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torishams's reviews
295 reviews
The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
Hmmm I wish this book was longer or focused on the relationships between all the individuals of the Joy Luck Club. It may have been my fault for thinking that this book was going to be covering the relationships of the 4 women in the Joy Luck Club with each other and their respective daughters. However, it just felt like 4 separate stories that were interspersed with each other (and not always in the same order, which made it difficult to remember which mother's story paired with which daughter's story). There was minimal tie-in between stories, so ultimately I was disappointed.
All-Night Pharmacy by Ruth Madievsky
I definitely enjoyed some moments in this book, but overall it wasn't super remarkable to me. I liked the themes of intergenerational trauma, sisterhood, queer love, mental illness, and family that were explored though.
* Being a person didn’t come naturally to me the way it seemed to for others.
* We both thought that what happened was fine, but it wasn’t fine, and only the other immediately recognized that. We never seemed to understand each other, or ourselves, at the same time. Our sister’s clarity was the other’s delusion. That was the tragedy of our sisterhood. As soon as we came close to a mutual understanding, one of us changed, or both.
* I was a little jealous. I wanted parents who took offense at my life choices. Criticism is still a cousin of attention.
* women… with a kind of graveness, a shared understanding that every throb of pleasure was a needle in the eye of someone who didn’t want you to have it.
* He bit into an apricot and smiled, closing his eyes. Witnessing the little ways the elderly cared for themselves devastated me. My paternal grandfather rubbing gardenia-scented lotion into his gnarled feet. My grandmother slicing lemon into her tea, no matter what kind of tea it was.
* I wondered… what utility she saw in organizing her life around resolving ancestral traumas that were, fundamentally, unresolvable. I would not live in service of my dead’s vision for me, a descendent they never knew, who’d never asked them to sacrifice what they lost. I wanted to believe I could honor them by living the life I chose for myself, by making choices that, for them, were never even on the table. That there was a world where my dead saw me—a recovering addict with a psychic girlfriend and a missing sister, estranged from Judaism and unable to speak any of their languages—and felt proud.
* Banish one god, and you’ll end up worshipping another.
3.5
I definitely enjoyed some moments in this book, but overall it wasn't super remarkable to me. I liked the themes of intergenerational trauma, sisterhood, queer love, mental illness, and family that were explored though.
* Being a person didn’t come naturally to me the way it seemed to for others.
* We both thought that what happened was fine, but it wasn’t fine, and only the other immediately recognized that. We never seemed to understand each other, or ourselves, at the same time. Our sister’s clarity was the other’s delusion. That was the tragedy of our sisterhood. As soon as we came close to a mutual understanding, one of us changed, or both.
* I was a little jealous. I wanted parents who took offense at my life choices. Criticism is still a cousin of attention.
* women… with a kind of graveness, a shared understanding that every throb of pleasure was a needle in the eye of someone who didn’t want you to have it.
* He bit into an apricot and smiled, closing his eyes. Witnessing the little ways the elderly cared for themselves devastated me. My paternal grandfather rubbing gardenia-scented lotion into his gnarled feet. My grandmother slicing lemon into her tea, no matter what kind of tea it was.
* I wondered… what utility she saw in organizing her life around resolving ancestral traumas that were, fundamentally, unresolvable. I would not live in service of my dead’s vision for me, a descendent they never knew, who’d never asked them to sacrifice what they lost. I wanted to believe I could honor them by living the life I chose for myself, by making choices that, for them, were never even on the table. That there was a world where my dead saw me—a recovering addict with a psychic girlfriend and a missing sister, estranged from Judaism and unable to speak any of their languages—and felt proud.
* Banish one god, and you’ll end up worshipping another.
Old Enough by Haley Jakobson
4.25
4/4.5
This book has me in a slumpppp now because it just felt like found family and it put words to so many of the experiences I've had - it perfectly encapsulates the feelings/vibes of figuring out who you are when you seem to have a "home" self and a "college" self as well as the pain of friend breakups. I loved all the found family and just felt so seen by this book <3
* I didn’t admit to my mom that I had no idea how to be a part of my community, because there seemed to be a whole second step after coming out, and that was finding your people. (23%)
* Talking to Izzie had always been like pulling up a familiar cozy blanket, but recently it had started to feel newly constricting, like I shrunk it in the dryer and it felt sort of itchy. (47%)
* “It’s a lot to promise, you know? That you’re gonna be in the same friendship for your whole life.” “We do that romantically though. I mean that’s the basic idea, if you believe in marriage and stuff.” “Yeah, but that feels different,” Vera argued. “You can go into a romantic relationship knowing it can completely combust and leave you wrecked. You basically sign up for that. I feel like friends don’t talk about that happening.” “You promise forever,” I said quietly. (50%)
* “I don’t believe in justice. At least not in the way that it exists now. Because I think justice centers the abuser… how jail time should be longer and the prison facility should be stricter, and in none of these conversations have we talked about what the survivor is doing while they wait for their abuser to be held accountable. The conversation so quickly jumps to justice, but there is a difference between justice and healing.” (92%)
* “Izzie was happy, truly happy, and I was happy for her. I believed she was happy for me too. Or that she would be one day. Because I think the promises that we made to each other were never really about weddings or forevers. They were about a commitment to each other. A commitment to each other’s joy. I think we both believed that joy could not exist without us being together, but we’re old enough now to know otherwise. We’re old enough now to know that joy is not dependent on another person, no matter how much we want it to be. (98%)
This book has me in a slumpppp now because it just felt like found family and it put words to so many of the experiences I've had - it perfectly encapsulates the feelings/vibes of figuring out who you are when you seem to have a "home" self and a "college" self as well as the pain of friend breakups. I loved all the found family and just felt so seen by this book <3
* I didn’t admit to my mom that I had no idea how to be a part of my community, because there seemed to be a whole second step after coming out, and that was finding your people. (23%)
* Talking to Izzie had always been like pulling up a familiar cozy blanket, but recently it had started to feel newly constricting, like I shrunk it in the dryer and it felt sort of itchy. (47%)
* “It’s a lot to promise, you know? That you’re gonna be in the same friendship for your whole life.” “We do that romantically though. I mean that’s the basic idea, if you believe in marriage and stuff.” “Yeah, but that feels different,” Vera argued. “You can go into a romantic relationship knowing it can completely combust and leave you wrecked. You basically sign up for that. I feel like friends don’t talk about that happening.” “You promise forever,” I said quietly. (50%)
* “I don’t believe in justice. At least not in the way that it exists now. Because I think justice centers the abuser… how jail time should be longer and the prison facility should be stricter, and in none of these conversations have we talked about what the survivor is doing while they wait for their abuser to be held accountable. The conversation so quickly jumps to justice, but there is a difference between justice and healing.” (92%)
* “Izzie was happy, truly happy, and I was happy for her. I believed she was happy for me too. Or that she would be one day. Because I think the promises that we made to each other were never really about weddings or forevers. They were about a commitment to each other. A commitment to each other’s joy. I think we both believed that joy could not exist without us being together, but we’re old enough now to know otherwise. We’re old enough now to know that joy is not dependent on another person, no matter how much we want it to be. (98%)
We Spread by Iain Reid
4.0
This was trippy and funky and surprisingly insightful for a horror book (oops I didn't realize it was a horror novel). Some thought-provoking parts about death and the meaning of life. But also it was creepy and I love a good unreliable narrator. I lowkey still feel confused by the ending but I'm always confused by books whoops.
* I have all these records, but I don’t listen to music anymore. At one time, it wasn’t just stuff. It all meant so much to me. All of it. Marrow that has turned to fat.
* I’m starting to lose the intimacy of my memories. Most of my memories have stopped feeling like my own. I don’t believe them wholeheartedly the way I used to, and they don’t carry the same heft they once did.
* “Your paintings change?” “For me, they all do, That’s what I mean by a transfer. At the start, I have an idea for it, my own idea, certain feelings I’m trying to convey, but at some point, it feels like I give away possession of it, or lose it, and then it’s its own thing. I keep seeing it differently.” “The work changes as you change?” “Yes, it does. Truly. I’m different, and so are my paintings each time I see them. It’s an ongoing disruption over time. It’s purely emotional. My perspective changes, and that’s what painting is about. Perspective and ways of seeing. I hope that doesn’t sound too pretentious.”
* I enjoyed each stage of a piece equally. Except finishing. I could never finish. I hated trying to complete a piece. It seemed to final. I used to wonder if they had to be finished at all. “Of course they do,” he said. “You can’t start something new without finishing. You have to learn to make decisions and be ruthless with yourself.” Why couldn’t it always be a work in progress? Why not let it remain forever unfolding? To keep that transfer going. Framing a finished painting on a wall was never my objective.
* “I guess everyone would like more time,” I say. “I might have given a different answer before I got here. But more time would be good now.” I think about what more time would actually mean. For me, Pete, Ruth, Hilbert. More sitting around. More eating. More sleeping. I would get to paint more. But what would the work mean if it was endless? What would a relationship mean if it kept going forever? What would a day be if it didn’t end? More and more and more and more and more. It’s what everyone wants, so she says. “What if time was all you had? Maybe if we had all the time in the world, life would start to feel meaningless. Or worse.
* I never thought about how his desires would wane over time while his traits and mannerisms would intensity. As passions decrease, character is revealed.
* “This lie is one about life, that we need more of it, that we need to be more productive, produce more, that it has to be longer, that death is the enemy. It’s not true. Infinity is a breathtaking mystery, or so I used to believe. Now I know it’s not. Infinity is stagnant. It doesn’t expand. It can’t. It’s just immeasurable. It’s not a mystery, it’s simply endless.
* The tragedy of life isn’t that the ned comes. That’s the gift. Without an end, there’s nothing. THere’s no meaning. Do you see? A moment isn’t a moment. A moment is an eternity. A moment should mean something. It should be everything.
* I have all these records, but I don’t listen to music anymore. At one time, it wasn’t just stuff. It all meant so much to me. All of it. Marrow that has turned to fat.
* I’m starting to lose the intimacy of my memories. Most of my memories have stopped feeling like my own. I don’t believe them wholeheartedly the way I used to, and they don’t carry the same heft they once did.
* “Your paintings change?” “For me, they all do, That’s what I mean by a transfer. At the start, I have an idea for it, my own idea, certain feelings I’m trying to convey, but at some point, it feels like I give away possession of it, or lose it, and then it’s its own thing. I keep seeing it differently.” “The work changes as you change?” “Yes, it does. Truly. I’m different, and so are my paintings each time I see them. It’s an ongoing disruption over time. It’s purely emotional. My perspective changes, and that’s what painting is about. Perspective and ways of seeing. I hope that doesn’t sound too pretentious.”
* I enjoyed each stage of a piece equally. Except finishing. I could never finish. I hated trying to complete a piece. It seemed to final. I used to wonder if they had to be finished at all. “Of course they do,” he said. “You can’t start something new without finishing. You have to learn to make decisions and be ruthless with yourself.” Why couldn’t it always be a work in progress? Why not let it remain forever unfolding? To keep that transfer going. Framing a finished painting on a wall was never my objective.
* “I guess everyone would like more time,” I say. “I might have given a different answer before I got here. But more time would be good now.” I think about what more time would actually mean. For me, Pete, Ruth, Hilbert. More sitting around. More eating. More sleeping. I would get to paint more. But what would the work mean if it was endless? What would a relationship mean if it kept going forever? What would a day be if it didn’t end? More and more and more and more and more. It’s what everyone wants, so she says. “What if time was all you had? Maybe if we had all the time in the world, life would start to feel meaningless. Or worse.
* I never thought about how his desires would wane over time while his traits and mannerisms would intensity. As passions decrease, character is revealed.
* “This lie is one about life, that we need more of it, that we need to be more productive, produce more, that it has to be longer, that death is the enemy. It’s not true. Infinity is a breathtaking mystery, or so I used to believe. Now I know it’s not. Infinity is stagnant. It doesn’t expand. It can’t. It’s just immeasurable. It’s not a mystery, it’s simply endless.
* The tragedy of life isn’t that the ned comes. That’s the gift. Without an end, there’s nothing. THere’s no meaning. Do you see? A moment isn’t a moment. A moment is an eternity. A moment should mean something. It should be everything.
Little Weirds by Jenny Slate
I liked some parts of this book, and others just didn't interest me at all... so I'm not sure how to rate it lol.
- I’m beginning to suspect that I swallowed a rollercoaster and it is lodged between my heart and my stuff. Am I too big or too small or too much or too little? (20%)
- I’m stuck here in a cycle and I am getting older but I am not growing up and my heart is getting soft dark spots on it like a fruit that has gone bad or is soft because too many hands have squeezed it but then put it back down not because I am not ready but because they were not ready for my type of fruity flesh. I felt so ripe and sweet—what was off? The truth is, I was forcing myself into people’s mouths. I jumped out of their hands and into their mouths and I yelled EAT ME way before they even had a chance to get hungry and notice me and lift me up. (22%)
- Who will come into my kitchen and be hungry for me? (27%)
- …This is the pits. The pits are also the seeds. The pit is also a deep place with an actual bottom. You could argue that the bottom of the pit is where you plant the start of the thing that is made to travel to the light. You could prove, if you tried to or wanted to, that the bottom of the pit is of course the start of getting up to the top. (48%)
- I am a wild thing but I wanted a home. I am wild and I want to be that and to belong to the greater group and have everyone know that my wildness is nothing but a bit of my colors and has nothing to do with whether or not I can be trusted. A geranium is a wild thing. It is so wild you can hardly kill it. But it does not take over your house if you put it inside. (74%)
- Sometimes do you ever get jealous of the plants, that they only have to grow and not know about it, and they don’t take anything personally? (83%)
- I’m tired of looking for a place in another. (91%)
Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
4.25
4/4.5 stars
As always, James Baldwin crafts a poetic piece of art. I loved the exploration of faith in this novel, including what it means to be a person of faith and what it means to be a good person (and how those may not always be the same thing). There were definitely parts that went over my head, so I'm glad I have a print copy to go over in the years to come and think about. To me, it was somewhat ambiguous whether it was a critique of faith or an ode to being saved by faith. Honestly, it's probably both. I definitely liked reading from John's perspective and Elizabeth's perspective more so than Gabriel's and Florence's, but none dragged to the point that I couldn't get through.
-At this there sprang into his mother’s face something startling, beautiful, unspeakably sad—as though she were looking far beyond him at a long, dark road, and seeing on that road a traveler in perpetual danger. Was it he, the traveler? or herself? or was she thinking of the cross of Jesus? (14%)
-At length, she lay beside him like a burden laid down at evening which must be piked up once more in the morning. (52%)
-He could not pray. His mind was like the sea itself: troubled, and too deep for the bravest man’s decent, throwing up now and again, for the naked eye to wonder at, treasure and debris long forgotten on the bottom—bones and jewels, fantastic shells, jelly that had once been flesh, pearls that had once been eyes. And he was at the mercy of this sea, hanging there with darkness all around him. (63%)
As always, James Baldwin crafts a poetic piece of art. I loved the exploration of faith in this novel, including what it means to be a person of faith and what it means to be a good person (and how those may not always be the same thing). There were definitely parts that went over my head, so I'm glad I have a print copy to go over in the years to come and think about. To me, it was somewhat ambiguous whether it was a critique of faith or an ode to being saved by faith. Honestly, it's probably both. I definitely liked reading from John's perspective and Elizabeth's perspective more so than Gabriel's and Florence's, but none dragged to the point that I couldn't get through.
-At this there sprang into his mother’s face something startling, beautiful, unspeakably sad—as though she were looking far beyond him at a long, dark road, and seeing on that road a traveler in perpetual danger. Was it he, the traveler? or herself? or was she thinking of the cross of Jesus? (14%)
-At length, she lay beside him like a burden laid down at evening which must be piked up once more in the morning. (52%)
-He could not pray. His mind was like the sea itself: troubled, and too deep for the bravest man’s decent, throwing up now and again, for the naked eye to wonder at, treasure and debris long forgotten on the bottom—bones and jewels, fantastic shells, jelly that had once been flesh, pearls that had once been eyes. And he was at the mercy of this sea, hanging there with darkness all around him. (63%)