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3.11 AVERAGE
3.11 AVERAGE
Ah, sweet, sweet, sweet Peach. So short. So sweet. So blunted. So cloying. Maybe it's an acquired taste.
Emma Glass's very original novella Peach is truly unlike anything I've read before. On one hand, it is rich, full of alliteration and word play. The use of language is done with great skill. This is a very poetic story, but unlike some other works of “prose” I've read that felt more like poetry than prose, Peach is merely a very poetic story. From the publisher's description and the opening pages, I expected something along these lines. What I did not expect was the intense surrealism and the black comedy. This is a strange book with some very uncomfortable moments. At times I think it works. At other times, I'm not convinced.
One thing that was very difficult for me to accept was the depiction of characters as objects. Most of these characters are foods including a man made of sausage. Mr. Custard, for instance, truly takes the shape of custard: he is a gelatinous mass of sweetness who must pick himself up from the floor occasionally and take shape. Spud is a giant potato who rolls everywhere. Peach, Sandy, Spud, Mr. Custard, Hair Netty, Green... At first I imagined these characters as Glass described them, but eventually, they took a new shape. I couldn't help but think of Mr. Men and Little Miss and once the image was in my head, there was no replacing it. So imagine Mr. Bump and Little Miss Star, driving around in Murakami-inspired cars with sushi rolls for wheels. That is how I will remember Peach.
Peach is also disturbing. Imagine Mr. Tickle and Little Miss Contrary slashing at one another, trouncing one another, devouring one another in all its visceral cartoonishness. Which leaves me with some questions. Is the surrealist style meant to soften the blow of the violence? Does this ridiculous presentation dull too much the impact of serious subjects? Peach is an uncomfortable story, but how much more uncomfortable could it have been had Glass refrained from her otherwise Saturday morning vibe? It's this presentation that ultimately makes Peach forgettable, a story beautifully rendered, but void of so much potential anguish.
Emma Glass's very original novella Peach is truly unlike anything I've read before. On one hand, it is rich, full of alliteration and word play. The use of language is done with great skill. This is a very poetic story, but unlike some other works of “prose” I've read that felt more like poetry than prose, Peach is merely a very poetic story. From the publisher's description and the opening pages, I expected something along these lines. What I did not expect was the intense surrealism and the black comedy. This is a strange book with some very uncomfortable moments. At times I think it works. At other times, I'm not convinced.
One thing that was very difficult for me to accept was the depiction of characters as objects. Most of these characters are foods including a man made of sausage. Mr. Custard, for instance, truly takes the shape of custard: he is a gelatinous mass of sweetness who must pick himself up from the floor occasionally and take shape. Spud is a giant potato who rolls everywhere. Peach, Sandy, Spud, Mr. Custard, Hair Netty, Green... At first I imagined these characters as Glass described them, but eventually, they took a new shape. I couldn't help but think of Mr. Men and Little Miss and once the image was in my head, there was no replacing it. So imagine Mr. Bump and Little Miss Star, driving around in Murakami-inspired cars with sushi rolls for wheels. That is how I will remember Peach.
Peach is also disturbing. Imagine Mr. Tickle and Little Miss Contrary slashing at one another, trouncing one another, devouring one another in all its visceral cartoonishness. Which leaves me with some questions. Is the surrealist style meant to soften the blow of the violence? Does this ridiculous presentation dull too much the impact of serious subjects? Peach is an uncomfortable story, but how much more uncomfortable could it have been had Glass refrained from her otherwise Saturday morning vibe? It's this presentation that ultimately makes Peach forgettable, a story beautifully rendered, but void of so much potential anguish.
Sometimes reading quotes by authors I admire on the jackets of new books can very accurately indicate the experience I’m about to have. In this case, Emma Glass’ debut “Peach” comes festooned with a string of quotes by prominent authors from George Saunders who calls this a “dark poetic myth” to Laline Paull who describes how this book “shares literary DNA with Gertrude Stein, Herbert Selby Jr and Eimear McBride.” These get at the unusual quality of Glass’ writing, but this book’s radical style and approach to characters is wholly unique. It’s at once cartoonish and deadly serious. The story opens with Peach who has experienced a massive trauma and follows her in the proceeding days as she attempts to return to a state of normalcy. In doing so, Glass uses some shockingly innovative methods for getting at painful emotions and actions that can’t be described in a straightforward way.
Read my full review of Peach by Emma Glass on LonesomeReader
Read my full review of Peach by Emma Glass on LonesomeReader
This is probably the most horrendous book I have ever read.
Was it a bad book? Probably not. Did I hate it? Yes.
Spoiler alert: This is not for the faint-hearted and massive trigger warnings for sexual assault, violence, animal cruelty, murder, fat-shaming (at least that's how it felt to me?)
You cannot escape the visceral horror in this novella, and I kind of get the point of it (to a certain extent) due to the subject matter of the story, but oh my god I have never felt so disturbed by descriptions and it was just an all-around incredibly disturbing experience. I am completely aware that this was the desired effect of the author, and that is solely why I don't rate this 1 star.
The author had a clear vision on what she wanted to achieve, and the impact was definitely felt throughout the writing, so I commend her for that, but I hated this book. In parts, because that is what the author probably wanted me to feel, but mostly because a part of me felt that the point of this story was mainly to shock and subvert a little bit too much, and because of that, the rest of the narrative fell flat.
The rhythmic poetic language and sentence structure was interesting and added to the author's desired effect, but it was not enjoyable for me and I probably skim-read the last few pages (which in a 96 page novella is not a good sign) because I just wanted this book to be finished.
Was it a bad book? Probably not. Did I hate it? Yes.
Spoiler alert: This is not for the faint-hearted and massive trigger warnings for sexual assault, violence, animal cruelty, murder, fat-shaming (at least that's how it felt to me?)
You cannot escape the visceral horror in this novella, and I kind of get the point of it (to a certain extent) due to the subject matter of the story, but oh my god I have never felt so disturbed by descriptions and it was just an all-around incredibly disturbing experience. I am completely aware that this was the desired effect of the author, and that is solely why I don't rate this 1 star.
The author had a clear vision on what she wanted to achieve, and the impact was definitely felt throughout the writing, so I commend her for that, but I hated this book. In parts, because that is what the author probably wanted me to feel, but mostly because a part of me felt that the point of this story was mainly to shock and subvert a little bit too much, and because of that, the rest of the narrative fell flat.
The rhythmic poetic language and sentence structure was interesting and added to the author's desired effect, but it was not enjoyable for me and I probably skim-read the last few pages (which in a 96 page novella is not a good sign) because I just wanted this book to be finished.
This was a caustic read. An absolutely horrific story of the physical and mental damage to a you g girl following a sexual assault. Written in a fragmented, distorted style, it was a deeply harrowing experience. Any book where I'm still not sure whether to put up a cannabalism warning or not, is definitely an experience in and of itsself
Reading this book reminds me of the first time I tried using Braille, and I have no visual impairment: to me, reading the bumps with my fingers made me feel as though there was (naturally) something behind it, a veil that subsumed a world of depth.
This is Emma Glass's first book, and it doesn't feel like it. The language reminds me somehow of reading José Saramago, where it kind of unfurls, yet I don't have to construe it; it's stream-of-consciousness while not being too obvious, even though this is a moralistic tale.
Language is all, and for a first-time writer, I think it's very safe to say that writing a book like this is throwing yourself into the unknown even more than otherwise. Here's a paragraph for ya:
Throughout the book, I got the feeling that threat looms in the background, but really it's in the foreground, due to the nature of Glass's language, much like seeing waves crashing without sound in the middle of the night: you know it's there, but it's not entirely evident. I shan't spoil any surprises, but there's more to the book than what I've written of here.
This is Emma Glass's first book, and it doesn't feel like it. The language reminds me somehow of reading José Saramago, where it kind of unfurls, yet I don't have to construe it; it's stream-of-consciousness while not being too obvious, even though this is a moralistic tale.
Language is all, and for a first-time writer, I think it's very safe to say that writing a book like this is throwing yourself into the unknown even more than otherwise. Here's a paragraph for ya:
Against the black of my eyelids I see nothing but shadows swimming towards me, swimming away. The slit splits further across my belly. I feel the flesh fall. I fall with it. My legs are eroding. Suddenly I am flushed with fear. I can’t cry, my face is melting. My lips open, my eyes won’t open. The blessing will be that I can’t see the bottom. What have I learned who have I hurt is this it. Nothing but flesh. Was this all for nothing other than the craving of fresh flesh. Senseless flesh. I am nothing but solid stone, alone, sinking, how can I still think when my face is all gone. What will they find at the bottom, will they know I was here because I carved you into my heart and I think this heavy rock, this stone, this seed will still have the shape of you inside, look closely at the cracks, slide into the crevices, you will see. I can’t I can’t I won’t grow in this stagnant pond, this soiled water, this stinking pit, this is it, I can’t I won’t grow, I can’t hold I can’t hold I feel I am close I feel the scratch and scrape the stone on the ceramic tiles the stone the stone the stone on stone, I can’t grow I won’t hold I can’t hold. I can’t grow. I can’t hold any soul. In this pit I will sit. In this pit I will sit. In this. In this. Pit.
Throughout the book, I got the feeling that threat looms in the background, but really it's in the foreground, due to the nature of Glass's language, much like seeing waves crashing without sound in the middle of the night: you know it's there, but it's not entirely evident. I shan't spoil any surprises, but there's more to the book than what I've written of here.
Lyrical and disturbingly sensual. Glass cites Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and Dylan Thomas as influences: imagine those combined in one hundred tightly-written pages. Just amazing.
MMD Challenge - A book you can read in a day
Trigger warnings for sexual assault andcanabalism
This was a weird book, the style of writing is beautiful, lots of alliteration and short sentences making it almost like reading poetry. The story though... I can't say I enjoyed it. It's a very weird (and a bit gross) story.
Trigger warnings for sexual assault and
This was a weird book, the style of writing is beautiful, lots of alliteration and short sentences making it almost like reading poetry. The story though... I can't say I enjoyed it. It's a very weird (and a bit gross) story.
Trigger warnings for sexual violence, self harm and assault.
In this surreal and unsettling novella/prose poem, Peach stumbles home after suffering a horrific sexual assault. She does her best to patch herself up, but a looming shadow haunts her, and soon things take a turn for the gruesome and vengeful.
The writing style is so unusual: stream of consciousness-style prose, but with a poetic quality that relies heavily on repetition, alliteration and wordplay: Thick stick sticky sticking wet ragged wool winding round the wounds. This won't be for everyone, but I couldn't put it down.
Peach is intensely graphic and visceral, but it is left to the reader to interpret how much is figurative and how much is literal.
In this surreal and unsettling novella/prose poem, Peach stumbles home after suffering a horrific sexual assault. She does her best to patch herself up, but a looming shadow haunts her, and soon things take a turn for the gruesome and vengeful.
The writing style is so unusual: stream of consciousness-style prose, but with a poetic quality that relies heavily on repetition, alliteration and wordplay: Thick stick sticky sticking wet ragged wool winding round the wounds. This won't be for everyone, but I couldn't put it down.
Peach is intensely graphic and visceral, but it is left to the reader to interpret how much is figurative and how much is literal.
this was really experimental and not very accessible. it felt like a piece of creative writing from a workshop that should never have been turned into an actual published novella. still, it was an interesting fever-dream-ish read.
This was an odd one, less a novel and more of a series of interconnected prose poems. It takes on some very dark subject matter (sexual assault), but the writing style -- florid language, word play, repetition, interior rhymes -- undercuts a lot of what I think the author is trying to say/do.
It wasn't bad, and I'll definitely be keeping on eye out for what the author does next, but this one just didn't connect with me the way in which I was expecting.
It wasn't bad, and I'll definitely be keeping on eye out for what the author does next, but this one just didn't connect with me the way in which I was expecting.