R.F. Kuang’s Yellowface sinks its teeth into the world of publishing and the discourse on racial or owned-story authenticity through the eyes of June Hayward, a white woman who has taken the draft of a Chinese-American woman’s novel and published it as her own. She will forever be haunted by this choice, a Lady Macbeth whose modern fame and inner isolation fuels her ignorance, justification, and ultimate 'demise.'. It is a perfect follow-up to Babel and the conversations on how language can be a form of colonialism.
I’ll be honest, I read this book in a single sitting. I could not look away. June's unrelenting selfishness - and yet, humanity, as we witness her relive real and painful memories of rape, bullying, and familial indifference - starts as fear but grows darker each page, racing towards its final, white savior navel-gazing end. It was like watching the first episodes of The Office....unbearable, at times. Kuang makes us sit with our discomfort, and forces us to confront our own experience as a meta audience to the public Twitter & social media unravelling - June's lies and appropriation a rainwreck that can't be stopped, just as I could not stop turning the oages.
With a sharp critique on the commodification and consumption of art in publishing and reviewing, a look at online debates, the self-aggrandizing aspects of social media, and the way artists are pitted against each other as if writing was a competitive sport, Kuang balances the real micro and macro aggressions experienced by Asian women with her own masquerade - a white woman's painful story, told by a Chinese American. The onion layers of complex publicity literary dynamics at times veered towards insider gossip, but nonetheless a wretched set of mistakes and racists errors keeps even those of us far from the publishing world's inner workings fixated on June, Athena, and a cast of diverse and flawed women until the end.
The only reason why this isn't a bit higher join terms of stars is because of the last 15% percent of the book started spiraling, specifically into an oddly criminal-thriller bent.
Kafka on the Shore is hands down the worst book I've ever read. Loosely based on the Oedipus myth, and taking some obvious inspiration from Catcher in the Rye, this book seems to be little more than a random hodgepodge of ideas held together with pipe cleaners and raspberry jam.
There was so much to hate about this book. Here are just a few things:
1. Boring, unnecessary descriptions – that do nothing to further the story – of what people are wearing, what Kafka likes to do during his workout, what he decides to eat, what he is listening to on his Walkman...
2. The gratuitous cat torture scene. Johnnie Walker cuts the hearts out of living cats and eat them so that he can collect cat souls to make a special kind of flute. There is no point to this scene – we never hear about Johnnie or his cat-flute again.
3. The annoying way characters – Oshima in particular – deliver sermons about philosophy, art, literature and classical music. It took me right out of the story (tangled mess though it was) and smacked of “Look at me – aren’t I clever?”
4. The screechy-preachy scene with the “feminist” caricatures in the library.
5. Hate to be ungroovy or whatever – but I just couldn’t stand any of the sex scenes, particularly with Miss Saeki, the 50-something librarian who gets it on over and over again with the 15-year-old protagonist even though he and she both know she might be his long-lost mother.
6. The unrelenting use of women as sex dolls, cooks, cleaners, and completely vacuous shields for a 15-year olds' inner world and sexual fantasies.
After the first 100 pages I thought that I might end up giving this book three stars. Another 100 pages on, I decided two stars. By page 331 I decided one star, and by the end of this frustrating, pretentious, and completely unsatisfying book, I felt the people who gushed over this book need therapy, more interesting hobbies, and are simple strangers to me
In the end, love or loathing of a book is entirely subjective, and scores of critics loved this one. But if I’d wanted to find meaning in a random jumble of junk, I would have had more luck going to the thrift store and sifting through the bric-a-brac box than wasting time on Mr. Murakami’s sexist and drivel-filled brain-omelette.
A fascinating and well laid out book about the science of varied emotional experiences across cultural mores, this book gave me a tremendous amount of new cultural knowledge and ideas. Author DR. Batja Mesquita is a social psychologist who sets out in Between Us to explain the role of culture in emotions, and how our larger cultures in different countries and world regions form our emotional learning and elaboration.
Touting studies from her own work and academic field - delightfully interspersed with stories from her experience as a cultural interloper across Danish and American cultures and those of many parents, kids, and humans of all types of backgrounds - the book posits that emotions are primarily created through cultural context. She cites studies on Japanese, Chinese, Indonesian, the Utku Inuit, people from the United States and the Netherlands, Germans, those from Cameroon, and others. Learning about so many cultural nuances was fascinating and my favorite part of the book.
The other main thesis is that how, in different cultures, emotions exist either within people as inner states (Mine Cultures) or between people (Ours Cultures). I did find her insistence on a binary between these two, with Ameroca and "the West" somehow in contrast with the rest of the world - to be a significant limitations not supported by her science or field.
At any rate, I definitely recommend this book despite my skepticism about some portions. It’s a quick read, with a text barely over 200 pages, and it will challenge your own culturally-based assumptions. And perhaps confirm some suspicions, too (I have long been skeptical of novels by modern Americans with far-flung settings in which the characters’ inner lives feel modern and American, though I hadn’t put it into those words before). An excellent choice for anyone interested in psychology or hoping to improve their cultural literacy.
Counsellor and relationship expert Nedra Glover Tawwab begins the introduction of her debut Set Boundaries, Find Peace with a bold statement, “Boundaries will set you free.” With that opener in mind, I grabbed a notebook and pen and was taken on a journey to establishing healthy boundaries to create healthy relationships.
Structured in two parts the book outlines a comprehensive guide written in simple and thoughtful language. Part 1 gets the reader to understand the importance of boundaries, Part 2 pinpoints the areas where we commonly need boundaries – family, work, romance, friendships, and technology.
I found the book and Dr. Tawwab's clear, simple writing incredibly useful. Journaling during the reading was helpful and I would encourage for others, as she provides questions in each section to allow for reflection of content in real time.
The Bone Clocks hits lots of hot buttons, from the horrors of the Iraq war to the Eternal Battle of Good and Evil to the near-future downfall of our civilization under society's inevitable collapse under a climate change-ravaged future. Cunningly, it also invites a metafiction's romp through an equally dizzying set of internal landscapes ranging from 15 year old heartbroken girl to mind-controlled horror, the sickening descent of a young man's mind from selfishness to tyranny, and the perspective of transgender vampires who walk across 1,000s of years.
In its pursuit of the many, The Bone Clocks fails to find the whole. Mitchell’s novel is an indigestible stew of incompatible elements, and its binding agent is a gratingly superficial, overly “voicey” set of first-person monologues. Somehow both *yawn* and eye-roll. With allowances made for differences in class and dialect, the whole novel is written in this tediously over-the-top style, which cannot convey much subtle or genuine feeling. Add to that Mitchell’s excessive reliance on dialogue for exposition, narration, and characterization, so much so that pages at a time feel like a prolix screenplay, and you have a glaring failure from such an accomplished writer. It felt like a novel without silence; shouting at me unrelentingly.
My favorite passage is that of Holly's final years under a climate-ravaged future. The surprising turn to eco-sci-fi was touching, sincere, and apocalyptic in a way where the crumbling world's.... inevitably?, added gravitas to a life and story arc marked by the struggle of a good few to push back the evil of the system.
Exoskeleton oin-line drawings bleed and ooze into rich cartographic comic book heaven. Just the right amount of gory sock-you-in-the-gut glory with a side of God and Gospel to keep things even.
Two stories told in parallel. One of a man combing through a city's garbage for specific pieces of debris. The other, a priest, newly arrived at the small town of Gideon Falls where mysterious and horrific murders have occurred over its history. Both are connected by a black barn seen in their visions and dreams.
Andrea Sorrentino creates some of his best artwork in this series. The panelling leaps off the page in inventive oft-kilter ways as the characters trip through time and space in their visions. It just works tremendously for telling this story.