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olliepopop's review against another edition
emotional
funny
hopeful
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
4.0
beastreader's review against another edition
3.0
I found this collection of short stories interesting. Not my type reading style. What I found with these stories is that they touched on human emotions...love, loss, intelligent, wonder, etc. So, these stories were not just "stories" but ones that did make you think and ponder for a while.
While I did appreciate these stories, I did feel like I was more of an outsider trying to look in. There was never any moment where I could fully embrace the stories. This is because the characters were not really specific to any type of person. It was like the stories were of faceless people. So, I did struggle to fully become connected to what I was reading. Sometimes I would find myself rereading passages. Overall, this collection was good just not really for me.
While I did appreciate these stories, I did feel like I was more of an outsider trying to look in. There was never any moment where I could fully embrace the stories. This is because the characters were not really specific to any type of person. It was like the stories were of faceless people. So, I did struggle to fully become connected to what I was reading. Sometimes I would find myself rereading passages. Overall, this collection was good just not really for me.
squidjum's review against another edition
3.0
3.5. I always have such mixed feelings about short stories as a form.
song's review against another edition
3.0
I enjoyed this book quite a bit but I think i like the writing much more than the stories themselves
dreezy's review against another edition
dark
mysterious
reflective
fast-paced
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.5
Content Warnings
Moderate: Infidelity, Death, Stalking, and Self harm
Minor: Xenophobia, Racism, Rape, and Toxic relationship
materialambition's review against another edition
stories weren’t that interesting our compelling
aiyaivy's review against another edition
4.0
3.5 - the first half was better than the second half imo
Quotes:
- I waited for my lover to come. I was in love, oh yes. Not the rapturous kind that turns and thins your sleep, but a satisfying, contented love. I woke in the mornings well-rested and warm, like a loaf of risen bread.
-I had come to the photograph with the simple but sincere desire to preserve my sight of beautiful fleeting things.
-Oh, I was uncomfortable all the time. In a foreign land, buried in first love, I heard constantly the whisper of "you must preserve this," which was really the cry of "you are afraid."
-...everyone in this country was bored to death so had plenty of time to read and ruminate and appreciate life's higher pleasures.
-"Be natural, change your face, move your body, whatever you like. Painting is dynamic, not like photography, freezing a moment in time" -- he winked at me -- "but a medium to capture the subject moving through time, caught in its locomotion."
-How this lover had changed me. Once, I had found honor in naked honesty: if there was a wound, I pressed it. I'd taken pride in dredging up buried pain; pain was how I recognized another. With previous lovers, I'd eaten up stories of other women hungrily, hurting myself with jealousy until it felt like love.
-For Ling, suffering is a tool, wielded by the human and the divine. The abstract manifests as concrete, the intangible as felt. Suffering can be hard like a slap or it can fester, like grit beneath the nail. Feeling hardens into form, allegory into event.
-Kindness is never free; he owes a great debt.
-What a wealth of meaning life contains, just waiting to be read.
-"Death," Ling wants to tell me, "is the one certainty of life. The one thing every person can be sure to accomplish, regardless of circumstances of birth."
-There were three women I remember - three girls. Though they appeared like women to me, like they were-complete.
-Perhaps I didn't like her because she was just like me.
-It was so much work, determining if a boy was to be wanted, to be loved. Whereas it was clear as day with girls. I could look at a girl and instantly say if she was ugly or pretty, beautiful or gorgeous, if she was plain but sweet, if I wanted to look like her or not. If I envied her, if I could dream myself into her body. I couldn't see my own body unless I was looking at it beside another girl's. A quick study, I quickly discovered an easy way to tell about a boy: if his girlfriend was pretty or not.
-I wanted something to be better than I remembered.
-I was thoroughly in love, so much so that all I could think about day in and day out was what love meant, why it existed, what it was good for.
-In love, I acted totally against my nature and against my best sense. I knew it but I couldn't help it. When I wasn't with X, every part of me wanted only to be with him, and when I was with him, even when we weren't having a fabulous time, I forgot that there might exist any other purpose in life.
-...I didn't just feel it on my lips but all the way down through my lungs and stomach, in some organ that was just now waking into existence.
-She was not mine, but she was so small, and charming in her smallness and fatness, and though she was useless she declared her needs clearly, without suggestion or subtext. I wanted to despise her; sometimes when she exhausted or disgusted me, I wanted to despise her very much. But it was impossible.
-What was wrong with me? Why didn't I want to be a witness to history, to any kind of time passing?
Quotes:
- I waited for my lover to come. I was in love, oh yes. Not the rapturous kind that turns and thins your sleep, but a satisfying, contented love. I woke in the mornings well-rested and warm, like a loaf of risen bread.
-I had come to the photograph with the simple but sincere desire to preserve my sight of beautiful fleeting things.
-Oh, I was uncomfortable all the time. In a foreign land, buried in first love, I heard constantly the whisper of "you must preserve this," which was really the cry of "you are afraid."
-...everyone in this country was bored to death so had plenty of time to read and ruminate and appreciate life's higher pleasures.
-"Be natural, change your face, move your body, whatever you like. Painting is dynamic, not like photography, freezing a moment in time" -- he winked at me -- "but a medium to capture the subject moving through time, caught in its locomotion."
-How this lover had changed me. Once, I had found honor in naked honesty: if there was a wound, I pressed it. I'd taken pride in dredging up buried pain; pain was how I recognized another. With previous lovers, I'd eaten up stories of other women hungrily, hurting myself with jealousy until it felt like love.
-For Ling, suffering is a tool, wielded by the human and the divine. The abstract manifests as concrete, the intangible as felt. Suffering can be hard like a slap or it can fester, like grit beneath the nail. Feeling hardens into form, allegory into event.
-Kindness is never free; he owes a great debt.
-What a wealth of meaning life contains, just waiting to be read.
-"Death," Ling wants to tell me, "is the one certainty of life. The one thing every person can be sure to accomplish, regardless of circumstances of birth."
-There were three women I remember - three girls. Though they appeared like women to me, like they were-complete.
-Perhaps I didn't like her because she was just like me.
-It was so much work, determining if a boy was to be wanted, to be loved. Whereas it was clear as day with girls. I could look at a girl and instantly say if she was ugly or pretty, beautiful or gorgeous, if she was plain but sweet, if I wanted to look like her or not. If I envied her, if I could dream myself into her body. I couldn't see my own body unless I was looking at it beside another girl's. A quick study, I quickly discovered an easy way to tell about a boy: if his girlfriend was pretty or not.
-I wanted something to be better than I remembered.
-I was thoroughly in love, so much so that all I could think about day in and day out was what love meant, why it existed, what it was good for.
-In love, I acted totally against my nature and against my best sense. I knew it but I couldn't help it. When I wasn't with X, every part of me wanted only to be with him, and when I was with him, even when we weren't having a fabulous time, I forgot that there might exist any other purpose in life.
-...I didn't just feel it on my lips but all the way down through my lungs and stomach, in some organ that was just now waking into existence.
-She was not mine, but she was so small, and charming in her smallness and fatness, and though she was useless she declared her needs clearly, without suggestion or subtext. I wanted to despise her; sometimes when she exhausted or disgusted me, I wanted to despise her very much. But it was impossible.
-What was wrong with me? Why didn't I want to be a witness to history, to any kind of time passing?