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fearofcommitment 's review for:
White on White
by Ayşegül Savaş
my inconclusive challenge
this book was a mini challenge i set for myself: could i overlook the author’s national background, or would it inevitably taint my view of the book? honestly, i still don’t have the answer.
the book was... fine. i was truly intrigued by the premise at first — i love to paint, my mother is an artist, and art has always had a massive presence in my life. so a story that felt heavily art-coded sounded like a fascinating read. in reality, it was just alright. art was more of a decorative motif and didn’t meaningfully intersect with the main storyline. the actual plot was barely held together by the thread of one more-or-less interesting character: agnes.
the narrator, on the other hand, was insufferable. trying so hard to be unlikable in that cool, detached way — something many novels pull off authentically — but here it just made her internal monologues cringe-inducing. i often found myself grateful when they ended.
agnes, however, i liked. i believed her. i understood why she was so eager to share her story with a complete stranger who had nothing to do with her social reality. frankly, i sometimes saw myself in her — in how she’s perceived as:
and interpreted as:
i think i’ve heard things like that directed at me more than once — and it made me ponder. unfortunately, the book didn’t push me enough to arrive at any real conclusion.
i think i gave the book a fair chance and did my best not to let myself be swayed by my ancestral suffering (at least not more than what was possible). but yeah... three stars, max.
this book was a mini challenge i set for myself: could i overlook the author’s national background, or would it inevitably taint my view of the book? honestly, i still don’t have the answer.
the book was... fine. i was truly intrigued by the premise at first — i love to paint, my mother is an artist, and art has always had a massive presence in my life. so a story that felt heavily art-coded sounded like a fascinating read. in reality, it was just alright. art was more of a decorative motif and didn’t meaningfully intersect with the main storyline. the actual plot was barely held together by the thread of one more-or-less interesting character: agnes.
the narrator, on the other hand, was insufferable. trying so hard to be unlikable in that cool, detached way — something many novels pull off authentically — but here it just made her internal monologues cringe-inducing. i often found myself grateful when they ended.
agnes, however, i liked. i believed her. i understood why she was so eager to share her story with a complete stranger who had nothing to do with her social reality. frankly, i sometimes saw myself in her — in how she’s perceived as:
“because she loves to feel righteous. she’s been right all these years, in all the decisions she’s made and those she hasn’t. but can it really be that she alone has a moral compass that is denied the rest of us?”
and interpreted as:
“you have to wonder about the possibility that someone is always purer than you are, at every instance, that they’ve been disappointed by you again and again. not out of any fault of their own, of course not, but because of all your own shortcomings, of your countless insensitivities. just think about what it would be like to live with someone like this.”
i think i’ve heard things like that directed at me more than once — and it made me ponder. unfortunately, the book didn’t push me enough to arrive at any real conclusion.
i think i gave the book a fair chance and did my best not to let myself be swayed by my ancestral suffering (at least not more than what was possible). but yeah... three stars, max.