Un lugar oscuro para gente sombría".
***
Similar themes are explored across all of Enríquez's books: demons, ghosts, monsters, curses and blood-thirsty killers set against a local backdrop and overlaid with the more mundane horrors of poverty, discrimination, mental illness, body image, abuse, unhappiness, abandonment.
Personally, I found this one to be tamer than “The dangers…” in terms of gore and horror, although “The dirty kid” and “The neighbor's courtyard” were particularly grisly 😖 I was surprised to read “Adela’s house”, which would later be repurposed for part of “Our share of night”. Some elements from “Spiderweb” also felt familiar.
I often feel with Enríquez’s short stories that the endings are a bit anticlimactic, and this book wasn’t an exception. The stories that felt more satisfactorily rounded up to me were “The dirty kid”, “The neighbor’s courtyard”, “Adela’s house”,“Under the black water” and “Things we lost in the fire”.
That said, I think that Enríquez is a unique voice in LatAm horror and this was a really fast read, so I’d recommend checking out any of her anthologies if you enjoy short stories.
En lo particular, esta antología me pareció más tranqui que "Los peligros de fumar en la cama" en cuanto al terror y lo sanguinolento (y lo escatológico), aunque "El chico sucio" y "El patio del vecino" son particularmente macabros 😖 Me sorprendió "La casa de Adela", que evidentemente fue reutilizado para "Nuestra parte de noche" - fue interesante ver qué elementos quedaron y cuáles cambiaron. Algunas cositas de "Tela de araña" también resultaron familiares en ese sentido.
Me suele pasar con los cuentos de Enríquez que los finales me parecen un poco decepcionantes, como que termina la historia y ya. Los que me parecieron más satisfactorios y con un final más redondo fueron "El chico sucio", "El patio del vecino", "La casa de Adela", "Bajo el agua negra" y "Las cosas que perdimos en el fuego".
Dicho esto, creo que Enríquez es una voz muy particular en el género de terror latinoamericano y se lee muy rápido, así que recomiendo darle una chance y definitivamente voy a leer "Un lugar oscuro para gente sombría".
***
Similar themes are explored across all of Enríquez's books: demons, ghosts, monsters, curses and blood-thirsty killers set against a local backdrop and overlaid with the more mundane horrors of poverty, discrimination, mental illness, body image, abuse, unhappiness, abandonment.
Personally, I found this one to be tamer than “The dangers…” in terms of gore and horror, although “The dirty kid” and “The neighbor's courtyard” were particularly grisly 😖 I was surprised to read “Adela’s house”, which would later be repurposed for part of “Our share of night”. Some elements from “Spiderweb” also felt familiar.
I often feel with Enríquez’s short stories that the endings are a bit anticlimactic, and this book wasn’t an exception. The stories that felt more satisfactorily rounded up to me were “The dirty kid”, “The neighbor’s courtyard”, “Adela’s house”,“Under the black water” and “Things we lost in the fire”.
That said, I think that Enríquez is a unique voice in LatAm horror and this was a really fast read, so I’d recommend checking out any of her anthologies if you enjoy short stories.
Body Phobia: The Root of the American Fear of Difference by Dianna E. Anderson
informative
reflective
slow-paced
3.75
Thanks to NetGalley and Broadleaf Books for providing this title in exchange for an honest review!
“Body Phobia: The Western roots of our fear of difference” (2024) by Dianna E. Anderson is an exploration of the divide of body and mind that permeates culture and politics, particularly in USAmerican society, and seeks to categorize certain bodies as good or bad and impart moral judgement on the minds accordingly.
The book’s chapters are thus divided to focus on fatphobia, disability, race, queerness, the impacts of religion and capitalism on the notions of the body, our relationship to aging and dying bodies, and the body-mind integration. It’s woven throughout with the author’s life experiences as a non-binary person in a large body who was raised in evangelical Christianity and struggled with severe anxiety in their relationship with their own body.
While I’m not USAmerican, I think many of us in the Western world have a complicated relationship with bodies and the Otherness inscribed in those bodies, so I was very interested in this.
It was definitely a valuable book and it made me feel seen in some ways, even if my experiences have little in common with the author’s. However, it seemed more like a long essay blended with memoir than the socio-historical account I was expecting. In addition, religion was front and center here. That makes sense to a certain extent, because the roots of our complicated relationship with the body definitely lie with Christianity, and of course Protestantism in particular has a huge influence in USAmerican society even today, but the analysis felt narrowed down to religion, which the author admits is their area of expertise and interest, as at some points it veered out beyond Christianity.
So I would recommend it, but mostly if you have a particular interest in theology or don’t mind reading about it.
“Body Phobia: The Western roots of our fear of difference” (2024) by Dianna E. Anderson is an exploration of the divide of body and mind that permeates culture and politics, particularly in USAmerican society, and seeks to categorize certain bodies as good or bad and impart moral judgement on the minds accordingly.
The book’s chapters are thus divided to focus on fatphobia, disability, race, queerness, the impacts of religion and capitalism on the notions of the body, our relationship to aging and dying bodies, and the body-mind integration. It’s woven throughout with the author’s life experiences as a non-binary person in a large body who was raised in evangelical Christianity and struggled with severe anxiety in their relationship with their own body.
While I’m not USAmerican, I think many of us in the Western world have a complicated relationship with bodies and the Otherness inscribed in those bodies, so I was very interested in this.
It was definitely a valuable book and it made me feel seen in some ways, even if my experiences have little in common with the author’s. However, it seemed more like a long essay blended with memoir than the socio-historical account I was expecting. In addition, religion was front and center here. That makes sense to a certain extent, because the roots of our complicated relationship with the body definitely lie with Christianity, and of course Protestantism in particular has a huge influence in USAmerican society even today, but the analysis felt narrowed down to religion, which the author admits is their area of expertise and interest, as at some points it veered out beyond Christianity.
So I would recommend it, but mostly if you have a particular interest in theology or don’t mind reading about it.
The Lake of Lost Girls by Katherine Greene
dark
mysterious
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
Thanks to NetGalley and Crooked Lane Books for providing this title in exchange for an honest review!
This could have been good…
“The lake of lost girls” by the writing duo under the penname of Katherine Greene is a murder mystery with the thriller part scratched out. The premise is this: in 1998-1999, four girls go missing at their North Carolina university. Their families never got any answers but, 24 years later, remains are found at a local lake and the cases are reopened, garnering public interest thanks to a true crime podcast. We get a dual POV: of Jessica Fadley, during the months leading up to her disappearance, and of her sister Lindsey in the present, trying to find out the truth about her sister by teaming up with a charming but shady reporter.
I recently binge-watched “Only murders in the building”, so I was particularly interested in the podcast element. Unfortunately, this served absolutely no other purpose than decoration. Short transcripts of the beginning of the episodes were used as interludes between chapters, along with stuff like social media posts, but we actually didn’t get any information from it, it didn’t factor at all in the investigation, and the hosts were obnoxious - on purpose, but again, I didn’t think it added anything to the story, so it was just annoying.
Even putting that aside, the book was lackluster on the whole. The ending was both predictable and out of nowhere, if that makes sense. Predictable in that you could easily suspect it halfway through; out of nowhere in that it just wasn’t consistent with the characterization we’re given. And I mean, obviously, you don’t want to show your hand too early in a murder mystery; the killer reveal has to shock you. But it also has to make sense, and I can’t say that I bought it.
I enjoyed the authors' first work, “The woods are waiting” (2023) better than this one, but I felt like the issues I had with it were also present here in ways that were harder to overlook. There was a slightly cartoonish veneer - in the character motivations, in the themes, in the actions, in the messages, that made it not feel realistic enough or just wasn’t done deftly. In addition to that, there was a repetition of statements that felt unnecessary - I don’t need to have everything spelled out and reiterated!
This was a pretty fast read and not a terrible one if you enjoy murder mysteries and want to be entertained for a while. I enjoyed Lindsey and her perspective as a sister who didn’t get to be her own person because she was marked by this tragedy for so long. But I thought that it could have used more work. The theme of older men abusing their power to prey on younger women had potential, but I felt like it was undermined by the resolution. I get what the authors were trying to do, but it needed a lot more buildup for it to work, imo.
This could have been good…
“The lake of lost girls” by the writing duo under the penname of Katherine Greene is a murder mystery with the thriller part scratched out. The premise is this: in 1998-1999, four girls go missing at their North Carolina university. Their families never got any answers but, 24 years later, remains are found at a local lake and the cases are reopened, garnering public interest thanks to a true crime podcast. We get a dual POV: of Jessica Fadley, during the months leading up to her disappearance, and of her sister Lindsey in the present, trying to find out the truth about her sister by teaming up with a charming but shady reporter.
I recently binge-watched “Only murders in the building”, so I was particularly interested in the podcast element. Unfortunately, this served absolutely no other purpose than decoration. Short transcripts of the beginning of the episodes were used as interludes between chapters, along with stuff like social media posts, but we actually didn’t get any information from it, it didn’t factor at all in the investigation, and the hosts were obnoxious - on purpose, but again, I didn’t think it added anything to the story, so it was just annoying.
Even putting that aside, the book was lackluster on the whole. The ending was both predictable and out of nowhere, if that makes sense. Predictable in that you could easily suspect it halfway through; out of nowhere in that it just wasn’t consistent with the characterization we’re given. And I mean, obviously, you don’t want to show your hand too early in a murder mystery; the killer reveal has to shock you. But it also has to make sense, and I can’t say that I bought it.
I enjoyed the authors' first work, “The woods are waiting” (2023) better than this one, but I felt like the issues I had with it were also present here in ways that were harder to overlook. There was a slightly cartoonish veneer - in the character motivations, in the themes, in the actions, in the messages, that made it not feel realistic enough or just wasn’t done deftly. In addition to that, there was a repetition of statements that felt unnecessary - I don’t need to have everything spelled out and reiterated!
This was a pretty fast read and not a terrible one if you enjoy murder mysteries and want to be entertained for a while. I enjoyed Lindsey and her perspective as a sister who didn’t get to be her own person because she was marked by this tragedy for so long. But I thought that it could have used more work. The theme of older men abusing their power to prey on younger women had potential, but I felt like it was undermined by the resolution. I get what the authors were trying to do, but it needed a lot more buildup for it to work, imo.
The Power by Naomi Alderman
challenging
dark
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.75
I don’t know why but this one was hard to review! I was excited to read a book from Naomi Alderman, whose name I’m familiar with thanks to Zombies, Run! And this “feminist dystopia” was somehow in my radar, so when I spotted it at the used bookstore, I thought it was time to give it a go.
What would happen if women suddenly developed a physical ability to effortlessly cause pain and death, and it allowed them to shift the scales of power? That’s the central premise of “The Power”.
The book has the kind of format that makes you very confused at first, and then you have to go back and read it once you’re finished. It begins with a message exchange between two writers. Then we go back to the past, some years before a mysterious Cataclysm happens, and here we get four different POVs: a Nigerian journalist, the daughter of a mafioso in London, an ambitious politician from Wisconsin and an abused foster girl guided by a mystical voice. These break off with time jumps as we approach the Cataclysm, as well as illustrations of archeological finds from a past time, which amps up the intrigue.
This was a thoughtful exploration of what power does to people, of the unforeseen consequences of environmental disasters, of how history and collective memory work, of the ties between political and economic power, of cult mentality. I have to say that, as a feminist, I find the idea that women would become the abusers if the tables were suddenly turned quite bleak, if not aggravating - not because I think women would be incapable of it, but it’s an old argument used by misogynists that feminism wants to oppress men and swap the patriarchy with (what they think is) a matriarchy. However… it’s a thought-provoking what-if.
I think the reason it took me so long to review this is that I’m not 100% sure whether I liked it or not. I mean, I didn’t hate it. I thought it was an interesting and unique concept executed in an original way. And yet… I don’t know. Something about the way things unfolded felt rushed, didn’t feel convincing; “Mother Eve” being prompted by a voice that is never explained seemed out of place with the worldbuilding; and while for once a book like this tried to explore things beyond the USA, it still felt like a very (conveniently) contained panorama.
I also think part of this ambivalence is due to the Spanish translation I got. It just wasn’t good, and the expressions translated to Spanish from Spain took me out of it every time, so that impacted my enjoyment and makes it harder to judge the book’s style and voice - am I judging the author or the translator? (Also, why the hell would they not translate the easily translatable book title??) I wish I could say that I’ll try rereading it in English to see how I feel about it, but I don’t think this is a rereadable book for me either way, so I guess that makes it a not-quite-4-but-not-quite-3-stars read.
What would happen if women suddenly developed a physical ability to effortlessly cause pain and death, and it allowed them to shift the scales of power? That’s the central premise of “The Power”.
The book has the kind of format that makes you very confused at first, and then you have to go back and read it once you’re finished. It begins with a message exchange between two writers. Then we go back to the past, some years before a mysterious Cataclysm happens, and here we get four different POVs: a Nigerian journalist, the daughter of a mafioso in London, an ambitious politician from Wisconsin and an abused foster girl guided by a mystical voice. These break off with time jumps as we approach the Cataclysm, as well as illustrations of archeological finds from a past time, which amps up the intrigue.
This was a thoughtful exploration of what power does to people, of the unforeseen consequences of environmental disasters, of how history and collective memory work, of the ties between political and economic power, of cult mentality. I have to say that, as a feminist, I find the idea that women would become the abusers if the tables were suddenly turned quite bleak, if not aggravating - not because I think women would be incapable of it, but it’s an old argument used by misogynists that feminism wants to oppress men and swap the patriarchy with (what they think is) a matriarchy. However… it’s a thought-provoking what-if.
I think the reason it took me so long to review this is that I’m not 100% sure whether I liked it or not. I mean, I didn’t hate it. I thought it was an interesting and unique concept executed in an original way. And yet… I don’t know. Something about the way things unfolded felt rushed, didn’t feel convincing; “Mother Eve” being prompted by a voice that is never explained seemed out of place with the worldbuilding; and while for once a book like this tried to explore things beyond the USA, it still felt like a very (conveniently) contained panorama.
I also think part of this ambivalence is due to the Spanish translation I got. It just wasn’t good, and the expressions translated to Spanish from Spain took me out of it every time, so that impacted my enjoyment and makes it harder to judge the book’s style and voice - am I judging the author or the translator? (Also, why the hell would they not translate the easily translatable book title??) I wish I could say that I’ll try rereading it in English to see how I feel about it, but I don’t think this is a rereadable book for me either way, so I guess that makes it a not-quite-4-but-not-quite-3-stars read.
The Life and Death of Ryan White: AIDS and Inequality in America by Paul M. Renfro
informative
reflective
medium-paced
4.0
I received this ARC through NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
Paul M. Renfro traces the chronology of a boy born with hemophilia who contracted HIV through contaminated blood products when he was just 14, and subsequently became the poster boy of HIV/AIDS education.
I picked this book because, earlier this year, I read Richard A. McKay’s “Patient Zero and the Making of the AIDS Epidemic”. This was a pretty good complementary read, offering the flip side of the coin of the narratives that shaped the AIDS crisis in the 80s and beyond.
Renfro argues that, while Ryan’s story was important in challenging early misconceptions about the transmission of HIV, his image as a white, cis, straight, “wholesome” boy also served, on one hand, to establish a hierarchy among AIDS patients: “innocent victims” like Ryan, who contracted the virus “through no fault of his own” (with white children at the top of this pyramid), and “guilty spreaders”, ie, gay men and drug users who not only had their behaviour to thank for the disease, but were also responsible for passing it on to others - like Gaëtan Dugas, aka “Patient Zero”. On the other hand, Ryan’s fight to return to school, his outlook on his condition, which emphasized “normalcy”, and his advocacy for education also shaped a “national pedagogy” that placed responsibility on the individual rather than on systemic issues.
The author also examines the classist prejudices that were present in the national demonization of Kokomo, Ryan’s hometown, during the rise in “colorblind rhetoric” - again, centering the blame on the abhorrent attitudes and actions of a few white bigots and away from the systemic structures in place.
The book goes on to analyse the political climate during the Reagan and Bush administrations; how the narratives around Ryan’s activism shaped the emergency act that provided federal funding for AIDS patients; how his image was used both by opponents and supporters of the act even decades after his death; and the ways in which the act ultimately failed to provide relief for the communities most affected by AIDS.
Finally, as in McKay’s book, the political response to the AIDS epidemic was held up against that of the COVID-19 pandemic, particularly in how both health crisis continue to impact historically excluded communities disproportionally.
This was a very clear and comprehensive book; not being USAmerican, I knew nothing about Ryan White prior to this and I come away with plenty of knowledge and insight about this particular chapter of AIDS history.
My one critique is that the book had quite a bit of repetition in ways that seem to speak more of a lack of editing than to wanting to emphasize a point. Just to name two examples, the line “Ryan White became the most famous PWA in the United States (and perhaps the world)” was repeated almost verbatim, as was the enumeration of Ryan as a “young, white, straight, popular” PWA.
Other than that, I would recommend this book to anyone interested in the topic.
Paul M. Renfro traces the chronology of a boy born with hemophilia who contracted HIV through contaminated blood products when he was just 14, and subsequently became the poster boy of HIV/AIDS education.
I picked this book because, earlier this year, I read Richard A. McKay’s “Patient Zero and the Making of the AIDS Epidemic”. This was a pretty good complementary read, offering the flip side of the coin of the narratives that shaped the AIDS crisis in the 80s and beyond.
Renfro argues that, while Ryan’s story was important in challenging early misconceptions about the transmission of HIV, his image as a white, cis, straight, “wholesome” boy also served, on one hand, to establish a hierarchy among AIDS patients: “innocent victims” like Ryan, who contracted the virus “through no fault of his own” (with white children at the top of this pyramid), and “guilty spreaders”, ie, gay men and drug users who not only had their behaviour to thank for the disease, but were also responsible for passing it on to others - like Gaëtan Dugas, aka “Patient Zero”. On the other hand, Ryan’s fight to return to school, his outlook on his condition, which emphasized “normalcy”, and his advocacy for education also shaped a “national pedagogy” that placed responsibility on the individual rather than on systemic issues.
The author also examines the classist prejudices that were present in the national demonization of Kokomo, Ryan’s hometown, during the rise in “colorblind rhetoric” - again, centering the blame on the abhorrent attitudes and actions of a few white bigots and away from the systemic structures in place.
The book goes on to analyse the political climate during the Reagan and Bush administrations; how the narratives around Ryan’s activism shaped the emergency act that provided federal funding for AIDS patients; how his image was used both by opponents and supporters of the act even decades after his death; and the ways in which the act ultimately failed to provide relief for the communities most affected by AIDS.
Finally, as in McKay’s book, the political response to the AIDS epidemic was held up against that of the COVID-19 pandemic, particularly in how both health crisis continue to impact historically excluded communities disproportionally.
This was a very clear and comprehensive book; not being USAmerican, I knew nothing about Ryan White prior to this and I come away with plenty of knowledge and insight about this particular chapter of AIDS history.
My one critique is that the book had quite a bit of repetition in ways that seem to speak more of a lack of editing than to wanting to emphasize a point. Just to name two examples, the line “Ryan White became the most famous PWA in the United States (and perhaps the world)” was repeated almost verbatim, as was the enumeration of Ryan as a “young, white, straight, popular” PWA.
Other than that, I would recommend this book to anyone interested in the topic.
Cursed Bunny by Bora Chung
dark
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
4.0
🐇 “When we make our cursed fetishes, it’s important that they’re pretty.”
My impromptu pick for Women in Translation Month was “Cursed Bunny”, an anthology of short stories by Korean author Bora Chung, translated to English by Anton Hur, which I’d heard a lot about.
The ten stories that comprise this collection felt like a mix of urban legend and folk tale: disturbing, haunting, fantastical, fabulistic, some of them told as if recounting oral history. They deal with women’s bodies, with the weight of loneliness, with human greed, with ghosts and revenge. All of this made me think of Carmen María Machado’s “Her body and other parties”.
It was interesting because I could feel that I was reading a translation. Not that it was a bad translation, which I couldn’t say since I don’t know Korean, or that it was bad writing, but it was a sort of concise type of writing that emphasizes that feeling of urban-folk legend. I wonder if it reads the same way in Korean.
If I had to pick a favourite, I’d say “The head” is a solid opener, but I enjoyed all of them - although if I had to pick my least favourite, it’d be “Scars”, the longest in the anthology.
My impromptu pick for Women in Translation Month was “Cursed Bunny”, an anthology of short stories by Korean author Bora Chung, translated to English by Anton Hur, which I’d heard a lot about.
The ten stories that comprise this collection felt like a mix of urban legend and folk tale: disturbing, haunting, fantastical, fabulistic, some of them told as if recounting oral history. They deal with women’s bodies, with the weight of loneliness, with human greed, with ghosts and revenge. All of this made me think of Carmen María Machado’s “Her body and other parties”.
It was interesting because I could feel that I was reading a translation. Not that it was a bad translation, which I couldn’t say since I don’t know Korean, or that it was bad writing, but it was a sort of concise type of writing that emphasizes that feeling of urban-folk legend. I wonder if it reads the same way in Korean.
If I had to pick a favourite, I’d say “The head” is a solid opener, but I enjoyed all of them - although if I had to pick my least favourite, it’d be “Scars”, the longest in the anthology.
Where I End by Sophie White
challenging
dark
mysterious
tense
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
I received this ARC through NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
Aoileann, a young woman living in an Irish island with her grandmother and the silent, bed-bound mother she doesn’t know, struggles with her monotonous life, filled with secrecy and resentment. Until a mainlander and her newborn baby appear, and show her a different side of mother/child relationships that Aoileann is desperate for, and will do anything to claim for herself.
I went in expecting to love this book, mostly because of the badass Erewhon Books cover, but it just wasn’t my thing. The overall atmosphere is so oppressive, it seeps out of the writing. The settings are harsh and bleak, the characters ugly and cruel. Aoileann’s mother is described in detail, as is the routine of caring for her, and I mean, her body, the bathing, the taking her to the loo and changing her diaper - everything was so vividly portrayed, I do not recommend reading while you’re eating. There were also things done to people that made me squirm.
And I mean, this is a credit to the author, really! I don’t think this makes it a bad book; it’s just that it was too much for me.
It was definitely an interesting exploration of the uglier side of motherhood, of the pressure on women to not only have children but to love every part of the journey, to ignore every bad feeling; of society’s quickness to judge and condemn instead of offering help; of feeling Othered in your community and even your family; of how “evil” can be made.
Aoileann, a young woman living in an Irish island with her grandmother and the silent, bed-bound mother she doesn’t know, struggles with her monotonous life, filled with secrecy and resentment. Until a mainlander and her newborn baby appear, and show her a different side of mother/child relationships that Aoileann is desperate for, and will do anything to claim for herself.
I went in expecting to love this book, mostly because of the badass Erewhon Books cover, but it just wasn’t my thing. The overall atmosphere is so oppressive, it seeps out of the writing. The settings are harsh and bleak, the characters ugly and cruel. Aoileann’s mother is described in detail, as is the routine of caring for her, and I mean, her body, the bathing, the taking her to the loo and changing her diaper - everything was so vividly portrayed, I do not recommend reading while you’re eating. There were also things done to people that made me squirm.
And I mean, this is a credit to the author, really! I don’t think this makes it a bad book; it’s just that it was too much for me.
It was definitely an interesting exploration of the uglier side of motherhood, of the pressure on women to not only have children but to love every part of the journey, to ignore every bad feeling; of society’s quickness to judge and condemn instead of offering help; of feeling Othered in your community and even your family; of how “evil” can be made.
Patient Zero and the Making of the AIDS Epidemic by Richard A. McKay
emotional
informative
reflective
medium-paced
5.0
This was a phenomenal work of historical research AND a clear, engaging science comms book. I wasn’t sure about reading about queer history in North America when my knowledge of queer history in my own country is sorely lacking and should be prioritized, but the premise of this book tickled the part of my brain that was interested once upon a time in understanding science as a social construct.
McKay examines the origin of the concept “patient zero”. We’re so familiar with it today that it seems like common sense to believe this term has always been part of epidemiology speech, particularly since, as McKay shows, humans have historically looked for the “original sinner” to carry the blame of disease. But the concept only came to be as a result of research on the HIV/AIDS epidemic, which was later taken out of context and wildly popularized by Randy Shilts' book “And the band played on”. Not only that, but the alleged patient zero, a man called Gaétan Dugas, was also brought out of anonymity and mischaracterized posthumously, his privacy invaded to fit a particular narrative.
The book opens with a historical tracing of the idea of a patient zero during previous public health crisis long before the concept was used. Then, it goes on to contextualize the beginnings of AIDS research in the US, including the cluster study from which the concept originated. This was really fascinating to me, seeing the ways in which public communication of science, in an effort to make science understandable to a lay audience, can get it wrong in indelible ways. But it also made me feel a little hopeless, and a little embarrassed as well, seeing as we’re fresh from a world-wide pandemic in which I wasn’t free from blaming “the outsiders who brought the virus into the country”, and how we continue to make these same mistakes (“we”, the general public, yes, but more importantly, “we”, the governments who should fucking do better).
McKay then moves on the examine the writing process and reception of Shilts' book, both in the US and in Canada, delving into the Canadian context of the epidemic. I haven’t read or watched “And the band played on”, and after reading this, I don’t think I ever will. Further, McKay compares the use given to the character of Dugas by Shilts and the USAmerican press with that of the Canadian film “Zero Patience” and an inquiry about the Canadian blood system.
The book ends by offering a different portrait of Dugas' character and lived experience that seeks to correct the media’s exploitative coverage. I admit this last part made me tear up.
Overall, an excellent read, even if you (like me) are not familiar with Shilts' work and impact.
McKay examines the origin of the concept “patient zero”. We’re so familiar with it today that it seems like common sense to believe this term has always been part of epidemiology speech, particularly since, as McKay shows, humans have historically looked for the “original sinner” to carry the blame of disease. But the concept only came to be as a result of research on the HIV/AIDS epidemic, which was later taken out of context and wildly popularized by Randy Shilts' book “And the band played on”. Not only that, but the alleged patient zero, a man called Gaétan Dugas, was also brought out of anonymity and mischaracterized posthumously, his privacy invaded to fit a particular narrative.
The book opens with a historical tracing of the idea of a patient zero during previous public health crisis long before the concept was used. Then, it goes on to contextualize the beginnings of AIDS research in the US, including the cluster study from which the concept originated. This was really fascinating to me, seeing the ways in which public communication of science, in an effort to make science understandable to a lay audience, can get it wrong in indelible ways. But it also made me feel a little hopeless, and a little embarrassed as well, seeing as we’re fresh from a world-wide pandemic in which I wasn’t free from blaming “the outsiders who brought the virus into the country”, and how we continue to make these same mistakes (“we”, the general public, yes, but more importantly, “we”, the governments who should fucking do better).
McKay then moves on the examine the writing process and reception of Shilts' book, both in the US and in Canada, delving into the Canadian context of the epidemic. I haven’t read or watched “And the band played on”, and after reading this, I don’t think I ever will. Further, McKay compares the use given to the character of Dugas by Shilts and the USAmerican press with that of the Canadian film “Zero Patience” and an inquiry about the Canadian blood system.
The book ends by offering a different portrait of Dugas' character and lived experience that seeks to correct the media’s exploitative coverage. I admit this last part made me tear up.
Overall, an excellent read, even if you (like me) are not familiar with Shilts' work and impact.
The Vagina Business: The Innovative Breakthroughs that Could Change Everything in Women's Health by Marina Gerner
hopeful
informative
inspiring
reflective
medium-paced
5.0
I received this ARC through NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.
While working in an academic space in charge of making university research available, I remember that one time I was talking about my frustration with some of the reports I reviewed, particularly in social sciences. Some of my colleagues didn’t seem to have had the same kind of strict education on research I’d benefitted from, and produced the most boring, pointless and underselling reports. My one female colleague agreed: why was our university approving those kind of projects, what was the review process like? But somehow her rant deviated very soon: there was a group somewhere working on developing nationally-produced vaginal condoms, and she didn’t think public university should be the one to finance that because “if that’s your choice, then it’s your problem” - as vaginal condoms are typically used in queer sex.
Another time, a male colleague mentioned that he thought everybody was going overboard with the mention of vaginas and vulvas. “You don’t see us publicly talking about the penis all the time!” he said, as if we didn’t grow up with penises drawn everywhere, and dirty jokes and innuendo centered around the penis, and threats that involved the penis. He said his wife disagreed.
I thought about these two personal experiences when reading this book. About how we think equality has been achieved, or at least in the West it has; about how we don’t consider that language and symbols still shape our culture one way; about how women’s health still seems like a black box sometimes; about how the system is still rigged to think of cis straight white men as the default; about the different and seemingly invisible hurdles every other demographic still must jump over. About how women’s health and women’s bodies still seem to be an afterthought, unless you’re trying to sell us something.
I hadn’t previously thought much about femtech - in fact the term was new to me - and I’m far from versed in finance, but I found Gerner’s work to be clear and engaging for almost every audience. The author interviewed 100 femtech entrepreneurs from around the world (both women and men), working in the development of technology on varied issues: fertility, abortion, menopause, birthing, cardiovascular health, breast-feeding, disability and sex, endometriosis…
As we learn about these innovations and what they aim to solve, we also find out more about the process from idea to development, the problems in funding, the prejudice and ignorance in those on top of the ladder (“I don’t want to talk about vaginas on a Monday morning!” “Aren’t dilators just for sex?” “I don’t think my wife experiences that!”), as well as the workarounds and strategies entrepreneurs have found. We see the innovations that have succeeded, the ones that have failed and the ones that could turn out to be game-changers.
If I’d heard femtech before, I would have wearily wondered “what are they trying to sell us now?” But Gerner makes sure to emphasize what actually is femtech and what isn’t: the first one, something that genuinely improves our well-being and leads to empowerment; the latter, anything that exploits our vulnerabilities for profit.
While the author generally talks about women, she takes care to remark that femtech includes people in other parts of the gender spectrum, and that it also includes innovations that might not be considered “tech”, like medication.
These kind of caveats made the book so much richer and dynamic, in my opinion. Even though there was a little bit extra focus on fertility/parenthood, which I’m not personally interested in, I still loved reading about it.
This is without a doubt a book that incites anger at the injustice of it all, and of course I felt that… but I mostly came away from it inspired, hopeful and grateful to the women who are paving the way.
While working in an academic space in charge of making university research available, I remember that one time I was talking about my frustration with some of the reports I reviewed, particularly in social sciences. Some of my colleagues didn’t seem to have had the same kind of strict education on research I’d benefitted from, and produced the most boring, pointless and underselling reports. My one female colleague agreed: why was our university approving those kind of projects, what was the review process like? But somehow her rant deviated very soon: there was a group somewhere working on developing nationally-produced vaginal condoms, and she didn’t think public university should be the one to finance that because “if that’s your choice, then it’s your problem” - as vaginal condoms are typically used in queer sex.
Another time, a male colleague mentioned that he thought everybody was going overboard with the mention of vaginas and vulvas. “You don’t see us publicly talking about the penis all the time!” he said, as if we didn’t grow up with penises drawn everywhere, and dirty jokes and innuendo centered around the penis, and threats that involved the penis. He said his wife disagreed.
I thought about these two personal experiences when reading this book. About how we think equality has been achieved, or at least in the West it has; about how we don’t consider that language and symbols still shape our culture one way; about how women’s health still seems like a black box sometimes; about how the system is still rigged to think of cis straight white men as the default; about the different and seemingly invisible hurdles every other demographic still must jump over. About how women’s health and women’s bodies still seem to be an afterthought, unless you’re trying to sell us something.
I hadn’t previously thought much about femtech - in fact the term was new to me - and I’m far from versed in finance, but I found Gerner’s work to be clear and engaging for almost every audience. The author interviewed 100 femtech entrepreneurs from around the world (both women and men), working in the development of technology on varied issues: fertility, abortion, menopause, birthing, cardiovascular health, breast-feeding, disability and sex, endometriosis…
As we learn about these innovations and what they aim to solve, we also find out more about the process from idea to development, the problems in funding, the prejudice and ignorance in those on top of the ladder (“I don’t want to talk about vaginas on a Monday morning!” “Aren’t dilators just for sex?” “I don’t think my wife experiences that!”), as well as the workarounds and strategies entrepreneurs have found. We see the innovations that have succeeded, the ones that have failed and the ones that could turn out to be game-changers.
If I’d heard femtech before, I would have wearily wondered “what are they trying to sell us now?” But Gerner makes sure to emphasize what actually is femtech and what isn’t: the first one, something that genuinely improves our well-being and leads to empowerment; the latter, anything that exploits our vulnerabilities for profit.
While the author generally talks about women, she takes care to remark that femtech includes people in other parts of the gender spectrum, and that it also includes innovations that might not be considered “tech”, like medication.
These kind of caveats made the book so much richer and dynamic, in my opinion. Even though there was a little bit extra focus on fertility/parenthood, which I’m not personally interested in, I still loved reading about it.
This is without a doubt a book that incites anger at the injustice of it all, and of course I felt that… but I mostly came away from it inspired, hopeful and grateful to the women who are paving the way.