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the talented mr ripley by patricia highsmith

the narrative here is so transportive. i felt almost as if I were in ‘mongibello’ with the trio and I’m convinced the book actually has spurred within me an absolute need to travel to Italy. to eat the food, to scour the museums, to people-watch languidly in the coffee shops having a biscotti or a smoke. no but really, I thought I had anxiety. Tom’s absolute subversiveness, evil, complete negation of reality brought TRUE anxiety. I was waiting throughout the whole novel for him to meet his end or rather his comeuppance but he continues to evade it. perhaps, there are some people out there who are criminally lucky. people who can for their lives evade the police or accountability or a dare I say a conscience. But what was the most intriguing thing was, that I simply rooted for Tom/Dickie the whole time. I wanted him to escape scrutiny and for the novel to remain in the chapters whereby all we read and learned was of Tom/Dickie’s new fortunate life. I almost felt as if he deserved it; to live tranquilly in southern Italy without any unfortunate interference. Highsmith is craftswoman, that’s for sure. 

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kim jiyoung, born 1982 by cho nam-joo

i was really moved by this text, which is of no surprise considering the high calibre of female authors emerging from South Korea. Kim Ji young is a story set in Seoul detailing the contour of gender inequality issues, the disparity between SK male and female experiences and the depressive, isolating aspects of becoming a housewife amidst these societal circumstances. As someone, who has never been particularly sold on the idea of becoming a mother (or rather, feeling as if the experience is too far-fetched or an unreality per se) this book really showcased for me the depths of despair attached to the mother-child narrative. albeit the fact, that I’m sure post-partum depression is not a universal sentiment, it was sort of harrowing how closely i felt to the ji-young. I felt as lonely, I felt her complete lack of control as to her destiny and the chasm of experience between that of herself and her family or her husband, her kid...really anyone. If anything, this book taught me about my own privilige. And most critically, the importance of continuing to challenge myself by consuming literature which illustrates a condition, or an experience as completely alternate to my own. However, I believe a break of this channel of emotion could be worth it. non-fiction here we come? 

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kim jiyoung, born 1982

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crying in h mart by michelle zauner

wow! it’s really been a minute since I have written or read a book here for fun. This whole 20 books a year goal has really not worked out. In saying that, this book was a hard one to read. I was completely attached to the voice of michelle but I feel like the drawn out description of how her mom dies and all the things that go with it was simply too much for me. I really loved the immersion into korean culture which gave with michelle’s wonderful descriptions of korean food (really loved the TV show Korean’s Convenience as well on Netflix) so the environment she painted was familiar and interesting. Although, upon reading this book I feel much more inclined to discuss the fact that it is ok to put a book down. After her mother passed after 2/3rds of the way in, I just couldn’t bring myself to finish the rest of the book. I miss my parents way too much and I just felt so hollow. Michelle was only perhaps 25 at the time of her mother’s passing which is only really 2 years away for me. Scary stuff. 

So I decided to put the book down. I think relieving myself of a heavy book and moving onto something more interesting, more self -serving is not an inherently bad thing. I am not mandated to read the entirety of every book. Life is not high-school! (screams, cries, laughs) So like in the essays I write, when I stumble upon a section which I can’t simply get out well enough, I have told myself it is genuinely ok to just put my mind to the next most interesting thing. (Obviously within moderation; I pay for the books and should finish them). I don’t know, just a thought. 

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my year of rest and relaxation by otessa mosfegh

fuck this book ruined me. never judge a book by its cover: the bridgerton-esque a-line cut dress spanning across the cover: a manhattan romance - an ode to the cosmopolitan drama of a city I dreamt of?. WRONG in all cases.

This book capitulates to the most disliked protagonist of all time. An unnamed narrator- a Columbia Grad, a Scandi model, a slut of the art world - depressed and orphaned. She whisks away Ambien, Benadryl, Vicodin, Oxy, Infirmetol, Advil- the whole slug of a Rite Aid pharmacy and chooses to sleep herself into a new life as the early 2000s pass her by. Almost what I used to - punishingly- dissolving myself from my social circles so I would reappear as new, low-fat, more tempered, demure and palatable. All to what fucking avail right now?

I was scared of this narrator- she embodied (yes, evidently satirically) all the hateful ways young women engage with themselves and with her friends. her treatment of her friend is horrific- she submits herself to a bizarre, emotionally abusive relationship with an older man and lives skittishly in the Chelsea art world protected by her size 0 body and blonde envied hair. I hated her, but I wanted to be her, but I felt sorry for her and yet I yearned to fix her. It's such a problematic book which forces you to leap into her psychosis; existentially pulling you down with her (immersing you in this weird, luxurious world which advertises slim fit jeans and concierges in apartment buildings).

I'm worried this could happen to me. It seemed like a worst nightmare played out. I should get out more and connect with others, I think. I can feel myself becoming too content with my own narrative.

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norwegian wood by haruki murakami

spoilers and CW:suicide !!

I won’t lie. I couldn’t finish this book. When Naoko passed away, it seemed like the book was in vain. That’s selfish of me, I know, but I think I had come to hope against all odds that it would have some sort of a happy ending. I read somewhere that all the characters within the book could have been separated into two camps. One being those who cling to life and the others who cling to death. It seems like this theme of binary really encapsulates and forms the architecture of the storyline. 

Tokyo, Kyoto. Sane, insane. Alive or dead. Lonely or fulfilled. And the whole story navigates Watanabe’s navigation of said binary polarities. He always is at odds with himself but as the book progresses starts to feel like isolation, depression were parts of life that he somewhat deserved. Its just such a heart-wrenching book which yes, contemplates themes of suicide particularly well but I think... I don’t know.. it just seemed way too close to home. I especially resonated with his decision to leave college and live alone. His navigation of the chasm between his current loneliness and the possibility of connection with Naoko, Midori was intense. I think that the likeness of his moving out and navigation of the city alone, is something I have to watch for. I don’t want to fall into that rut of having one and only one friend at hand. I need to start building again?

- read the book or don’t. Actually don’t the read the book if you’re a little fragile. 

 [Midori annoyed me for most of the book- but then is that some sort of internalised begruding of myself for being like her somewhat of a giving, caring and eccentric person- is she the everywoman] - who is the everywoman? am I? I think yes. 

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three floors up by eshkol nevo

this one was a doozy. Having been to Israel in 2019, the last big trip before COVID, I really reconnected with this Tel Aviv inspired story. And it seemed like I had stumbled across another collection of short stories, like that of Shoko’s smile. Nevo sets up an apartment building of Jewish families in a tripartite structure: first, second and third floor. Each floor shares such a distinct and  traumatic narrative. The stories unfold in different ways: the first is a man talking to his friend at a restaurant, the second, a mother writing an email to a girlfriend in the United States and the last, a widower judge leaving messages to her dead husband’s phone. Grim stuff. 

Yet the stories navigate Israeli living and culture so precipitously. The narratives walk the line between the mundane and the traumatic. And I came to realise, that unfortunately, there is trauma laced in the normal suburban lifestyle. Death, loss, assault and isolation. These issues feed into our mundane lives and the the whole she-bang of neighbourhoods, and family, and the protective undercurrent of gated communities and strict cultures, does nothing to stop people from feeling those pervasive, oppressive things. The book made me feel scared, that somehow my adult life would include some of those storylines That maybe one day, my child would be a stranger or that I would get married to a  liar or that maybe I’ll die from early, unforseen causes. But that’s life right. Even the exoticism of Israeli suburbia doesn’t protect you from it. As basic as this inference sounds, its the human condition. To live, suffer, protect and duly accept? Not even the best, most moral person will be immune from the consequences of the actions of those around them. 

The book deviates from this conclusion I’m making here, however. Nevo effectively wants the the reader to know even the most familiar of people around us, who present an accepting facade as neighbours, may in fact be experiencing the worst. Just the same as me and you. 

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shoko’s smile by choi eunyoung

I recently picked up this book because I stumbled upon a youtube video recommending it. I had been stuck in a rut in the past couple of years when it came to picking up a book and reading it through till the end. I blamed a multitude of things; be it the onslaught of university work or the fact that I was more interested in socialising. The pandemic hit me hard and now I find solace in reading- it’s a little lonely but being transported to places because of the novel you’re reading is the closest thing right now that I have to travel. 

I’m not usually a fan of a collection of short stories; maybe because I haven’t read many books like that. But Shoko’s Smile blew me away. It’s an honest depiction of female relationships, South Korean female relationships that is, which traverse issues of mental health, isolation, fear of the future and generational trauma. Choi writes so simply and so explicitly about the emotion these characters experience. Although intimate, I felt so included by the book. Each woman feels so deeply and Choi articulates this vulnerability to show readers the universality of the female experience, nay human friendships/emotion. I am inspired to read more short stories. They almost act like little profiles into women’s lives. I am also interested in reading more about South Korea. It’s a nation so popular because of KPOP and its great food, but there is a dark undercurrent there of cultural shame and family hierarchy which underpin it. A rigidity of sorts to the lives they lead - I feel like I the simplicity in which Choi wrote. You don’t always need high brow intellectualism to explain the effects of loss and grief on a young woman’s life. 

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