This is a grueling story about family and generational trauma, and the larger trauma and rippling effects of racism and white supremacy. It is a story of coming of age, of accepting who you are and who you are not, told in alternating perspectives of primarily a mother and son with a very strained relationship. Jesmyn Ward’s writing is beautiful and lyrical, and she does an exceptional job of weaving the characters’ histories into the main storyline. Maybe the best way I can think to describe it is it feels very natural, like someone telling the story out loud. And I absolutely loved the aspects of magical realism throughout and the way it connected the family members through the generations, though it culminates in an ultimately confusing finale that took me rereading the final couple of chapters to fully visualize and understand. At its core, Sing, Unburied, Sing is just a very well-told, poignant story with characters that feel alive on the page and a plot that is simple but richly realized.
This is an excellent memoir. Jennette McCurdy has a clear vision for her life story and a comprehensive understanding of her past and the way her experiences have shaped her. Once again, audio format wins out as there's just no beating hearing McCurdy tell her story exactly how she intended. She does not shy away from total vulnerability here, baring everything and inviting the reader into some of the darkest moments of her life. This book deals with some pretty heavy subject matter, but McCurdy handles it with a deft blend of humor and somberness, always hitting the right notes. You can tell she's done a lot of personal reflection and work to get to a place where she could even tackle telling this story, and props to her as I imagine revisiting some of those moments and reconciling her conflicting feelings toward a lot of those memories was not easy. She handles it well, though, allowing space and empathy for both the person she was when she was younger and the stronger, more emotionally intelligent person she is now. All in all, an excellent read.
I'm torn on this book. It's well written and entertaining; Leigh Bardugo clearly has a knack for snappy prose and good pacing, and I came to really like the characters, the lore, and the setting. But there were a couple of things that just really caught me off guard in a bad way - particularly, the jarring moments of graphic sexual assault felt unnecessary as they ultimately seemed to be used for shock value and as a plot device to connect Alex to Blake and further establish that the bad guy is in fact bad. I also found Bardugo's choice to give Alex a Ladino heritage a bit confusing as this also feels a bit like a plot device, only coming up when it's helping Alex ward off the dead. Overall, it's not a terrible book, but there are some questionable choices made by Bardugo here. I'll read the second one and hope she improves upon them.
This is one of those sweeping stories that manages to balance seriousness and levity quite well. A novel set during World War II is always going to have a darker tone to it. But the characters are lovable and feel like quick friends—Lev has this adorably naive quality to him as he's coming of age in this terrible climate but still dealing with mundane rites of passage, such as the awkwardness around learning how to talk to girls and the challenge of choosing bravery in the face of great adversity; Kolya is crass and gross but in this endearing way that wins you over because he is, at his core, a good guy that's trying to stand up for the right things; and the cast of side characters, in spite of being hardened by and mostly consumed by the war, get their small moments of humanity, giving us insight into who they were before the war and how the war has changed them. Though there are absolutely sad details and moments within the book, Benioff doesn't often dwell too long on them, reflecting the punishing and relenting reality of living through a war—the people must push on and survive even when the worst and unimaginable happens. City of Thieves has a lot of heart, and I will definitely be rereading this one in the future.
I picked this up at a coffee shop's little library while waiting for a friend, and as I got through a good chunk of it, I laughed aloud repeatedly, to the point where the guy sitting next to me asked what book I was reading. David Sedaris has a way of spinning straw into gold with grim situations—many of these essays recount stories that feature the darker, more complex sides of being human, from growing up with debilitating OCD to addiction and domestic abuse to quiet, violent drivers looking to prey on unsuspecting hitchhikers. Though often harrowing, these stories are really made by Sedaris' honest and unapologetic storytelling; he doesn't shy away from going into people's motivations or the truths of their lives, even if it paints them—or, more often, himself—in an unfavorable light.
This is my second Sedaris novel, but it's almost like I forget how good he is until I'm sitting down reading him. I'll definitely be keeping this on my shelf so I can revisit it in the future.
The plot of The Midnight Library is relatable to probably most people—a woman has a particularly bad day on the tail-end of a string of bad weeks following several rocky years and is struggling to reclaim a sense of purpose. In an act of desperation, she decides to end her life. In spite of this dark introduction, Matt Haig has created a main character who has a lot of life and charm to her. Nora is difficult not to fall for (especially if you imagine her as I do, portrayed by Phoebe Waller-Bridge); and as the story progresses, it's satisfying to see her trying to find her way back to herself. The prose, however, sometimes falls into cliche, and Haig doesn't delve as deep as he maybe should into such dark subject matter. The lives Nora falls into often feel too surface-level and shiny; we don't get a sense of the grit, even if the life has it, because the stakes are a little too low, as though Haig was too nervous of ensuring he could get Nora back to the library in one piece. Overall, though, there's a lot of heart in this story, and it's endearing and extremely readable.
This is a solid debut from Stacy Willingham. She does a great job of managing two compelling stories—the present mystery as it's unfolding as well as the past that is haunting protagonist Chloe—and I like the way she handles navigating between the two, seamlessly referencing bits of the past through clear links in the present. She also has a great, detail-oriented writing style that is easy to read and works well for a page turner, keeping you in the flow of Chloe's day-to-day and the tension of the unfolding mystery. I liked the characters overall, and there are several twists that caught me off guard. That being said, I predicted the big twist very early on, and though there were other surprises along the way, Willingham isn't able to develop all of the characters enough and give them enough complexity to create a satisfying amount of doubt about who's guilty. I do think Willingham is trying to break into the genre of thriller where the characters are all dark and complex enough that you can't help but waver back and forth about any one's innocence or guilt, and I think she has a lot of potential to really nail that in future books. I just don't think she quite pulled it off here. Regardless, she's created a great page turner with an interesting and dark premise, and I enjoyed it overall.
I enjoyed listening to this book as Anne and Aminatou have excellent storytelling voices, and I think their structure choice ends up working well as they are able to draw larger insights on friendship by retracing the journey of their 10-year relationship. Their stories—both the shared one of their friendship and their individual histories—are cozy (not in the sense that they're conflict-free, but in that they feel conversational and intimate) and kept my attention because they're relatable. I was compelled to follow along as they recalled exactly how they came to a place where they felt on the verge of a friend breakup because I wanted to know not only what happened but how they got past it. Along the way of revisiting major milestones in their relationship, they examine through a more sociological lens what friendship is and how it's evolved/changed—the societal norms and expectations and how this informs our approach to these relationships, sometimes to the benefit, sometimes the detriment of us and our friends. What I found valuable was seeing similar struggles that I've personally gone through in other people's friendships—it was validating, but it also challenged me to examine my own friendships and how I regard them, both through my thoughts and actions. And that I think is where this book shines—Anne and Aminatou understand the value of these types of close friendships that have weathered the storms of change and vulnerability, and they think it's important that other people see that same value and understand the work required to maintain those bonds. Overall, it's a thought-provoking read (or listen) that will help you think of your friendships and your commitment to them in a more profound way.
This book has some really beautiful prose, from its descriptive imagery of the marsh wildlife to its quick, pointed insights through Kya's observations and perspective on the world around her. I'd argue it's much more a coming of age story than it is a murder mystery or courtroom drama (as is advertised), but I think that ultimately works because Kya's story of learning to survive on her own in the marsh from a very young age is compelling and heartbreaking. Owens creates a world that is easy to sink into and a cast of characters that garner fast affection (or dislike) from the reader and feel well fleshed out. She explores themes that are rooted deeply in the human experience, such as isolation, humankind's connection with nature, the tension between civilized and primal, and the necessity for love. If you enjoy stories that pull at your heart strings and encourage contemplation about what it means to be human, I think you'll enjoy this book.