|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
my rating |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
||||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
0571125298
| 9780571125296
| 0571125298
| 3.91
| 4,969
| 1982
| Jan 01, 1984
|
really liked it
|
Tom Stoppard’s Tony Award winning play, The Real Thing is a metafictional masterwork that dives into the mess of love, infidelity, and writing to ask
Tom Stoppard’s Tony Award winning play, The Real Thing is a metafictional masterwork that dives into the mess of love, infidelity, and writing to ask us what the titular “real thing” really is? It’s a brilliant title, both evocative and vague as we discover it bleeds into every thematic nook and cranny of the play, particularly as reality begins to be folded into plays within plays. What are the real emotions of the characters, what is “real” love, what is “real” writing, and what is even “real” in an artistic representation of reality? Following two couples—Henry and Charlotte and their cohorts Max and Allie—that eventually fracture into infidelity and flirtatious gambits, The Real Thing is as witty as they come with sharp dialogue, cutting one-liners, and a spiraling artistic presentation where plays within plays rehash reality and point towards imperfections in life being the only “real” thing we can truly trust to be there. [image] Promotional materials for the original staging in 1984 starring Glenn Close as Annie and Jeremy Irons as Henry It has been ages since I’ve read an actual play so I was rather eager for The Real Thing when it became our bookclub choice for August. Having long loved the film adaptation of Stoppard’s play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, I was quite excited to finally approach the highly decorated Czech-born playwright. While The Real Thing is more straightforward and grounded in reality that the more famous counterpart, Stoppard still impresses by knitting together a three dimensional narrative landscape with the needle of metafiction entwining each theme, character, and emotional discourse into a spiral of plays within plays. It is a truly impressive craftsmanship that toys with the reader, dropping you contextless into scenes and letting you piece together what is happening through subtle hints and jokes in the dialogue. I would love to see this brought to life on the stage however it is so full of life already merely printed on the page. Plus it is a quick read that will keep you thinking about it far, far longer than the time it takes to read. ‘Loving and being loved is unliterary. It’s happiness expressed in banality and lust.’ Let's be honest, the characters here are all little shits (okay, I take it back, Debbie is cool, bless her fictional heart). Adultery and arrogance abound and Charlotte critiques Henry for limiting the roles of women in his plays to serve as vessels for the men to fill with their witty soliloquies in service to the playwright’s ego. Exploring infidelity as an avenue to understand love isn’t the most original idea, but it feels rather fresh in the complex context of the play despite also feeling a bit dated considering the time it was written that makes some of the more misogynistic elements of Max and Henry feel far more pronounced (Max, for instance, remarks that one can add ‘little touches that lift adultery out of the moral arena and make it a matter of style’... I’m sorry, what, bruh?) Everyone is fucking everyone and, as Henry muses, it might just be that ‘what free love is free of, is love.’ The play is hyper self-aware in all the best ways and we can see the characters' criticisms of one another as metaphorical representations of Stoppard’s own criticisms of theater, literature, and human nature. Henry, for instance, very much mirrors Stoppard's own life writing for television to pay alimony, being known for strong, witty dialogue, and Henry’s struggles to express his love for Annie in writing reads much like the play as an expression of Stoppard’s own similar struggles. ‘I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you’re dead.’ Stoppard hits some real high notes when the topic of writing comes up, though it also reveals Stoppard’s own professed distaste for progressive politics and political theater. Annie, out of a sense of duty to a soldier who has been imprisoned for a political act of destruction, wishes for Henry to be involved in the soldier’s play. Henry—who delivers one of the funniest insults describing Brodie’s artistic vision as ‘like being run over very slowly by a travelling freak show of favourite simpletons,’ is appalled at Brodie’s lack of “literary” finesse, sparking a heated debate between himself and Annie who feels the passion behind the words matters just as much as the quality of the words themselves, accusing him of being ‘bigoted about what writing is supposed to be like.’ Annie’s critique of this sort of snobbish approach to art is that ‘you judge everything as though everyone starts off from the same place, aiming at the same prize,’ eventually adding ‘screw you and screw English Lit,’ and Henry’s impassioned speeches about honoring words and the characteristics of “real” writing becomes overshadowed by his anxieties about infidelity leading him to accuse Annie of having an affair with Brodie. Love and vulnerability are shown as entryways into improper behavior, anxiety, and insecurities that color our entire worlds. Personally, I find politics to be an important part of art and would side more on the side of Annie’s frustration over Henry’s elitism, though Stoppard gets the last word and does more or less validate Henry (who would make a terrible librarian, just saying). Sure, Henry does have some great points though too, and I do really appreciate his warning against theatrical language that become empty shells of pretty phrases devoid of any truths. ‘Sophistry in a phrase so neat you can’t see the loose end that would unravel it. It’s flawless but wrong. A perfect dud. You can do that with words, bless ‘em.’ Stoppard, who endured being a refugee, fleeing the Nazi occupation of Czechoslovakia to India and eventually residing in England, openly discusses his distrust for leftist politics, particularly Marxism, and finds political theater to be rather disingenuous, which is certainly the case in this play. For context, Stoppard has said in a 2007 interview with Time, that he self-identifies as a ‘timid libertarian’ and has in the past referred to himself as ‘a conservative with a small ‘c’’ and much of that plays out in The Real Thing A quick, witty, and rather wild play on writing, love, and life, The Real Thing was a highly enjoyable read. There are so many great one liners here and Charlotte has some real bangers, such as scolding Henry that ‘lots of men are only good for fetching drinks–why don’t you write about them?’ or saying she had to fake an orgasm to a question about how the previous night went only to be told she was being asked about the play she was in. I would love to see this on stage and I am certainly eager to try reading more plays now. 4.5/5 ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 29, 2025
|
Aug 29, 2025
|
Aug 29, 2025
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
0306846527
| 9780306846526
| 0306846527
| 3.45
| 469
| May 04, 2021
| May 04, 2021
|
really liked it
|
My favorite part of rules is breaking them and here comes Anna Dorn, equipped with a Law Degree and a minor in “not giving” a shit to tell us all how
My favorite part of rules is breaking them and here comes Anna Dorn, equipped with a Law Degree and a minor in “not giving” a shit to tell us all how the rules of the US legal system is less justice and just vibes constantly reconfiguring to benefit the wealthy, the white, and the men. Bad Lawyer, the lawyer-turned-author’s memoir and expose of the legal field puts the whole system on blast with scathing scrutiny. Revealing the inherent rot and corruption of a system specifically designed to serve its own interests and intentionally ensuring others will be trampled underfoot or locked in an endless cycle of debt and desperation, and exposing the misogynistic and other unseemly behaviors of the ‘revolting old men’ insiders from sexual assaults to judges doing online shopping instead of listening to murder testimonies. ‘I’d started to feel that the system was broken beyond repair, and that continued to depress me,’ Dorn writes and eventually left the field to pursue a career in writing and spotlighting the pandering to the privileged and performativeness of the legal system. Luckily for us, Dorn delivers her memoir with with enough sharp wit and dark humor to make the whole enterprise feel like a surrealistic horror show that only a bitter satirist could envision and the memoir reads like a breeze. Bad Lawyer is a satisfying if frightening first-hand look at corrupt power structures and the privilege and perverse patriarchal posturing that enables it and Anna Dorn makes good use of her insider insights in order to cast a scathing spotlight on the whole affair. ‘Law just feels really stuck in another era. Two of my bosses were accused of sexual misconduct. Another boss bought me $500 worth of makeup and said I had to wear it if I wanted to be taken seriously…At Berkeley Law, they circulated a leaflet about appropriate interview attire that said curly hair was ‘unacceptable’; women had to straighten their hair, and the only acceptable jewelry was a pearl necklace. In Virginia, there’s a strict dress code to take the bar. You have to wear a skirt suit and heels — just to take the test!’ Anna Dorn assures us that her earning the title of Bad Lawyer has nothing to do with any lack of competence or insight into navigating the legal rules and regulations but quite simply a lack of any fucks to give about those rules. Which I can truly respect. Especially when the realization strikes that those rules mostly only serve as a barrier to anyone not already fixed in an elite circle. Not that Dorn isn’t self aware that her own privileges allowed her access to this world and she openly admits to being ‘an overprivileged blonde lesbian addicted to collecting degrees,’ though despite having felt the constraints of golden handcuff guiding her into the legal field fully paid for, it is exactly this financial security that allows her to be able to reject the system and critique it instead. She acknowledges how the cycle of debt and duty keeps people locked in even against their own moral convictions because they, too, have to survive. ‘People in my class wanted to save the environment, find housing for the homeless, and provide fair, adequate representation for people with disabilities or those seeking US citizenship. But, for the most part, they all moved on to associate positions in Big Law, defending major corporations accused of poisoning children and things like that. I do not fault them for this. You cannot pay off a $200K debt if your clients are homeless.’ Dorn spends a good deal of time with self-effacing humor that really keeps the story light and endears you to her. It’s very in keeping with the tone of her novels seeing her own life story also opens avenues of insight into other works in fascinating ways. She’s the sort of person who must bend everything towards a sardonic joke and I respect that. ‘My favorite thing about being at Berkeley Law was telling people that I was at Berkeley Law,’ she quips, for instance, ‘no matter how messy my hair was or how socially bizarre I acted, people assumed I had my shit together.’ That facade, however, extends to the entire legal system which, under Dorn’s gaze, is revealed to be mere smoke and mirrors pantomiming justice while the actual mechanisms of law gnashes up society and enforces racial inequities through rather blatant bias. ‘I saw the way the judges favored educated white people who spoke the way lawyers are taught to speak’ Dorn writes, ‘whenever a witness revealed a poor grasp of white English, the judge tended to find him or her less credible. I don’t think they were aware they were doing it, but it was painfully obvious as an outsider.’ Her admission that the judges and lawyers were likely unaware of their biases and behaviors only makes it all the more damning that they have successfully spun even open racism into a back-pat and paycheck for legal services. Dorn really leans into the human element here as well. Sure, there is a lot about her own writing—which I loved and while, sure, I’ve seen the critiques of it as being rather self-serving but I did quite literally pick this up to hear Anna Dorn insights and having read one of her novels alongside this made her thoughts on writing all the more engaging for me. Many of her literary themes are explored in the memoir as well, from the absurdity of life, championing the tenets of feminism in real-world applications, and transforming systemic suffering into a humorously poignant discourse. She also humanizes the defendants that she serves, reminding us that systemic social conditions are holding them down and leaving them with little opportunity to walk the “straight and narrow” paths of “legal” living. She shows how these are people trapped in a system designed to keep them from climbing out while juggling poverty, generational trauma, addiction or recovery, depression, and the crushing weight of the legal process in general. These are people, she tells us, that ‘didn't stand a chance of being functional, law-abiding members of society,’ and are being held to standards their livelihoods simply don’t have the headroom for. It’s all part of how society hurts the already hurting and then steers social opinion and language to demonize them and act as a buffer against empathy from those who would help. ‘I’ve seen prosecutors lie and file briefs so lazy their reasoning is, ‘The defendant is guilty because he is not innocent…I’ve seen judges sipping on bourbon in chambers and perusing auctions on eBay instead of listening to homicide testimony.’ Anna Dorn’s Bad Lawyer is a fascinating and funny as it is existentially damning and socially horrifying. A cutting critique of the legal system and all the inequities, bigotry, toxic masculinity, and self-serving that goes on within to ensure the gates are locked to outsiders. Dorn has such a delightful way with words and a rich humor that made this hard to put down and wow do I love me some Anna Dorn right now. Highly recommended. 4.5/5 ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 28, 2025
|
Aug 28, 2025
|
Aug 28, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
1951213483
| 9781951213480
| 1951213483
| 3.75
| 3,713
| Jun 07, 2022
| Jun 07, 2022
|
None
|
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 26, 2025
|
not set
|
Aug 26, 2025
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||||
163542528X
| 9781635425284
| 163542528X
| 3.44
| 277
| Mar 18, 2025
| Mar 18, 2025
|
None
|
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 21, 2025
|
not set
|
Aug 21, 2025
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||||
B0FPSNX8QM
| 4.34
| 512,727
| Jun 03, 2025
| Jun 03, 2025
|
really liked it
|
To gaze up at the great canvas of cosmic light, to ‘let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes,’ as Walt Whitman wrote, is a poi
To gaze up at the great canvas of cosmic light, to ‘let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes,’ as Walt Whitman wrote, is a poignant moment that can wash over you with the night breeze and leave you feeling miniscule in the face of such immensity. It can be calming to bathe in its brilliance and marvel at how in all this vastness there is the vastness of love. Though love can mean the whole world, its absence can echo with the enormity of the universe. When the aches of the heart cry out, the works of Taylor Jenkins Reid tend to be a soothing savoir and in Atmosphere we find love writ large across the vast distance of space. An adventurous slow-burn of a novel that sets the heart ablaze like a spacecraft reentering the atmosphere, this is an epic tale of queer love carving its initials into the immortality of history as we follow Joan Goodwin reach for her dreams amongst the stars as one of NASA’s first women scientists aboard the space shuttle program. Deftly maneuvering between timelines and through both the trials and troubles of Joan’s life and the life or death decisions of space flight, Reid engagingly illuminates each emotional moment to tell a story as hopeful as it is heartbreaking. It’s a book you’ll never want to put down. Fighting to flourish in a space unwelcoming to women, and forging an identity and connections in a society where one must hide their “true self”, Atmosphere is about bravely daring to go to places unexplored and champions the resilience of those who boldly leave the Earth behind for something far greater and it is journey to the stars and heart you won’t regret. ‘If we leave the planet, we carry that with us into every room we enter for the rest of our lives.’ ‘To look up at the nighttime sky,’ writes Reid, ‘is to become a part of a long line of people throughout human history who looked above at that same set of stars.’ This yearning and wonderment for the stars often feels like something that makes us human, something we share stretching back through all the generations. ‘It is to witness time unfolding.’ Growing up with the spectacle of space travel as a favorite subject, I was thrilled to dive into Reid tackle a historical fiction about NASA in her signature heartrenching tales of love and struggle. As I personally struggle with notions of love and heartache, Atmosphere was like a soothing balm for my soul and it was a pleasure to get lost in Reid’s fine fiction. This book really has a lot to offer and Reid succeeds at balancing all the elements for the most part. Granted there were moments when the romance tends to eat the scenery of the historical aspects however, to her credit, Reid makes them so interesting and engaging you simply don’t want to drift from them. Still, aspects on identity from professional to romantic and familial roles, are well explored and strum all the heartstrings like Bowie on the bridge notes in Space Oddity (which features in the novel and Reid’s accompanying PLAYLIST ). With a rather dynamic cast of characters and a slew of life’s ups and downs for them to trip upon, Atmosphere may certainly be regarded as Reid’s most impressive work to date. ‘Bravery is being unafraid of something other people are afraid of. Courage is being afraid, but strong enough to do it anyway.’ Space is cool and all but, let’s be real, space is also kind of scarry. Like hell yea, strap me in and shoot me off into the stars and all but also like, you know you’re going to be nervous too. How can you not be. Bravery comes swinging on every page of this book and Jane and engineer Vanessa Ford are wonderfully written and empowering portraits of bravery. Reid, who excels at delving into avenues of history with an eye for all the oppressions presented by patriarchy for the women present, does well by exploring the theme of women in an up-hill battle against the barriers of fields dominated by men by situating it in the awe-inspiring atmosphere of the ultimate STEM field: NASA and astronaut training. Which you know you’ve always wanted to try, come on. LETS GO (so scarry). It’s a treacherous landscape of life to traverse, where ‘happiness is so hard to come by’ and we truly feel how ‘being human was such a lonely endeavor,’ but Reid offers the hope of the light of love brightening our horizons and the glorious dawns afforded by bravery in the face of oppression, fears, loss, and even death. This book kicks ass. ‘Just the act of falling in love was to agree to a broken heart.’ Just prior to publication, Taylor Jenkins Reid went on record about her identity during an interview with Time saying ‘it has been hard at times to see people dismiss me as a straight woman, but I also didn’t tell them the whole story.’ Opening up about her sexuality (shoutout to my bisexuals!) became an aspect up the novel, she explained, with being able to present queer love (in spaaaaaaaace) on the page being a laboratory for analyzing herself. The result is nothing short of heartwarming and utterly adorable because I quite love the love story here and I love me some love even if I’ve been really struggling with love and this book was exactly what I needed. Seriously, this is such a feel good book. It’s like injecting the sun into your ass or something without the addictive qualities that come with the usual methods. And the ending. I loved this. ‘You make my life worth something.’ Atmosphere is one hell of an emotional and educational adventure and it is more than worth the price of admission. Plus, you get a cool PLAYLIST that, of course, has some Fleetwood Mac on it because the ache and joy of Daisy Jones & the Sixes plays on. While I may still prefer Daisy to the present novel, this stands strong and proud beside it and will likely garner Reid more attention and new readers. They are the lucky ones getting to experience her books for the first time and I know that was a surprise for me how much I’ve really enjoyed all I’ve read. I will be eagerly awaiting another. 4/5 ‘Do you understand that I don’t care how big or small this world is, that you are the center of mine? Do you understand that, to someone, you are everything that matters on this entire planet?’ ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 19, 2025
|
Aug 19, 2025
|
Aug 19, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||||
1648210643
| 9781648210648
| 1648210643
| 3.41
| 265
| Sep 10, 2024
| Sep 10, 2024
|
really liked it
|
‘But we’re all guilty, you know.’ In the world of self-proclaimed influencers and social media metric mining no scandal ever goes to waste. The spicier ‘But we’re all guilty, you know.’ In the world of self-proclaimed influencers and social media metric mining no scandal ever goes to waste. The spicier the better to drive engagement. And so poet Emmalea Russo’s debut novel, Vivienne, finds social media kicking up the dust of a little-remembered but deadly tale from art history as we are plunged into a spiraling vortex of comment feeds and the anxious mind of the family at the heart of a reinvigorated controversy. Channeling familiar scandals of Surrealist artist lives from affairs to extensive age gaps and latching the narrative backdrop to a fictionalized version of German surrealist Hans Bellmer, Russo delivers an innovative and incisive look at how poking old wounds often opens fresh ones. Especially when arm-chair comment warriors are primed are ready to start a hashtag trending and the question whether Vivienne Volker was connected to any foul play in the decades old death of Wilma Lang who took her life out through a window. Formally daring and endlessly gripping—I finished this in under 24 hours in rapt attention—Vivienne is a promising debut despite a misfire of an ending that completely cuts the legs of flow and tension right out from under itself. Still, Russo’s vision and thematic social critiques are as sharp as her prose and Vivienne is a fascinating foray into the frictions around legacy, generational trauma, muse culture, communal dynamics of discourse and the moral theater of social media driven by a desire for engagement clicks over earnest criticism. ‘What is the difference between an artist and a killer? Lars wonders aloud as he swivels. Must be something about the soul? Fabric, and plastic, flesh and bone.’ Emmalea Russo began publishing as a poet several years back and her poetic sensibilities truly shine here in Vivienne, her debut novel. Russo places the reader directly in the eye of the social media storm, spiraling through the inner voices of three generations of women—Viv, her daughter Velour, and granddaughter Vesta—and of Lar’s, who is ‘soaring high high high on the demented sewn wings of Vivienne Volker,’ in order to bring attention to his art gallery capitalizing on the buzz over ‘a name he heard for the first time only recently.’ Though the most compelling voice is that of social media doomscrolling, complete with rather humorous screennames like “fornicationstaion”, “obitchuary,” or “thotleader11” (and some subtle hints that there may be a bit of puppetry at work to the discourse) that drive a discourse that gets Viv removed from a prominent gallery showing and fuels conspiracy theories. At the heart of this novel are the dynamics of mass communication on platforms where negative or mean spirited content boosts engagement and social media functions not unlike a Greek chorus or barometer on the Vivianne situation. There is a much more focused intent on social media dynamics than novels with similar approaches such as the recent book Yellowface by R.F. Kuang (which, arguably, was still a more effective look at situations such as this from a broader perspective though had a different aim) and Russo does well by having these segments feed into a larger theme on art imitating life yet life being driven by art. ‘I think art is the absence of fear.’ Erykah Badu Vivienne is a novel about art pushing boundaries and Russo ensures her own art aims to do the same. While the novel follows a fictional scandal, it is rooted in actual history by being tangentially grounded in the art of real-life Hans Bellmer. While Bellmer was never married to a Wilma and no Vivienne came crashing into their lives, one can detect inspiration from his real-life wife, Unica Zürn, who plunged to her death from an open window during a 5 day release from a mental hospital after Bellmer was already paralyzed from a stroke. [image] Bellmer’s The Machine-Gunneress in a State of Grace (1937) which figures prominently into the novel ‘I’m interested in his strange, discombobulated doll sculptures,’ Russo stated in an interview with The Creative Independent, ‘I’m also very interested in the uncanny, so the notion that this real artist would be in the book, but also that he would have this alternative existence felt appropriate.’ The novel, which creates a fictional reality of lesser-known surrealists, incorporates much from the art world, such as frequent allusions to Dorothea Tanning among others. With a character in the peripheries named Max Furio and all the age-gaps and affair scandals, readers familiar with Max Ernst and his multiple artist lovers such as Tanning, Peggy Guggenheim, and my favorite, Leonora Carrington who was significantly younger than him like every relationship in this novel, will likely find some amusement seeing Russo stir fact and fiction together to paint her narrative canvas. [image] Dorothea Tanning’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (“A Little Night Music”) and the song of the same name appear frequently in the novel. Perhaps Russo’s greatest strength here is her writing, which injects plenty of tension and intrigue into what would otherwise be a fairly stiff and cold novel as well as illuminates the story with rather dynamic imagery. Many of the scenes come together like a painting, each word another brushstroke that builds into really visceral moments felt more deeply by the vague surrealist bent of the imagery. There is a real attention to how the scene would be seen by the “viewer” as her words amalgamate like ‘ little pixels of nature and rapture.’ All in all, it affects a rather gorgeous visual nature: ‘Lars plays the video again from the beginning. Exhausted, he thinks of his mother, gone. And his father uptown. And his dad’s cash (largely gone) which had backed Gallery X. The ocean is gone. The garments are gone. The giant sewing needle and pubic hair and bird wings and wallpaper, gone gone gone. Just the white cube of an empty art room and Lars in the middle, dressed in all back: shirt, jacket, and combat boots.’ The writing here reminds me of what author Amina Cain champions in her book on writing, A Horse at Night in which she extolls the virtues of visual imagery that can carry loads of resonance along with it, the sort that demonstrates how ‘an impression can be just as important as meaning.’ Vivienne is at its best when it allows the imagery to slide into the absurd or surreal, though when the novel takes a big shift into an absurdity at the end which, despite retaining themes on agency, creation, and legacy, feels too much of a surprise shift that would have worked better as its own story and, truthfully, really soured an ending that was more of less perfect as it was. Russo trusts her readers and while she may not tie up loose ends, there are a lot of minor details pointing towards something greater. Like who really is posting these retrospective video compilations on the artist and who is really behind these screennames? There is a mystery hanging over every page that really keeps you pushing on to see where it all leads. ‘Lars could become the glowing representative of the Bellmer-Volker clan, delivering their hidden genius to the world, piece by piece, show by show, forevermore.’ Russo also excels at creating a cast of characters who are interesting to follow even if you don’t necessarily like them. The titular artist is a big of an oddball and much of the mystery is in decoding her. Now 82 with a 40 year old garbage truck driving boyfriend, she has given up on the art world to mostly spend time in church or with her granddaughter who goes to bed every night praying ‘let no one die anytime soon, let there be no bad news.’ The recent cancellation has forced her to revisit old hurts and the volatility of such soul searching is felt on every page as both the reader and the characters find themselves navigating a field where they are ‘trapped in the space between things and words which only continues to widen.’ Though the idea of “cancel culture” is a familiar battleground for Russo who once had a poetry book publication canceled by her publisher. Not for anything she had done or said but for having published articles in Compact Magazine, an association for which she was deemed a work hazard due to issues around other writers who had published in the magazine. Russo took to her own Substackto discuss the issue following her removal: ‘I’d chosen to publish alongside people whose views he took to be “anti-liberatory.” Guilt by association. There is, of course, a long history of men punishing women for stepping out of line or being hard to read, but ordinary misogyny aside, Baudrillard and Byung-Chul Han were right: we surveil and punish each other under the guise of liberation and safety, thus doing the state’s work for it. It’s freaky, tricky. And it does make me scared for many things, including poetry.’ The novel is an incisive look at the ways our lives can be at the mercy of social media discourse, always quick to call foul, and how careers and lives can be dashed upon the rocks of such discourse. The real horror here, however, is that such scandals may flare up due to ulterior motives that use claims of ‘harm reduction’ as the mask under which they operate. ‘It was hard work, Vivianne concluded, being a muse.’ Emmalea Russo’s Vivianne is a rather exciting and engaging novel that, despite a rather dramatically disappointing epilogue, made for an enjoyable read nonetheless. There is a slow-burn horror element always in the periphery of the novel, like a nocturnal sound you can’t quite hear and can’t quite place but stick like a thorn in the mind you cannot ignore. The unsettling dolls in the basement, the surreal threads that never come to a fully-conclusive head, the open violence or religious condemnations of comments sections that also hint to sinister collaboration or social engineering amongst participants. But the real horror is the ways we see lives manipulated by social media and the blurring line between art and life in which people operate to pile on to scandal. A bummer of an ending but a rather fun book altogether, Vivienne is one hell of an early promise debut and I cannot wait for Russo’s next novel. 3.5/5 ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 12, 2025
|
Aug 12, 2025
|
Aug 12, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
B000JMKWWA
| 4.07
| 66,760
| 1883
| May 17, 2012
|
OH HE SLAYETH
|
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
not set
|
Aug 11, 2025
|
Kindle Edition
| ||||||||||||||||||
1951142659
| 9781951142650
| 1951142659
| 3.37
| 363
| Aug 10, 2021
| Aug 10, 2021
|
it was amazing
|
I’m basically a crow. Make the light dance across your book cover with shiny, reflective foil and you have my attention. Add Melissa Broder’s name to
I’m basically a crow. Make the light dance across your book cover with shiny, reflective foil and you have my attention. Add Melissa Broder’s name to the cover and you have my credit card swiping recklessly. Again. Nary any buyers remorse from me however because Superdoom, a selection of poems gathered across the three chapbooks that garnered Broder her early cult following as well as highlights from her 2016 full-length collection, Last Sext, is a wild, weird, and whimsically wonderful ride. ‘Yes I think I am having a human experience,’ Broder quips and I have certainly had quite the human experience through the course of reading this collection. I love books that become a companion of sorts and Superdoom has gotten quite the mileage with me this summer as I’ve been on a rotation of couches and living out of a backpack. Which, I all things considered, peak poetry for such tumultuous times and the sardonic surrealism and self-depricating laugh lines harmonized so sweetly with my heart. Broder probes the anxieties of both the exterior and interior lives we traverse. employing dark humor and evocative (and often grotesque) imagery and wordplay that light up the page like a fireworks display. What I’m floundering to say is that Superdoom blew my mind and it's so explosively good you might lose some fingers apparently. There is a darkness wild and raw to the heart of things here illuminated through rich humor and a derisive self-help approach that takes the world in its teeth and shows it to us in misshapen and metaphorical caricature boarding on a sense of surrealism that manages to transcend even the most daring of Broder’s wordsmithery. ‘Worship light and in doing so transform,’ as Broder writes in Growing Loser’, but adding ‘don’t ask me how,’ in her rather signature quirky blitheness across heavier themes of sex, death, god, and filling the many holes in our lives and Superdoom: Selected Poems makes for a punchy, unforgettable adventure of the soul. Hope This Helps We need a loving grown-up to give us advice and that loving grown-up is the universe. Who wants to go to the universe for help? You can’t touch the universe or kiss its mouth or stick your fingers in its mouth though sometimes the universe works horizontally through people and I like that. My friend channeled the universe when he said I was milk. My friend said I was born milk but then grown-ups poured in lemon juice which makes sense because I’ve always felt like rotten cottage cheese and I’ve been running around the planet like I don’t want to be this when in fact I am milk and was always milk and will always be milk. I don’t think this is a story about blaming grown-ups for the ways we are ruined. I think this is a story about knowing what we are up against mostly ourselves and what our essential consistency is which in my case is milk and in your case is milk you are milk you are milk you are so milk. Raise a round to milk, friends, this poem has been living rent free in my heart all summer long blaring its television, stomping on the floors, smoking out the kitchen window, and I love it all the more for it. Now before I start lauding this collection with phrases like “cerebral sublimity” or “pants-shittingly awesome”—which, to be clear, it is—I will admit that upon starting I wasn’t sure if I vibed with it. It registers as fairly caustic at first glance, flipping through and realizing every poem was so abstract but once you find the groove it opens up to incredible degrees of greatness. This won’t be one for everyone but ‘the stars don't give a shit’ and neither does Broder (and good for her). However, upon wading into the work and allowing it to seep into my soul, I realized this was exactly what I vibed with and paired so well with my recent interests in reading about surrealist artists such as Leonora Carrington and Remedios Varo. The spirit of her poems feel tangential to surrealist artistic ideology, channeling a dark whimsicality of imagination with dreamlike internal logic and imagery to give voice to the abstractions of emotions, allowing the amalgamation of fantastical expressions to produce emotions and deliver insights in ways that are elusive and nearly intangible yet felt more deeply and resonating into the more metaphysical caverns of our hearts and minds. Like going within yourself and finding something new where you’ve been all along, or as Broder writes: I went under my skin Which was my old skin And under the skin of my soul Which was an old soul Though new to me There was so much silence I was surprised to like it It’s an expression of the same old world but in fresh ways that remain rather intangible, like god was showing me / the code through a prism and sticks in our mind because we can understand it but never fully decode it. I’m reminded of poet Joseph Ceravolo’s collection The Green Wake is Awake where poems such as The Book of Wildflowers deliver lines devoid of grammatical cohesion yet can still make the intended emotional resonance strongly received and felt, such as a line I’ve long loved ‘I can’t live blossoming drunk / this story of climbed up / be world to any apples! / be anxiously!.’ Similarly, I’ve been reading this alongside On Homo rodans and Other Writings, a collection of Remedios Varo’s journals of automatic writings and other surrealist writing exercises, program notes, and, most relevant here, prose-poem commentaries on her paintings which walk through a paintings imagery rather adjacent to the way Broder walks us through her imagination. Which is all to say that once I caught the hook of Broder’s poetic aim she reeled me in like a deep sea fisherman pulling a marlin from the ocean of the physical world into her magical linguistic kingdom. If you approach the title poem like a surrealist painting, the stanzas a canvas where words are pigments applied by the brushstrokes of lines, it really reveals itself to you. Superdoom There are 200 flavors of panic., The worst is seeing with no eyes. Cowboys call it riding your feelings. I call it SUPERDOOM. On April 5th I was 98% alive. I saw my blood sugar at the mall And spilled into a hall of numb light. The earth kept coming and coming. Every human was a baby Puncturing my vehicle. I tried to stuff a TV In the hole where prayer grows. A salesman prescribed zen. I said How long have you been alive? He said Six minutes. Admittedly during the first week or so reading this I would send samples to poet friends who’s opinions I really value questioning it it was good, if it was eye rolling, or if it was great precisely because it played with being vaguely eye rolling in the best ways. I think I fall upon the final sentiment, but I mean that in a loving and positive way. And so many of these poems have just immediately embedded themselves into my heart, such as De Forest Station which I must have read a dozen times during July and was the first poem to speak to me (and by speak I mean it grabbed me by the shoulders and loudly sang directly into my face like Björk having a panic attack): De Forest Station She was built with forest brain so she would learn to say I know nothing about forests. It is the geniusest thing a treehead girl can say this I know nothing. She tried to be a DDTberry. She tried killsyrups. She did not think another treehead girl would ever come but here they are with matching forests. Now there are two. A map might be made. Come canopy you DDTberry killsyrup treeheads. Let's action the kind word tongue to tree. Let us fertilize root and branch. Let us make map us and learn to say help me. Help me help me help me until we go fallow clean to our unearthliness. Let us say help me until the cackle crows are stilled. Help me help me help me help me help me help me. It is the heroist thing a treehead girl can say. There really is no good way to put into language how this collection makes me feel because it already exists in its most perfect and paired down linguistic form and once it takes root in your mind it begins to grow into you in a rather transformative symbiotic relationship of reader and reading. ‘I don't know how I came up with the words "forest brain" and "treehead" for the protagonist,’ Broder admits in a short discussion on De Forest Station in Poetry Society of America, ‘They felt like the right way to describe a human being who has a mind that is constantly in motion, growing. She suffers for it. A forest is beautiful and natural, but if it's growing in your brain it can feel like weeds.’ Much like the alleviation of grief from companionship in the poem, the reader may find solace in these poems when Broder hits on existential anxieties we didn’t realize we had until she gives them words and, in doing so, shows us we are not alone and can share the map. As she say, this collection ‘explores learning to live somewhat peacefully in the body through the help of a map…but only if you share it with others.’ I find this fits nicely in the spirit of the collection, as it is a collaborative search where poems become a map pointing towards a conclusivity that remains fugitive and shrouded in mystery on the horizon. While this evasive quality may be off-putting to some, I find it is precisely this element that makes them hit so strongly and affords them a real universality. Broder speaks to this in an interview with Lit Hub: ‘One thing I really love about poetry is the room for the mystery, the room for the braid or the weave or the unknowing. Certitude seems very trendy to me nowadays…And what I love about poetry is that it’s a realm for not knowing. The experience of writing a poem can leave us with a question. It’s the Rilke thing: learn to love the questions. It was really freeing when it dawned on me that poetry doesn’t need to be understood, it needs to be experienced. There are different ways we understand things. We don’t just understand intellectually. We also understand with our heart or we can understand through desire; there are probably infinite ways of understanding things. What I love about poetry is that you’re not forced to come to an intellectual resolution.’ Perhaps this is merely the poet version of the old maxim that “it’s not the destination that matters but the journey to get there” but that doesn’t make it any less true and directs us towards the comfort of art. While Broder warns ‘you shouldn’t just fill one space / with the unclarity of another,’ its not that the poems aren’t clear its just that they are meant to embody the seeking that makes them stick. In Want of Rescue From the Real My mindfriends went They offed themselves I made new mindfriends fast and wet But they kept dying dry Fantasies die so dry Still I held on Because the real is arctic And I am without womb And the car of inner Earth Will ash my bones sometimes Then they all began to die Before they even breathed And I could see their corpses Before I saw their eyes And a thousand past-life deaths Tore the mask off my mind And I am scared of death And I am scared of life There is such a refreshing poetic sensibility to this collection that embraces the weird and makes such vibrant imagery with it that defies tangibility. ‘I lap your milk of illness up It nurtures my dying,’ she writes, finds dynamic imagery such as ‘there were bats / in my ribcage and I didn’t even know / Behind them my soul was snowing,’ or, in Dust Moan, writes ‘I am in the wrong love or on the wrong planet….Can people tell how mirage I am. It's abstract, embodying her notion that ‘you are art and you are not art,’ and the act of reading is also the act of becoming part of the art. Its provocative, it digs deep, and it often channels the grotesque. ‘The women have not stopped crying / throughout history,’ she tells us, and much of the reason is that the men have not stopped crying about what is “respectable” or “art” for women to discuss. Broder says fuck them, say some gross shit. Embrace sexuality. Embrace the weird, the wild, the raw, the uncomfortable, grab life by the throat and tear it open for a proper visceral experience. Its how we learn what's inside life, how we see what blood flows through its veins. As Broder writes: My pussy tastes like rain to you I will not make this a romantic poem Poems are made of mistakes Poems about poetry are mistakes I look to mistakes and say am I ok? I look to mistakes and say make me ok. I love this notion about how we learn from mistakes and can think of art as a form of making mistakes in order to learn from them. Her statement that ‘poems about poetry are mistakes’ is more about embracing that aspect than a boycott on poems about poetry, particularly as one of my favorites in the collection (originally from Meat Heart) is about just that: Today I Will Be a Benevolent Narrator My little paper people I am going to love you Thought I do not yet love myself I ask god for help I say god, you old stuffed potato These characters need a yellow kitchen These characters need a hot dinner Help me help them Pull my strings And I’ll even join them at the table Maybe you will join us too? Someone else Can pull your strings You are tired You must be so tired Let’s be happy peasants together. Sure, perhaps the provocative does rely a bit on the grit and shock aspect—lines like ‘Thirsty for milk and humping / god’s knee till god feels like a doll / passed from suffering person / to suffering person’ is a great like that nobody is injecting into their soul and just like…feeling numb towards—but it is done with care and humor and never feels edgelordy or reliant on the shock approach. It’s also just characteristic of her style that also works so effectively in her novels. Broder addresses this in the book’s introduction: ’The same psychospiritual and mythopoetic themes that inspire my prose writing. We write our obsessions, and mine seem to be — in these poems and now in prose — sex, death, consumption, god, spiritual longing, earthly longing, and holes.’ Holes indeed, and ‘Humans / are always waiting for / something to stuff our / holes’ she writes in Varieties of Religious Experience. Though the focus is less the existential and sexual holes we contain or encounter but what we use to fill them. ‘Dig out my third eye,’ she writes in Moon Violence, ‘the hole I fill with sickness this time / Every time / This is what I do with love.’ We are left to wonder what we fill our own holes with–is it consumerism, religion, family, sports, art, reading, or something else? And in understanding our holes we can hopefully become more whole. I ate the world and I ate the world. It tasted like a bandage’ —from Haul Melissa Broder’s Superdoom is a super collection of poems that encourages and rewards multiple readings. Everything she touches is gold and I can’t wait to read more from her, especially as reading this feels like a shared experience with the speaker. It may not appeal to everyone and it may take a moment to find your route in, but once you are this is a wild, enlightening ride and has made a perfect summer companion for me. Because sharing experience is what holds strongest so, in the words of Broder, together ‘Lets corpse.’ Allllllright. 5/5 Light Control I have never been inside myself Another place wants me dead It is built in a ring around my core Like asking a donut how to live It can only cry and be eaten Don't you see Angels have tried to help me And I smiled for them Feeling genuinely good and kind Then after a while I got tired Of being on good behavior They never asked for perfection But I felt I needed to perform And the smile stayed no matter what I did Even when dying improperly I left everyone I knew in the other room But I picked them back up again Teach me to die teach me to die I want to create a beautiful dying The end will need to be dark and soft Like walking home to your real mother ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Aug 08, 2025
|
Aug 08, 2025
|
Aug 08, 2025
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
1539605787
| 9781539605782
| 1539605787
| 4.07
| 87,458
| Nov 1846
| Oct 19, 2016
|
it was amazing
|
[image]
An absolute banger of a story where Poe cranks dials blazing on the Unreliable Narrator motif all the way to 11. Walls close in around us a [image] An absolute banger of a story where Poe cranks dials blazing on the Unreliable Narrator motif all the way to 11. Walls close in around us and Montressor, metaphorically and quite literally for the latter, as we begin to realize our narrator is not all he claims to be. Hard pressed I'd say this is easily in my top 3 all-time favorite short stories. In Cask we have the reversal of fortunes between the aptly named Fortunato and our narrator, Montressor. I love this story, it starts off playing on Fortunato’s ego and proceeds through a lot of humorous moments of Montressor toying with him giving clues along the way like foreshadowing of the deeds to come. I mean, he literally shows him the tool with which he will wall Fortunato up with claiming to be a Mason and he says his family crest is a heel crushing a snake that is biting the heel. When Fortunato asks his family motto he replies ‘Nemo me impune lacessit’ (no one attacks me with impunity) to which Fortunato responds ‘good!’ This is such pure gold that cartoon pirates are probably searching for it right now. But the crest is so symbolic of them as a sort of intertwined double, together in injury. While one could say Montressor is the foot stomping out the serpent that bit him, I suggest it is the opposite: the foot as the unwitting beast totally unaware it had stepped upon the serpent until too late when the poisoned fangs have already sunk in. This seems supported in the text as Fortunato seems to only casually know who Montressor is, leading you to question the ‘thousand injuries’ he has supposedly inflicted and if they were an act of malice as Montressor seems to claim or simply collateral damage. The mirroring is mocked as the pair both howl at one another, Montressor repeating his final words ‘for the love of God’ back to him. And we have catacombs in Cask very much serving the Gothic trope where mysterious passageways and hidden chambers build unease around the idea of enclosed spaces as the claustrophobia of death comes circling in around you. I most love how—in this and many of his other stories—Poe is always addressing you, the reader. In lines such as ‘You, who so well know the nature of my soul,’ he makes us complicit but also implies that we, too, are capable of dark deeds. The monster is already in us, and he is poking it with his stick. And this story is calling for you to read it from somewhere deep down in the the chambers of your mortal heart... ‘I had walled the monster up within the tomb!’ ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
not set
|
Aug 05, 2025
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
0300211600
| 9780300211603
| 0300211600
| 4.20
| 55
| Mar 10, 2015
| Apr 07, 2015
|
it was amazing
|
I’ve never thought of myself as a person who puts much stock in hometown pride, but since having moved away any time Detroit comes up on tv or in a bo
I’ve never thought of myself as a person who puts much stock in hometown pride, but since having moved away any time Detroit comes up on tv or in a book or just offhandedly in conversation I am suddenly all “HELL YEA DEEEEE-TROOOOIT!” I’m sorry, but I do love me some Detroit. Especially because growing up going into Detroit meant the yearly field trip to the Detroit Institute of Arts (which was voted best US museum in 2023 I’ll have you know, shoutout Detroit) where the early sparks of my love for art were cultivated. And if there’s something to be proud about in Detroit, the fact that Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo stayed there for some time as Rivera completed the enormous frescos that are at the heart of the museum and depict the Detroit auto-industry is a pretty cool thing to be proud of. And, like many growing up just outside the city, my father worked for Ford Motor Company and was a proud union member so a Diego Rivera mural to his livelihood was something we took as a practically sacrosanct. For my birthday this year I was headed to Detroit to go see Bob Dylan live in concert but I couldn’t go back home without making a pilgrimage to see the Diego Rivera murals at the DIA. Especially because I’ve spent the past few months slowly reading through Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo in Detroit, and incredible account of the artist duo’s time and works in the city complied by Mark Rosenthal to be released by the DIA along with their 2015 Frida and Diego exhibit. This is such a marvelous book that, with its cloth cover and full page photos on quality matte paper, is practically a work of art itself. And it is just bursting with fascinating history, artworks, and a deep love for the city who’s skyline is forever projected onto my heart: Detroit. [image] Photo of the mural from my recent visit [image] Rivera’s sketch of the fresco Detroit became a catalyst for big change with both Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, being their home base from 1932-33 as Rivera completed the murals. Commissioned by DIA director Wilhelm Valentiner and Ford Motor Company president Edsel Ford, the murals were to represent the spirit of Detroit industry and the growing technology of the future in union with humanity. Diego Rivera quickly fell in love with Detroit (how could you not?), fascinated by the auto plants such as the Ford River Rouge plant and found the mass scale of production to be rather inspiring. [image] Diego and Frida at the DIA, 1932 Frida, on the other hand, did not enjoy Detroit and spent much time travelling back and forth to NYC and, eventually, returning to Mexico with the death of her mother. She also had a miscarriage on July 4th, 1932 at Henry Ford Hospital and would paint one of her most memorable artworks in response, titled Henry Ford Hospital: [image] Frida arrived in Detroit still a rather burgeoning artist much in the shadow of her husband (which like, it’s a huge bummer to have learned he was rather abusive, admitting it himself saying “If I ever loved a woman, the more I loved her, the more I wanted to hurt her. Frida was only the most obvious victim of this disgusting trait” which, ugh so tragic) but the tumultuous year became a huge period of channeling pain into growth. Her painting Self Portrait Along the Border Line Between Mexico and the United States was also completed during this time and is considered one of her first major works and ‘almost like out of a chrysalis, the recognizable Frida Kahlo arrives because of the pain and everything she went through in Detroit.’ [image] The murals themselves are incredible. We see the Detroit industry in a way that strongly emphasizes the blood, sweat, and tears of human labor and a championing of the working class. It serves as both celebration and critique of industry, juxtaposes images of peace and production of medication and machines that aid humanity with depictions of war manufacturing and death (the juxtaposition of bomber planes with a dove that is seen above the entrance to the hall is a great example). Notable figures appear in the portrait, such as the head of the DIA and Edsel Ford, though Diego also includes a rather unflattering depiction of a plant foreman who Diego disliked for his capitalistic tendencies. [image] Diego said fuck this guy in particular They truly are a sight to behold: [image] North Wall [image] South Wall [image] This was such a fantastic book full of history of the city and art. It was a rather volatile year for the two painters, but one that would mark their careers and help launch them into the immortality of famous artists we still appreciate and look at today. Also shoutout to Detroit. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
not set
|
Aug 04, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
0981521304
| 9780981521305
| 0981521304
| 4.47
| 2,970
| Jun 13, 2008
| Jun 13, 2008
|
really liked it
|
‘Lover, this is not just another poem. This is my goddamn revolt.’ An old favorite book of poetry is like a favorite threadbare pair of pants. They are ‘Lover, this is not just another poem. This is my goddamn revolt.’ An old favorite book of poetry is like a favorite threadbare pair of pants. They are comforting to slip into and while some seams seem to be a little worse for wear, they still bring you joy in the present while carrying the fragrance of the past along with them. In the wake of poet Andrea Gibson’s tragic early passing, I dug out my well-loved and very dog-earred copy of their evocatively titled debut collect, Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns, and found myself blissfully transported back to younger days when the edginess cut like a knife to my angsty heart while reflecting on how Gibson is still finding a way to touch and heal weary souls even beyond their own lifeline. Moving through love poems, political poems, poems wrestling with religious trauma, occupying one’s own body, queer identity, poems about being ‘up all night painting the wind / to remind myself that things are moving,’ and more, Gibson’s expertise as a champion slam-poem come rhythmically rocking across each page and tugging your heartstrings to get them dancing along. A collection that may show a little wear and tear with age, but a brilliant and emotional collection that is dear to my heart nonetheless. ‘Life doesn’t rhyme. Life is poetry, not math. All the world’s a stage But the stage is a meditation mat. You tilt your head back. You breathe. When your heart is broken you plant seeds in the cracks And you prat for rain. And you teach your sons and daughters There are sharks in the water But the only way to survive Is to breathe deep And dive.’ —from Dive I first recall learning of Andrea Gibson from their poetry slam videos, which, truthfully, was also my first experience with slam poetry. While I personally like poems that are more at home on the page, I was enthralled by the two-fisted barrage of emotion that flowed so effortlessly here. ‘Feelings were always smarter things than thoughts,’ Gibson writes and this collection is just teeming with brilliant feelings. The sort that shimmer in the dark to light your way back to yourself. I love this collection, though looking back some of it feels a bit wanting without the performance element and some of the more edgy lines don’t have the same scathing sharpness that they did for me a decade ago. Take, for instance, the poem Anything with lines that certainly felt scandelously sweet when I first read them: Tonight I’d swear the man in the moon is a rapist, And stars are nothing but scars, Bullet wounds from humanity’s drive-by Firing at the face of the sky. Tonight crying would be too easy. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but to read these poems is to really remember exactly what the aught years felt like in the art scenes and I realize I prefer their later work. Still, I quite love it to this day and Gibson can spin language into gold with the best of them. Tadpoles A tadpole doesn’t know It’s gonna grow bigger. It just swims, And figures limbs Are for frogs. People don’t know The power they hold. They just sing hymns, And figure saving Is for god. Gibson certainly comes swinging in this collection. The scars of religious trauma and homophobia permeate the pages with Gibson offering solace through relatability for those who have also experienced how ‘the holy have done more damage to this word / than the devil ever could’ as they write in Every Month . There are a lot of political elements as well, such as For Eli dealing with the Iraq war in which Gibson writes ‘Our eyes are closed, America. / There are souls in the boots of the soldiers, America. / Fuck your yellow ribbon.’ Gibson also fine-tunes and sharpens her words best in poems of heartbreak and love. They still manage to pull all my heart strings, such as in the poem Anything where they describe a break-up leaving them ‘guilty with the blood of something beautiful all over me’ and full of remorse: ‘I Wanted to be eighty together, I wanted to birth poems like babies together And watch them grow up to save the world.’ Yet there is plenty of love to be found too. I especially like when love becomes its own sort of art, where love and poetry begin to blend together such as when Gibson writes ‘you’re every poem I would write / if ink could ever hold the light’ of their lover. Page after page is an explosion of deeply felt emotion that is certain to stick with you. Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns really brought Andrea Gibson into our lives and we have all been better for it. I am saddened of their passing and yet I’ve found myself pouring through their poetry again so happy that they were alive even if for a short while. This is a wonderful book and I will treasure it always. 4.5/5 ‘I know this world is far from perfect. I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon. I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic. But every ocean has a shoreline and every shoreline has a tide that is constantly returning to wake the songbirds in our hands, to wake the music in our bones, to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river that has to run through the center of our hearts to find its way home.’ —From Birthday ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
not set
|
Jul 31, 2025
|
Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
1101946849
| 9781101946848
| 1101946849
| 4.34
| 1,062
| Mar 15, 2016
| Oct 25, 2016
|
it was amazing
|
Everyone knows Anne Carson is cool as fuck. Horrible opening. Let’s try again, perchance. Pull a sentence at random and a universe unravels into existenc Everyone knows Anne Carson is cool as fuck. Horrible opening. Let’s try again, perchance. Pull a sentence at random and a universe unravels into existence. A cosmos in each comma, a period like a sun setting on the page. Anne Carson is an alchemist who can craft language into gold for the soul, infusing elements of time and space into the physical text to push boundaries of poetry and even the physical book itself. Float is one of the more ingenious creations from the great Canadian classicist as it keeps physical space in the forefront of the mind with the physical “book” being more a clear box in which a collection of 22 brief chapbook-sized pamphlets jumble together like flotsam. Intended to be read in any order, Carson delivers her signature blend of nearly-indefinable writings that straddles poetry, essay, and performance pieces. Sometimes all three at once. ‘One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star,’ German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote, and Carson’s career-long exploration of fragmentation, disorder, and chaos as integral to creation. Myth and memory become the focus through many of these pieces, be it poetry or theatrical notes and translations, with the unreliability and disintegration of memory further enhanced and examined through Carson’s unique format. Channeling the charm through both the cerebral and sentimental by turns heartwrenching and deeply humorous, Float is post-moderninst experimentality at its finest and further demonstrates the absolute genius of creativity and insight from Anne Carson. ‘If you are not the free person you want to be, you must find a place to tell the truth about that.’ While much of her work is often classified as poetry, Carson prefers instead to term herself as a craftsman. Her hybrid works are less words on a page and more a tactile art object itself. As she writes in Reticent Sonnet ‘I used to think I would grow up to be a person whose reasoning was deep, / instead I became a kind of brush,’ emphasizing the craft of writing that extends beyond two dimensional words, adding ‘I brush words against words.’ Carson elaborates in a 2016 interview: ‘Making a poem is making an object. I always thought of them more as drawings than as texts, but drawings that are also physically enterable through the fact of language. It was another way to think of a book, an object that is as visually real as it is textually real.’ By placing each packet together with no order, the reader is forced to consider notions of physical space as part of the understanding of the work, coupled with a delivery to be experienced in a random order that highlights the disarray of life and the mind. The tactile aspect is such a central part of the art and so I was dismayed when I requested this from the library only to receive a copy that had all the pamphlets bound together. Sure, the text was there, sure I could appreciate the idea behind it, but without the element of physical space something was lost. Unfortunately for me this had a pretty limited print run (for obvious reasons but publishers–take note!- please give more experimental opportunities to poets and creatives, books like this are SO worth the higher sticker price) and used ones can get really pricey, but I eventually tracked down a reasonable copy and wow its become a new prized possession. It fits nicely alongside Nox as art objects crafted by Carson that are as much about the art of packaging and space as they are the probing philosophical poetry within. ‘I am interested in people who cut through things,’ Carson tells us in Float and the project becomes an ideal opportunity to cut straight into the busy array of Carson’s intellectual adventures and musings. Theatrical performance notes, descriptions of physical art, and even translation notes and further experimental art pieces either commissioned or for art programs are threaded along with her more traditional work (traditional for Carson being something widely experimental for practically anyone else). Carson plays with a lot of themes here but there is a gravitational pull around ideas of space, memory, disorder, and fluidity. Gender norms are challenged in an embrace of non-binary or trans identities in ways that become an expression on art itself, poems dive into memory to find it as fragmented as the physical objects you hold in your hands, and page after page Carson simply dazzles and delights. She is a genius, no questions asked, and continuously surprises with innovation. ‘We resort to cliché because it’s easier than trying to make up something new. Implicit in it is the question, “Don’t we already know what we think about this?”’ The process of creation is also right at home in Float’s thematic undertakings. Carson frequently refers to ‘catastrophizing’ but, as is often with Carson, the standard connotative ideas grow wings and fluidy transfer into wider realms of meaning and purpose. Nothing in Carson is every static and is always in some form of flux, often resisting easy categorization or comprehension. Such is the theme in her trial piece on Joan of Arc: ‘They wanted her to name, embody, and describe them in ways they could understand, with recognizable religious imagery and emotions, in a conventional narrative that would be susceptible to conventional disproof." She won't. She can't. Instead she says: "Light your fires!"’ Nothing can be pigeonholed and the straining of intellect through the realm of abstraction to fumble with such slippery symbolism becomes part of the process itself. The act of flinging paint onto paper–’free marks’--also takes on a thematic undertone transcending the mere use to the term within the text to show how Carson, as if channelling the artistic endeavours of Jackson Pollock, effectually flings words onto the page to create her images. It is as if she has killed language and resurrected it like a phoenix of prose from its ashes, an alchemic achievement that would fall into gimmickry or garishness in lesser hands. ‘What’s important isn’t falling, it’s how you take the hit.’ In the push and pull of falling and floating, Carson collects the heaviness of mind and heart and transcends them into prose that floats to the heavens. This is a must-own for art collectors, poets, or anyone who loves a good thought piece or literature that pushes traditional boundaries to become an effectual performance art even in stasis. Anne Carson blows my mind every time to look at her work and I hope she will do the same for you, too. 5/5 ‘For what was unexpected the gods found a way. Human wisdom (as usual) showed itself liable to exponential decay. And that’s all you get from this chorus, Doris. So ends the play.’ ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 28, 2025
|
Jul 28, 2025
|
Jul 28, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
1668058146
| 9781668058145
| 1668058146
| 3.97
| 15,048
| Jan 28, 2025
| Jan 28, 2025
|
When both emma and Liv say this is a must read I pick it up and read it. Thats how goodreads works I guess.
|
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 25, 2025
|
not set
|
Jul 25, 2025
|
Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||||
1405959487
| 9781405959483
| B0DWNXDZL2
| 4.47
| 15
| 2026
| Jan 29, 2026
|
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
not set
|
Jul 23, 2025
|
Kindle Edition
| |||||||||||||||||
1506700896
| 9781506700892
| 1506700896
| 3.76
| 1,131
| May 05, 2016
| Jun 14, 2016
|
really liked it
|
History truly comes alive in eye-popping, jaw-dropping visual presentation of graphic novel duo Mary M Talbot and Brian Talbot. Turning their attentio
History truly comes alive in eye-popping, jaw-dropping visual presentation of graphic novel duo Mary M Talbot and Brian Talbot. Turning their attention to a tumultuous time in French history, The Red Virgin and the Vision of Utopia is an deep dive into the life of feminist revolutionary Louise Michel. Nicknamed the “Red Virgin,” Michel was revered like a saint as was instrumental to
La Commune
, an uprising in Paris that lasted for two months in 1871 and ended in a bloodbath, and used her exile to New Caledonia to aide the indigenous population in revolt against the imperialist French rule. As exciting as it is accessible and educational, The Red Virgin is an insightful look at the historical anarcha-feminist figure, her optimism and bravery, as well as a valuable historical commentary on the violent struggles around utopian dreams. Filled with a wealth of footnotes that add wonderful contextual depth, The Red Virgin is a fantastic work that is so beautifully illustrated it is worth reading even if for the art alone. [image] To be honest, I came to this having watched the Spanish film La Virgen Roja and, having recently read the Talbot’s extraordinary graphic biography of artist Leonora Carrington, I was really excited to give this a go. Turns out there were two rather revolutionary feminist women nicknamed “Red Virgin” and the film covers the fascinating yet tragic story of Hildegart Rodríguez Carballeira, a feminist advocate for socialism and sexual revolution, whereas this book concerns Louise Michel of France. Which worked out in my benefit because both women have extraordinary lives to learn about. [image] Louise Michel The Talbot’s portrayal is cleverly nested in a narrative that begins with American writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman (of The Yellow Wallpaper fame) witnessing Michel’s military funeral in Paris and, after inquiring, is told the story of Michel’s life. It works well as a narrative engine that allows for the Talbot’s to fluidly move time to meet the graphic novel’s need, though Brian Talbot’s artwork is so extraordinary this could move at a snail's pace and it wouldn’t matter. [image] The story covers the course of Michel’s whole life, skipping back to her childhood near the end, but details a rather impressive revolutionary life in the Paris uprisings as well as her preaching anarchism in New Caledonia with impassioned speeches against imperialism holding relevance to this day. She was an interesting figure, embracing advances in technology as tools toward a utopian society where labor would not need to define socio-economic status with her belief that technology making it so people wouldn’t have to work so much would lead to a more equitable and humane economy. Alas, this has not played out and as we are witnessing the rise of AI, Michel’s revolt against a ruling class keeping the working class tired, hungry, and poor as well as the knowledge that increased technology only displaced workers instead of became a topic for economic overhaul. Michel was outspoken and a total revolutionary leader, with great lines such as her demand that the French government execute her following the fall of the commune because ‘If you let me live, I shall never stop crying for vengeance, and I shall avenge my brothers by denouncing the murderers.’ It all makes for a great story. [image] The art here is gorgeous, as I’ve come to expect from the Talbots. The use of red really pops here, grounding the themes into color-coded atmosphere and the Talbots have an excellent balance of text, frame rate, and historical depth that really clicks well here. It’s one you can crush right through too and it is so interesting you’ll probably want to do just that. [image] A dazzling display of historical drama and art, The Red Virgin is truly a worthwhile read and work of art in its own right. I’ll read anything this duo puts out and I am pleased to see they allowed the deep revolutionary spirit and ideals to really pour forth from the pages here. A delight of a read as exciting as it is educational. 4.5/5 ‘A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at. —Oscar Wilde ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 22, 2025
|
Jul 22, 2025
|
Jul 22, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
059397509X
| 9780593975091
| 059397509X
| 3.82
| 21,084
| May 06, 2025
| May 06, 2025
|
liked it
|
Isabel Allende approaches historical fiction with the craftsmanship of a cartographer depicting the world through lasting art that can also portray th
Isabel Allende approaches historical fiction with the craftsmanship of a cartographer depicting the world through lasting art that can also portray the lay of the land in contextual detail. Her latest offering, My Name is Emilia del Valle is a powerhouse of a page-turning story that expertly packs its pages into the carrying case of narrative and latches it up with such fine-tuned elegance that it never bulges or feels overly weighted down. In a narrative as ambitious as its titular heroine—of whom one must admit a lengthier title My Name is Emilia del Valle and I am a Stone Cold Badass—would be more fitting if you're not into the whole brevity thing—Allende illuminates the patriarchal world of late-1800s journalism in the US amidst larger global politics as the 1891 Chilean Civil War breaks out. Are there times when this feels all a bit too much and on the nose? Sure, probably. But did it work? Well…more or less, yea. Told through the travels of Emilia, the novel also delicately balances the personal with the political as her entanglement with the war for journalistic reasons opens the path to search out her Chilean aristocratic heritage. It makes for a gripping read while also covering a lot of socio-political, feminist, and historical theories of the past in ways that nudge the present. Almost miraculously capable of carrying its own formidable ambitions, My Name is Emilia Del Valle is a character-driven novel with a big heart of heroism in pursuit of truth that still tips more towards historical narrative than emotional resonance yet is an excellent read all the same. ‘I wanted to open myself up to the real world and all that it actually held, instead of only dreaming up stories about it. From early market success as a dime-store novelist and ground-breaking journalist, proving women are as capable as men in the fields though having to publish both under the pseudonym of a man, Emilia Del Valle hits the ground running as an easily lovable and empathetic protagonist. The daughter of a former Irish Catholic nun who, after giving birth to Emilia, marries the man who raises Emilia with care as her father, Emilia has been raised around strong women and with claims of an aristocratic heritage through the bloodline of her Chilean father who denied his responsibility for her birth. She learns early that ‘no intelligent woman can trust that any man will protect her,’ which shapes her for the better into a strong, bold young woman willing to do what it takes to transform her aspirations into reality. Through Emilia’s eyes, Allende is able to craft criticisms of patriarchal gatekeeping that still holds true today but Emilia also exposes the loopholes that she is able to harness for her success. ‘Wealthy men hold the political and economic power, whereas their wives jealously control access to high society… Emilia has great success and is drawn to women who ‘excels in using men’s weaknesses to her outstanding advantage,’ which becomes an important key in a city where ‘the truth is often as slippery as soap and there are many ways to cover up a scandal.’ But raising oneself in ‘a city where morality is negotiable,’ hardens her for the worst that is yet to come. ‘I’m planning to write about the impunity extended to the wealthy and well-connected, the manipulation of truth, the partiality of justice, and the secrets of honorable men. I won’t name any names; it won’t be necessary.’ The book feels divided into two main segments with Emilia’s feminist awakening followed by the use of her hard-honed skills in the battlefields and prison cells of Chilean war. There is an incredible journalistic style that is able to deftly juggle the personal narrative with a broad-ranging exploration of social issues and politics and I greatly enjoyed the use of Emilia’s articles interspersed in the text. There is a journalist distance to the narrative that can come across as rather cold during the more emotionally charged sequences of the book, yet it also culminates into an overarching sentiment on standing strong for truth in the face of political frameworking that reverberates with more importance than the sum of its parts. There is, however, a bit of a Forest Gump historical representation vibe that can occasionally feel overly convenient on the lines of “this one person just happened to be present for all these historical moments.” Which is cool, don’t get me wrong, but seemed worth mentioning. There are times where this felt a bit streamlined and mini-series friendly than her previous works, possibly to attract a wider audience. Perhaps it could be said that this felt like the YA Ruta Sepetys with sex scenes, which isn’t a bad thing but we already have Ruta Sepetys and this also didn’t feel like we got the Isabel Allende we know is possible. Was it still good though? Yea, I enjoyed reading this a lot. Still it seems this is worth considering. “Do you fear the inferno, miss?” he asked me wryly. “Yes. I fear the inferno of this world,” I replied. The set-up for this novel is excellent and once it all slides so satisfactorily into place, Allende fires it off on a rip-roaring narrative full of twists and surprise feel-you-heart-drop moments as if it were as much a roller-coaster through history as it is a novel. The socio-political issues of the US in the early chapters are much like primers for deeper discourse on global imperialism and the plight of the common citizen caught in the gears of the power struggles of the rich and powerful. While the people of Chile rightfully believe ‘it was the governor's duty to listen to their demands instead of sending troops in to silence them,’ they also warn ‘the people have no power to decide anything and nothing to gain. We simply work, fight, and die.’ And Emilia’s presence as a journalist from the United States all the more spotlights the international chesswork of leaders to exploit other nations during political uncertainty and chaos (that they quite often help to orchestrate). ‘The United States aspires to control the natural resources in Latin America and cannot allow this small southern nation, motivated by patriotic fury, to manifest imperialist pretension.’ The novel is set in 1891 but this could be at any point in the 20th century for all intents and purposes. Emilia becomes the eyes through which Allende can show us the “behind-the-scenes” of the Civil War, from the opinions of leaders and generals to the heroisms of the “canteen girls” and nurses and Allende does not shirk from violence and devastation. This book really digs deep and does not hold back with several depictions of war atrocities and death that really hit hard in a way that feels earned and never carrying a suspicion of “trauma porn” or milking tragedy too much for easy emotional weight that I felt Kristin Hannah’s recent The Women was a rut that fell into on occasion. ‘No one who has experienced war is ever the same again; something fundamental changes inside upon witnessing the systematic cruelty and brutality of so much death. Innocence is forever lost. Nevertheless, love can be more powerful than horror.’ All this amidst a rather touching yet never overly sentimental story of a woman finding her birthright and discovering the man who fathered her is ‘dying of sadness over a wasted life,’ with the ‘worm of regret eating him up inside.’ While the later portions of the novel seem to start to unravel when you’re ready for it to be tied up into a conclusion, My Name is Emilia Del Valle was a rather engaging and all-around joy to read that makes any minor complaints feel beside the point. Isabel Allende never disappoints, and this was another excellent use of my reading time. I’ll always pick up one of her books when given the opportunity. 3.5/5 ‘No one who has experienced war is ever the same again; something fundamental changes inside upon witnessing the systematic cruelty and brutality of so much death. Innocence is forever lost. Nevertheless, love can be more powerful than horror.’ ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 20, 2025
|
Jul 20, 2025
|
Jul 20, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
1668024845
| 9781668024843
| 1668024845
| 3.45
| 29,123
| Oct 03, 2023
| Oct 03, 2023
|
really liked it
|
Caught in the farcical performance of the self, we can either laugh or cry as we plunge headlong into the waves of grief to seek ourselves, and Meliss
Caught in the farcical performance of the self, we can either laugh or cry as we plunge headlong into the waves of grief to seek ourselves, and Melissa Broder illuminates such an introspective adventure in all its bold, messy glory in Death Valley, the authors third novel. Its a story of a cactus and a retreat into the Mojave Desert that spirals into surrealism and profound introspection, a story of talking rocks and riding giant birds, all accomplished without the use of peyote. ‘If I saw no humour in my unraveling,’ states Broder’s adrift and anguished narrator, ‘I'd have been dead long ago.’ This wry blend of philosophical intrigue and self-effacing humor was the ideal hook to snare and reel me through the fast-flowing river of plot and introspective musings, treading the whole spectrum of emotions along with the endearingly caustic narrator of Death Valley. Sure, perhaps she isn’t endearing to everyone but the “everything is garbage, I’m probably the problem, but I’m going to get through this even if I gotta get sloppy as shit” is a vibe that speaks to me on a real level and sounds like someone I know… [image] Broder sent me on a great surreal summer adventure here and this book has fully engulfed my mind and soul into a state of self-reflective existential anxiety as a therapeutic process. Because facing the comically bleak ways we may botch a life and reading someone else process that makes this old world feel a lot less lonely. This is a tale of the many threads of grief that we can become entangled within, of the superstitions that flicker in our minds as we hold hold they can be candles in the darkness of our pain. It is a close look at issues of disability and death. It is a love letter to Best Western hotels and their take out breakfast. But it is also a tale of love, acceptance, and overcoming even the greatest obstacles that mortality can toss at us across this vast empty universe. Because, like this book falling into my hands, finding your peace amidst the beleaguerment of brutal fate makes the universe feel a lot less lonely with those you hold dear. A rip-roaring, surrealistic and wonderfully whimsical romp through the deserts of our days that also happens to be set lost in an actual desert looking for a mythical cactus, Death Valley is as fun and philosophical as it is fine crafted and hard hitting. ‘If I’m honest, I came to escape a feeling—an attempt that’s already going poorly, because unfortunately I’ve brought myself with me, and I see, as the last pink light creeps out to infinity, that I am still the kind of person who makes another person’s coma all about me.’ A desire to do and to be good often ushers in existential anxieties and despairs when confronted with our insecurities of inauthenticity. In the face of an anxious society hellbent on dehumanization and under the massive weight of grief, the plucky narrator of Death Valley is nothing but herself, fears, flaws and all. Which is befitting as Broder is also unapologetically herself here, weaving a poignant patchwork of narrative, introspective analysis, and whimsical, philosophical asides in short, staccato chapters filled with magical realism and comically scathing self-help soliloquies. Having captured a loving cult following with her poetry, Broder’s polished prose shines with an impressive fluidity capable of seamlessly sashaying between broad observational insights to personal self-reflection or between the mundane and the seemingly magical surrealistic elements. It all makes for a rather infectious novel that lures you in then sends you soaring through the emotional twists and turns that tugs at the heart strings while simultaneously inspiring laughter. We are strapped in for a ride with the narrator as she sends us on a thrill ride of family grief in light of her father’s hospitalization and her husband’s debilitating medical history. Yet amidst a need for others to heal, she finds she’s been avoiding doing any healing herself. ‘Some path in some desert in some life. And this is the part of the life where I am lost in the desert. But the world is round and covered in oceans. So why am I here? While this may sound like a familiar formula—woman goes on retreat only to retreat into herself to find herself—Broder keeps this fresh and endlessly unexpected and while reading it I was as thirsty for more as the narrator was thrusting for water in the desert (both the literal desert and the metaphorical desert of her life at that). And Broder delivers page after page without flagging, keeping it consistently thought provoking while pushing the plot forward as the grasp on reality begins to slip as opening herself to vulnerability allows the surrealism of repressed emotions to come roaring to the surface. ‘This is why I write. I do it for the alchemy. I cannot just experience things. This is how I experience things.’ The search for self-authenticity tends to require some long hard looks inward. The unapologetic delivery of the narrator’s self-assessments make for some great laughs (and constantly ran ink from my pen writing “RELATABLE!” in the margins) with lines like ‘sometimes when a person who loves me expresses care, I feel oppressed,’ or her observation that ‘people are such a commitment. I would "reach out" more often if everyone promised not to check in again later.’ As someone who likes my space, reader, I cackled. Yet the aspects of authenticity take on deeper, more existential levels, exacerbated by the human conditions that cause us to talk past one another or struggle to meet others needs when we can’t even meet our owm. ‘This is the problem with human relationships,’ she observes, ‘you come to a person with one feeling and they’re having another.’ How are we to connect and care when we float between different emotional realities? How much care can we offer when we ourselves need care? ‘How can I want my husband when he’s always right there? To want what you have. It’s like a puzzle.’ Authenticity in love is a central force around which the emotional debris of the novel rotates, chunks occasionally crashing down like a comet to bruise the ego upon impact. She loves her husband so if the limitations imposed by his illness becomes bothersome, does that mean she’s failed to love? Is wanting her husband as he was while healthy a betrayal of the sick husband of the present? And what of her father isolated in his coma, how does one rationalize the grief of the present with the whole scope of a person? Broder delves into what feels like standard self-help fare on the surface, but each instance laces together to create a broad and insightful undercurrent of theme on all the subtle or replacement ways we attempt to demonstrate or receive love while also questioning what that means about us. ‘Since my husband got sick, my words don't mean what they are supposed to mean. I can't say exactly what I'm thinking, so I use words that signify kindness as substitutes for more complex feelings. A multiplicity of meanings underlies the phrase I love you, which I say at least nine times a day. The phrase can mean anything from I'm sorry you're suffering to Please stop talking.’ The Five Love Languages, for instance, come up in a rather endearing conversation with Jethra, the beautifully buxom Best Western concierge over whom our narrator occasionally lusts. Do people break character under duress or proximity to death, or are we just misinterpreting their attempts to show love as failing to show it due to our own misconception of their motives. Yet such is the frailty of humans in the face of death. ‘Death. If nothing else: a reprieve from all these heres. Death. A big elsewhere. The biggest elsewhere. Unless, of course, it is another here.’ Where anxieties and death meet we often find people grasping for a sense of control and in Death Valley this leads to a whirlwind of superstitions coupled with self-rationalization. Such as the mother taking liberties with the Yiddish ‘kinehora’ that wards off the evil eye, it becomes a scapegoat for problems in order to box them up under something to blame: ‘Any form of positive thinking is sure to bring the kinehora on. Life getting better? ‘No kinehora.’ Believe you have redeeming value as a human being? ‘Don’t kinehora yourself.’’ Be it the mother’s belief that ordering sweatpants for her husband too early will cause him to die or the narrator’s grappling with the notion of a god, or just a superstitious belief in the healing power of a good Best Western, these superstitions become a way to give logic to the randomness of life, death, and suffering in order to feel a sense of control over it. However these attempts to allow our beliefs to carry us into recovery are revealed to be a hindrance to earnest self-reflection and acceptance, and a late in the novel episode involving a piggyback ride on a hallucinatory bird is interpreted by the narrator as meaning something that is then shown to not be true in reality. The varieties and randomness of the human experience defies simple system of understanding and to accept this is to truly accept life. ‘To shock yourself back to life, to recognize you are alive, is also to accept the shock that you have to die, too.’ Acceptance sounds all fine and dandy in theory, but is a far more daunting hurdle in practice. Sure, just accept your life and roll with it. But Broder reminds us that to accept and recognize that we are alive is to also accept and recognize we will one day die. And our fear of death might be what keeps us from truly living. In her essay How To Not Be Enough from her collection So Sad Today: Personal Essays, Broder discusses how even though she is frequently thinking of death and always keenly aware of its encroachment ‘I still can’t come to terms with the fact that I am actually, definitely going to die one day’ and while ‘this might lead to the realization that I might as well enjoy my one brief life,’ that also makes one feel a larger responsibility over ones actions and attitudes across our limited number of days. This existential quarrel with the self is the heart of the novel, and what better place to grapple with all our worries and woes than…that’s right: the inside of a giant fucking cactus. ‘I am going to die out here. I might. I could. Die. All this time I should have been practising for dying. What was I doing instead? Reading reviews for sweatpants.’ The looming size of the cactus and its unreliability of presence makes it not all too different from death when you think about it. The cactus is so big ‘it’s like god or Ahab’s whale; I can only see it in parts’ and being ‘drawn to the wound’ marring the side of the cactus teases the idea of a familiarity with the cactus for bearing a physical wound she can quite literally enter and inhabit instead of the metaphysical wounds in herself she can’t seem to open up. But this physical manifestation allows her to do something key: the art of noticing. To notice the details in life is to better notice the details in ourselves and to think about them is to help us reach an acceptance. Its the sort of message Mary Oliver teaches in her poetry. And at the end of the day love might be all we need, sometimes we just need to do some noticing to even recognize it is here. ‘I cross out the word LOVE and write the word IS. They are the same word, love and is, yes, love and is are the same. To be with. To be there. Of all the love languages, I think the greatest is to be there, the greatest of the languages, to be here for, to have been there with. Love.’ There is a tragically beautiful message at work in Death Valley where the moments we feel pushed away might be the moments we are being loved, we just have to do some noticing to feel it. ‘Miraculous what you have done with love. Alone in your own desert. Not alone, but feeling alone, because you were with me, and I did not understand, however much I would have wanted to, however much I tried; I could not understand until I understood (and will forget again if I make it out of here alive).’ Melissa Broder’s Death Valley is a marvelous metaphysical adventure with as much heart as there is dark humor. Masterfully crafted with a fluid prose that effortlessly winds between topics of both internal and external concerns, Broder hits high note after high note through surreal yet sharp wit and writing that both stings and soothes at the same time. Moving beyond the need for reality to tether us to understanding, this book feels like the works of the surrealists for the modern age. Death Valley utterly consumed my heart and mind over the course of the few days I read it and the act of reading this feels like an act of self-care itself. This was my first Melissa Broder but I will be diving right back in for more, she has certainly won me over. 4.5/5 'But we don’t pray to change the world (or, in this case, the cactus); we pray to change ourselves.' ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 17, 2025
|
Jul 27, 2025
|
Jul 17, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
0593833902
| 9780593833902
| 0593833902
| 4.15
| 122,372
| May 06, 2025
| May 06, 2025
|
really liked it
|
If Johnny Cash's A Boy Named Sue was part of the multi-verse with less fist-fighting your dad in a bar but just as much domestic abuse. Imaginative an
If Johnny Cash's A Boy Named Sue was part of the multi-verse with less fist-fighting your dad in a bar but just as much domestic abuse. Imaginative and a great examination of resilience. Full review to come.
...more
|
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
not set
|
Jul 16, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
3791377620
| 9783791377629
| 3791377620
| 5.00
| 1
| unknown
| Jan 07, 2025
|
it was amazing
|
Before I dive in I just want to know… sexy biopic starring Rufus Sewell as Chagall WHEN??? [image] Hollywood, hit me up, I have ideas (most of them Before I dive in I just want to know… sexy biopic starring Rufus Sewell as Chagall WHEN??? [image] Hollywood, hit me up, I have ideas (most of them involve Sewell painting shirtless…A Knights Tale was my bisexual awakening…) *ahem* ANYWAYS. I love a good quality art retrospective book. None of those smallish ones with bad printing. No, give me coffee table sized (bonus points for those nice fabric covers) with full page, high quality, full color printing preferably on obnoxiously thick matte pages…ah the dream. This new publication, Chagall from Prestel and edited by Gisela Kirpicsenko has immediately become a new high bar for art books. This thing is GORGEOUS, filled with so many of Marc Chagall’s artworks, a huge wealth of photographs of him, amazing biographical essays and—and this I REALLY enjoyed—a timeline of his life, global events, and the artwork he created to put everything into context and perspective. It’s just a perfect art book. And it’s Chagall, so you can dive into his dreamworlds of anti-gravity lovemaking, bizarre birds, and a fuck-ton of the boldest, best shades of blue thine eyes can perceive. [image] Okay, fine, he didn’t ONLY paint in blue and his paintings that don’t center it are also quite amazing, I just love a good blue. [image] Marc Chagall was born in 1887 in Vitebsk, which is in present day Belarus and was, according to legend spread by Chagall himself (don’t let the world make your myths, make them yourself!) he was born upside down and already dreaming up colors. Good for baby Marc. It also explains all the cool upside-down heads in his paintings, such as The Birthday. The upside-down Spiderman kiss has nothing on this: [image] He split his time between Vitebsk and Paris as part of the École de Paris (“school of Paris”). He hung with Picasso and was fascinated with Cubism but preferred to avoid labels (when pressed he said he was of the dreamworld or some shit, which is a great response). Which makes sense when your birds look like this because you’ve transcended the confines of labels and human frailty into a realm of art beyond imagination: [image] You are getting the side eye from that bird, watch out! [image] If your moon isn’t also a fish, why bother? What I’ve long loved about Chagall is his refusal to answer to symbolism or style and showed the world that art doesn’t have to “make sense” to be beautiful, in fact you can find more meaning in the whimsical and surreal (heads up, surrealists were coming hot on his trail!). It’s like Haruki Murakami but art instead of a novel. Because this would totally be right at home in his work: [image] Tag yourself Did I mention the color blue because BEHOLD! [image] [image] Bonus points for bird side-eye AND fish moon! Okay so yea this book rules and so does Marc Chagall’s artwork. Would recommend. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
Jul 15, 2025
|
Jul 15, 2025
|
Jul 15, 2025
|
Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
1906838259
| 9781906838256
| 1906838259
| 3.92
| 3,595
| Mar 2007
| 2011
|
really liked it
|
‘I paint flowers so they will not die,’ artist Frida Kahlo once said. A beautiful testament to the lasting power of art to immortalize against mortali
‘I paint flowers so they will not die,’ artist Frida Kahlo once said. A beautiful testament to the lasting power of art to immortalize against mortality’s decay, the same could be said of biographies—especially graphic novel biographies—that serve to capture the past and preserve it for the future. Alice Prin, better known as Kiki de Montparnasse, was the quintessential 1920’s “it” girl of the avant-garde art scene. A singer, actress, model, painter, and all-around icon, has long been immortalized in the photographs and paintings of her contemporaries but is yet again granted a new mortality through art in Kiki de Montparnasse, the graphic novel biography by José-Louis Bocquet and Catel Muller. A true labor of love coming in at just over 400pgs, this is an endlessly engaging and accessible look at the life of the famous artist and muse that pulls the reader into the Années folles (or “crazy years”) of 1920s France and entangles them in the goings-on of Kiki’s friends and artist entourage. Covering her rise to fame serving as a model for artists such as Tsuguharu Foujita or Jean Cocteau among others, and her romance with American photographer Man Ray for whom she also served as his muse, this is a fantastic read full of history and told in a way that makes it almost impossible to put down. Before you know it you’ll have finished this beast of a book with a head full of dadaist and surrealist history and a love for the flawed yet empathetic Kiki. A must read for art lovers. [image] This graphic biography is such an excellent blend of art, history, and storytelling that rolls forward through rather top-notch dialogue and art direction. It is no surprise to learn it was the recipient of many awards when it was first published in France. Despite her flaws, which the graphic due do not shirk from, they present a portrait of Kiki as pragmatic as she is bursting with indefatigable joy. [image] Born into poverty in 1901 and raised by her grandmother, Alice Prin would move to Paris at the age of 12 to pursue a modelling career. Over the course of her short life she would appear in several films, such as the dadaist Ballet Mécanique by Lernand Leger, and as the subject of numerous photos and paintings with Man Ray’s famous photo of her, Le Violon d'Ingres , becoming the most expensive photograph in history when it sold at auction in 2022 for $12.4million. [image] Photos by Man Ray (left & bottom) and painting by Tsuguharu Foujita Not all is fun and games and Kiki’s life was filled with hardships beyond poverty and a rather volatile relationship with Man Ray and abusive men. Yet the portrayal here is such that you can’t help loving her and understanding just what everyone saw in her infectious attitude and artistic aspirations. The artwork here really pulls the story along and captures her hectic lifestyle and the drug and booze fueled high energy of the 1920s French art scene. Plus this book is simply filled with references to famous artists with people like Pablo Picasso, Ernest Hemingway, and more. It’s just a great read overall. [image] Art fans and biographies lovers are sure to enjoy this massive but worthwhile graphic biography. This is certainly a testament of love to the great icon and only serves to further immortalize her and her image across time. Definitely check this one out! 4.5/5 [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
|
1
|
not set
|
not set
|
Jul 15, 2025
|
Paperback
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
my rating |
|
|
||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
3.91
|
really liked it
|
Aug 29, 2025
|
Aug 29, 2025
|
||||||
3.45
|
really liked it
|
Aug 28, 2025
|
Aug 28, 2025
|
||||||
3.75
|
not set
|
Aug 26, 2025
|
|||||||
3.44
|
not set
|
Aug 21, 2025
|
|||||||
4.34
|
really liked it
|
Aug 19, 2025
|
Aug 19, 2025
|
||||||
3.41
|
really liked it
|
Aug 12, 2025
|
Aug 12, 2025
|
||||||
4.07
|
not set
|
Aug 11, 2025
|
|||||||
3.37
|
it was amazing
|
Aug 08, 2025
|
Aug 08, 2025
|
||||||
4.07
|
it was amazing
|
not set
|
Aug 05, 2025
|
||||||
4.20
|
it was amazing
|
not set
|
Aug 04, 2025
|
||||||
4.47
|
really liked it
|
not set
|
Jul 31, 2025
|
||||||
4.34
|
it was amazing
|
Jul 28, 2025
|
Jul 28, 2025
|
||||||
3.97
|
not set
|
Jul 25, 2025
|
|||||||
4.47
|
not set
|
Jul 23, 2025
|
|||||||
3.76
|
really liked it
|
Jul 22, 2025
|
Jul 22, 2025
|
||||||
3.82
|
liked it
|
Jul 20, 2025
|
Jul 20, 2025
|
||||||
3.45
|
really liked it
|
Jul 27, 2025
|
Jul 17, 2025
|
||||||
4.15
|
really liked it
|
not set
|
Jul 16, 2025
|
||||||
5.00
|
it was amazing
|
Jul 15, 2025
|
Jul 15, 2025
|
||||||
3.92
|
really liked it
|
not set
|
Jul 15, 2025
|

![s.penkevich [hiatus-will return-miss you all]'s icon](https://images.gr-assets.com/users/1735525095p1/6431467.jpg)























Loading...