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brice_mo's reviews
422 reviews
Kissing Girls on Shabbat: A Memoir by Sara Glass
2.75
Thanks to NetGalley and Atria Books for the ARC!
Dr. Sara Glass’s Kissing Girls on Shabbat is a cocktail of a memoir, mixing discussions of religion, sexuality, and mental health to the point that the nuances of each occasionally disappear—it feels more like self-exposure than self-disclosure, and the result is a difficult read.
The book’s premise is ripe with potential and fraught with trauma—Glass’s long-unfolding understanding of her queerness within her conservative Hasidic community—and I admire the author’s willingness to excavate almost unbearable pain for the sake of sharing her life with readers. The prose lumbers bluntly through emotional abuse, fear of divine retribution, and Glass’s work as a therapist.
With each passing chapter, though, it begins to feel like many of these situations are still too raw of a nerve for Glass to address within the confines of this particular medium, reading more like a list of painful events than an emergent narrative. It might be a therapist’s responsibility to help people reclaim the past, but I wonder if it’s a memoirist’s responsibility to recognize when parts of the past can’t be reclaimed. There are so many topics here that it’s difficult to see the book’s themes, and the obfuscation happens at the author’s expense.
This tension between Glass’s therapeutic expertise and her personal experience escalates until it warps the distance of hindsight into forced perspective. Much of what could be subtext is immediately examined or explained, often caricaturing a past self’s beliefs as irrational, rather than accepting and grieving them as a rationale. For example, Glass writes that while in labor, she sidestepped her decision-making rights because “I would not allow protocol to get in the way of the real rules. Decisions needed to be made by the man.” It seems that the absurdity of the sentiment is easier to stomach than the tragedy of it not being experienced as absurd, and recurrent moments like this suggest that Glass’s desire to make a point takes precedence over compassion to herself.
The approach might be a necessary precondition for the book to exist as a testament to Glass’s triumph rather than a revival of her trauma, but it begins to read like a case study more than a memoir—self-analysis instead of self-reflection. I’m sure the book will still resonate with many readers, but I always feel sad when it seems like an author doesn’t fit well in their own memoir. If writing is not a kindness to the self, how kind can it be to its readers? Lest that sound too critical, I think this is a story worth telling, but I wish it had the breathing room afforded by, say, an ongoing podcast series, where the weight of the written word wouldn’t hang over every moment.
Regardless, all memoir is something to celebrate, and I look forward to seeing the kinds of conversations Kissing Girls on Shabbat inspires upon its release.
Dr. Sara Glass’s Kissing Girls on Shabbat is a cocktail of a memoir, mixing discussions of religion, sexuality, and mental health to the point that the nuances of each occasionally disappear—it feels more like self-exposure than self-disclosure, and the result is a difficult read.
The book’s premise is ripe with potential and fraught with trauma—Glass’s long-unfolding understanding of her queerness within her conservative Hasidic community—and I admire the author’s willingness to excavate almost unbearable pain for the sake of sharing her life with readers. The prose lumbers bluntly through emotional abuse, fear of divine retribution, and Glass’s work as a therapist.
With each passing chapter, though, it begins to feel like many of these situations are still too raw of a nerve for Glass to address within the confines of this particular medium, reading more like a list of painful events than an emergent narrative. It might be a therapist’s responsibility to help people reclaim the past, but I wonder if it’s a memoirist’s responsibility to recognize when parts of the past can’t be reclaimed. There are so many topics here that it’s difficult to see the book’s themes, and the obfuscation happens at the author’s expense.
This tension between Glass’s therapeutic expertise and her personal experience escalates until it warps the distance of hindsight into forced perspective. Much of what could be subtext is immediately examined or explained, often caricaturing a past self’s beliefs as irrational, rather than accepting and grieving them as a rationale. For example, Glass writes that while in labor, she sidestepped her decision-making rights because “I would not allow protocol to get in the way of the real rules. Decisions needed to be made by the man.” It seems that the absurdity of the sentiment is easier to stomach than the tragedy of it not being experienced as absurd, and recurrent moments like this suggest that Glass’s desire to make a point takes precedence over compassion to herself.
The approach might be a necessary precondition for the book to exist as a testament to Glass’s triumph rather than a revival of her trauma, but it begins to read like a case study more than a memoir—self-analysis instead of self-reflection. I’m sure the book will still resonate with many readers, but I always feel sad when it seems like an author doesn’t fit well in their own memoir. If writing is not a kindness to the self, how kind can it be to its readers? Lest that sound too critical, I think this is a story worth telling, but I wish it had the breathing room afforded by, say, an ongoing podcast series, where the weight of the written word wouldn’t hang over every moment.
Regardless, all memoir is something to celebrate, and I look forward to seeing the kinds of conversations Kissing Girls on Shabbat inspires upon its release.
Disarming Leviathan: Loving Your Christian Nationalist Neighbor by Caleb E Campbell
2.5
Thanks to NetGalley and IVP for the ARC!
Caleb E. Campbell’s Disarming Leviathan offers a thoughtful approach to engaging with Christian nationalists, but its usefulness may be limited to a certain audience—pastors.
There’s so much to admire about this book, and if you have any sort of religious background, it’s almost impossible to read it without a sense of grief. Campbell adopts a well-informed missiological approach and supplements it with personal research and historical background about the complexities of Christian tradition in the United States. He opens the book with a series of recently collapsed distinctions, such as the difference between a culture and a state or the rhetorical boundaries between sermons and political speeches, as observed in Turning Point USA’s programming.
Disarming Leviathan is at its strongest when Campbell draws from personal conversations and his own experience attending Christian nationalist events. The examples are really helpful, and I wish there had been even more because despite all the sociological and theological explanations of why people become radicalized, there’s a sense in which it still feels like an inexplicable turn. It’s still difficult to parse when Christianity ends and where nationalism begins, but maybe it’s impossible to make a clear delineation.
Despite the book’s strengths, I had a few concerns about its applicability to the average reader. Campbell often feels questionably optimistic, particularly in how willing people will be to connect “heart-to-heart” over many of these issues. Perhaps it’s my cynicism talking, but I wonder if some of the author’s ability to have these conversations is rooted in his pastoral role. He writes about connecting over shared values, but in my experience with Christian nationalist family members, the assumption is that your values are no longer shared—they are tainted; they are the trojan horse that smuggles an “agenda.” Because nationalism is predicated on celebrating power, I wonder if pastoral authority offers an inroad that isn’t available to the layperson.
Another quibble I had was Campbell’s recommendation of seeking out “shibboleths” (insider language) and avoiding “red flags” (outsider language) to connect with Christian nationalists. As an example, he recommends “we need strong borders” as a shibboleth and identifies “January 6th was an insurrection” as a red flag. I appreciate the sentiment, but the issue is that language informs reality, and the use or avoidance of these phrases tacitly affirms a whole array of presuppositions. If we don’t begin our conversations with accountability in our language, I’m skeptical of how far they can meaningfully go.
Many of these concerns are, however, dealt with as Campbell recognizes that some readers may simply not be able to have conversations with certain people. I just wonder how often any such conversation can occur. Much of this book is built on the premise that if we are compassionate and reasonable, we can interact with nationalists, but I just don’t see that happening when the idea of “reason” is rejected in favor of celebrating logical or emotional discontinuity. In the case of my family members, their mindset is that it “doesn’t add up” because it “adds up to more than you’d think.”
All of that said, I think Disarming Leviathan has a lot going for it. It just might be a better book for people in the throes of Christian nationalism than for those who wish to pull them out. I imagine that the transparency of Campbell’s care would resonate more than attempts to synthesize it for a specific context, and his role as a pastor may foster the “heart-to-heart” openness necessary for readers to receive it.
Caleb E. Campbell’s Disarming Leviathan offers a thoughtful approach to engaging with Christian nationalists, but its usefulness may be limited to a certain audience—pastors.
There’s so much to admire about this book, and if you have any sort of religious background, it’s almost impossible to read it without a sense of grief. Campbell adopts a well-informed missiological approach and supplements it with personal research and historical background about the complexities of Christian tradition in the United States. He opens the book with a series of recently collapsed distinctions, such as the difference between a culture and a state or the rhetorical boundaries between sermons and political speeches, as observed in Turning Point USA’s programming.
Disarming Leviathan is at its strongest when Campbell draws from personal conversations and his own experience attending Christian nationalist events. The examples are really helpful, and I wish there had been even more because despite all the sociological and theological explanations of why people become radicalized, there’s a sense in which it still feels like an inexplicable turn. It’s still difficult to parse when Christianity ends and where nationalism begins, but maybe it’s impossible to make a clear delineation.
Despite the book’s strengths, I had a few concerns about its applicability to the average reader. Campbell often feels questionably optimistic, particularly in how willing people will be to connect “heart-to-heart” over many of these issues. Perhaps it’s my cynicism talking, but I wonder if some of the author’s ability to have these conversations is rooted in his pastoral role. He writes about connecting over shared values, but in my experience with Christian nationalist family members, the assumption is that your values are no longer shared—they are tainted; they are the trojan horse that smuggles an “agenda.” Because nationalism is predicated on celebrating power, I wonder if pastoral authority offers an inroad that isn’t available to the layperson.
Another quibble I had was Campbell’s recommendation of seeking out “shibboleths” (insider language) and avoiding “red flags” (outsider language) to connect with Christian nationalists. As an example, he recommends “we need strong borders” as a shibboleth and identifies “January 6th was an insurrection” as a red flag. I appreciate the sentiment, but the issue is that language informs reality, and the use or avoidance of these phrases tacitly affirms a whole array of presuppositions. If we don’t begin our conversations with accountability in our language, I’m skeptical of how far they can meaningfully go.
Many of these concerns are, however, dealt with as Campbell recognizes that some readers may simply not be able to have conversations with certain people. I just wonder how often any such conversation can occur. Much of this book is built on the premise that if we are compassionate and reasonable, we can interact with nationalists, but I just don’t see that happening when the idea of “reason” is rejected in favor of celebrating logical or emotional discontinuity. In the case of my family members, their mindset is that it “doesn’t add up” because it “adds up to more than you’d think.”
All of that said, I think Disarming Leviathan has a lot going for it. It just might be a better book for people in the throes of Christian nationalism than for those who wish to pull them out. I imagine that the transparency of Campbell’s care would resonate more than attempts to synthesize it for a specific context, and his role as a pastor may foster the “heart-to-heart” openness necessary for readers to receive it.
A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas
1.5
Oh! (derogatory)
First, let me say that the prose is a lot better than I anticipated, and for the first few chapters, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach—I was having a good time.
I wasn’t loving it, but I was enjoying it in the way that one might enjoy The Bachelorplaying in the background while folding laundry. I really understood the appeal of this book and series and genre. In fact, I thought I might I give the TV adaptation a shot when it eventually happens.
But by the time the “romance” kicks into gear, I was struck by how its whole premise is that resistance is a barrier to overcome instead of a boundary to respect. I’m sure that part of this is because chemistry is difficult to write, but I think there are dangerous consequences to glorifying possessive “love” and depicting latent violence just beneath the surface of every interaction.
To get overly autobiographical for a moment, much of my adult life has been unfortunately marked by months-long situations where women who read exclusively YA and fantasy decide we will be together, and nothing will stop it from happening, including me.
That’s not a humblebrag. It’s pretty horrific.
I’ve had people call me hundreds of times, show up at my door at odd hours, and write multi-page letters about what I “owe” them.
While reading A Court of Thorns and Roses I was really shocked to hear the origin of conversations that have echoed in my life, where my “no” is not a “no”—it’s a challenge. Or worse, where I have resorted to unkindness out of desperation, and it has been interpreted as a sign that I am “complicated” or “enigmatic,” that I just “wasn’t honest with myself about what I wanted.” Lest I sound a little too woe-is-me here, I think these books primarily prey upon their readers by lowering their standards for what they deserve. They encourage them to misinterpret relational sharp edges as a narrative arc. Maybe people are less afraid of a broken will than they are of a broken heart.
Is this a melodramatic read for such a lightweight book? Probably. I know a lot of people can read it and enjoy it and move on with their lives, and that’s awesome—but it’s not escapism when it escapes into actual relationships, and A Court of Thorns and Rosesmakes me wonder what authors owe to their vulnerable readers.
I’m not sure, but I think a little more than SJM gives here.
First, let me say that the prose is a lot better than I anticipated, and for the first few chapters, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach—I was having a good time.
I wasn’t loving it, but I was enjoying it in the way that one might enjoy The Bachelorplaying in the background while folding laundry. I really understood the appeal of this book and series and genre. In fact, I thought I might I give the TV adaptation a shot when it eventually happens.
But by the time the “romance” kicks into gear, I was struck by how its whole premise is that resistance is a barrier to overcome instead of a boundary to respect. I’m sure that part of this is because chemistry is difficult to write, but I think there are dangerous consequences to glorifying possessive “love” and depicting latent violence just beneath the surface of every interaction.
To get overly autobiographical for a moment, much of my adult life has been unfortunately marked by months-long situations where women who read exclusively YA and fantasy decide we will be together, and nothing will stop it from happening, including me.
That’s not a humblebrag. It’s pretty horrific.
I’ve had people call me hundreds of times, show up at my door at odd hours, and write multi-page letters about what I “owe” them.
While reading A Court of Thorns and Roses I was really shocked to hear the origin of conversations that have echoed in my life, where my “no” is not a “no”—it’s a challenge. Or worse, where I have resorted to unkindness out of desperation, and it has been interpreted as a sign that I am “complicated” or “enigmatic,” that I just “wasn’t honest with myself about what I wanted.” Lest I sound a little too woe-is-me here, I think these books primarily prey upon their readers by lowering their standards for what they deserve. They encourage them to misinterpret relational sharp edges as a narrative arc. Maybe people are less afraid of a broken will than they are of a broken heart.
Is this a melodramatic read for such a lightweight book? Probably. I know a lot of people can read it and enjoy it and move on with their lives, and that’s awesome—but it’s not escapism when it escapes into actual relationships, and A Court of Thorns and Rosesmakes me wonder what authors owe to their vulnerable readers.
I’m not sure, but I think a little more than SJM gives here.
Abandon Me: Memoirs by Melissa Febos
3.5
Melissa Febos’s Abandon Me feels underbaked and overwritten, and I think that tension means its title will hit readers very differently—either as an invitation or a challenge.
I mean, my favorite part of a brownie is the underbaked part, but maybe you’re an edges person.
These are gorgeously written essays, and Melissa Febos has an amazing sense of when to withhold or release a turn. She practically dances through the form as someone who has rehearsed enough to make improvisation look effortless.
That said, Febos often seems more concerned with how an experience fits in a sentence than with how it fits in a life. These essays showcase open-ended wounds, and they frequently serve to pick at scabs in lieu of stitching them shut. It can be rough.
In conversation with Body Work, I interpret Abandon Me as highlighting how life is lived in a state of constant revision, but I think there are very fair critiques to be made about the author’s moral ambivalence. I think it serves the project, but that’s subjective.
I’m guessing that readers’ enjoyment will depend on how they feel about the following question:
Can pain be art without an obligatory answer?
Febos seems to think so.
I mean, my favorite part of a brownie is the underbaked part, but maybe you’re an edges person.
These are gorgeously written essays, and Melissa Febos has an amazing sense of when to withhold or release a turn. She practically dances through the form as someone who has rehearsed enough to make improvisation look effortless.
That said, Febos often seems more concerned with how an experience fits in a sentence than with how it fits in a life. These essays showcase open-ended wounds, and they frequently serve to pick at scabs in lieu of stitching them shut. It can be rough.
In conversation with Body Work, I interpret Abandon Me as highlighting how life is lived in a state of constant revision, but I think there are very fair critiques to be made about the author’s moral ambivalence. I think it serves the project, but that’s subjective.
I’m guessing that readers’ enjoyment will depend on how they feel about the following question:
Can pain be art without an obligatory answer?
Febos seems to think so.
Breasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami
3.0
I appreciate Mieko Kawakami's thematic concerns, and I think she addresses them thoroughly and thoughtfully, but like Heaven, the story just seems to lumber clumsily around. It alternates between near plotlessness and moments where everything happens at once. This is a fairly lengthy novel with the sensibilities of a short story.
Like many other reviewers, I think the original novella embedded in Breasts and Eggs is a lot stronger than the rest of book, so I wonder if these are editorial and translation issues more than an authorial weaknesses.
Like many other reviewers, I think the original novella embedded in Breasts and Eggs is a lot stronger than the rest of book, so I wonder if these are editorial and translation issues more than an authorial weaknesses.
Be Straight with Me by Emily Dalton
A heart-wrenching look at the messy ambiguities of intimacy.
4.5
Under the Sign of Saturn: Essays by Sontag, Susan Sontag
4.0
Nobody does it like Sontag.
Aside from her ability to make cultural criticism feel as stylish as it is essential, Susan Sontag also had such a gift for meaningfully limiting her scope. I've read so many authors who attempt to follow her model—or worse, improve upon it—and they almost always lose focus as they get caught in their own web of ideas. Conversely, everything Sontag wrote seems deliberately self-limiting, and that's what makes her work feel almost limitless.
Aside from her ability to make cultural criticism feel as stylish as it is essential, Susan Sontag also had such a gift for meaningfully limiting her scope. I've read so many authors who attempt to follow her model—or worse, improve upon it—and they almost always lose focus as they get caught in their own web of ideas. Conversely, everything Sontag wrote seems deliberately self-limiting, and that's what makes her work feel almost limitless.