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A review by gizmo_gadget
Cold Enough for Snow by Jessica Au
challenging
reflective
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
5.0
Hot take: If you like Fleabag, you will like this novel.
Reading the distorted (and ironically self-absorbed accounts) of the main character’s interactions with her close family and friends (non of whom she deigns to humanise with a name except her partner, who she reveres as a beacon of perfection and familiarity) is akin to slowly giving yourself a headache while thinking endless, flaccid thoughts. She embarks on a trip meant to reconnect her emotionally to her sick (probably dying) mother. Trying her utmost at the beginning of each section to live in the moment and explore in tandem, she quickly spirals into endless contemplations about the very nature of connection. This is webbed together by cold, distant memories, and philosophising she holds in high regard, but realistically paints a bleak picture of her ability to find joy in her surroundings. She is, on some level, aware of the fact this makes her socially incompetent - but misdiagnoses the issue as a lack of situational control with those who she looks down upon (family), and some deep personal/cultural failing with those who she admires (friends, teachers, etc). Her struggle is painfully Sisyphean and nauseating, as she drives herself in infinite, neurotic circles of failed introspection.
She is also unfortunately relatable. I particularly felt deep empathy with her inability to connect to her mother, in part thanks to an uncrossable generational gap, which I will facetiously label trauma-core. She certainly does not try at any point to reach out across this gap, but, from experiences with my own family members, I have to imagine this is somewhat to do with the fact she has resigned. Watching her mother through her blurry, detached point of view is heart-wrenchingly familiar to the apathetic glaze that sets over my mind whenever I speak to my close family. Some bridges are too broken to cross, and the act of crossing is replaced with self-soothing memories of its past usability.
In conclusion: oh god oh fuck i’ve romanticised too close to the sun
Reading the distorted (and ironically self-absorbed accounts) of the main character’s interactions with her close family and friends (non of whom she deigns to humanise with a name except her partner, who she reveres as a beacon of perfection and familiarity) is akin to slowly giving yourself a headache while thinking endless, flaccid thoughts. She embarks on a trip meant to reconnect her emotionally to her sick (probably dying) mother. Trying her utmost at the beginning of each section to live in the moment and explore in tandem, she quickly spirals into endless contemplations about the very nature of connection. This is webbed together by cold, distant memories, and philosophising she holds in high regard, but realistically paints a bleak picture of her ability to find joy in her surroundings. She is, on some level, aware of the fact this makes her socially incompetent - but misdiagnoses the issue as a lack of situational control with those who she looks down upon (family), and some deep personal/cultural failing with those who she admires (friends, teachers, etc). Her struggle is painfully Sisyphean and nauseating, as she drives herself in infinite, neurotic circles of failed introspection.
She is also unfortunately relatable. I particularly felt deep empathy with her inability to connect to her mother, in part thanks to an uncrossable generational gap, which I will facetiously label trauma-core. She certainly does not try at any point to reach out across this gap, but, from experiences with my own family members, I have to imagine this is somewhat to do with the fact she has resigned. Watching her mother through her blurry, detached point of view is heart-wrenchingly familiar to the apathetic glaze that sets over my mind whenever I speak to my close family. Some bridges are too broken to cross, and the act of crossing is replaced with self-soothing memories of its past usability.
In conclusion: oh god oh fuck i’ve romanticised too close to the sun