What a marvel of a collection. Kolluri's exceptional stories creatively invite the reader into the complex, dignified perspectives of animals around the world, in our present moment. Deeply generous and richly researched, every creature and setting evokes an intricate emotional response. The author's sense of wonder is readily apparent, informed by real-life stories and scientific research. I read with my heart in my throat, anguished and moved in equal measure. I especially recommend it alongside Eg Yong's An Immense World for multiplied profundity.
In my (ill-fated) effort to read the Aspen Prize longlist, I listened to The Last White Man on Libro.FM. In what is likely an unpopular opinion, this book did not work for me.
I found the story fairly bromidic, with a stiff protagonist and a heavy-handed execution of the main plotline. The parts that struck an emotionally resonant chord seemed to only occur in side sentences, meant to add richness to the backstories of Anders and Oona rather than contribute to the central narrative. Whenever the story came back to the main driving conflict — white people waking up to find their skin turned brown or black — I was left feeling like I was reading something that wanted to be compelling but ended up feeling trite or obvious. Most of the ensuing clashes, both internally and communally, felt predictable.
And now, for a few things that worked: there were sentences that exuded attentive observation of the human condition, especially the parts that covered Oona’s thoughts. The sparse style of the book meant that these moments held stand-out weight. I also applaud the ways Hamid worked hard to keep the setting neutral, offering little in the way of scenic description and naming only the two main characters. In that way, I can see his efforts to create a parable-like story.
On the whole, I’m not sure I’d readily recommend this read, but I don’t regret giving it a try.
A beautiful, candid reflection on body image, self-worth, purpose, and hope. Kendall Vanderslice recounts bits of her childhood, identifying the moments when she realized that her figure played a factor in other people's opinion of her. Charting first her rigorous ballet training that came to a sudden, heartbreaking end, then her pursuit of baking and restaurant work, she tenderly observes the pivotal moments that informed her future and helped shape her faith, including a faith in her body and in food. Throughout the book, tidbits of history, science, and theology about bread provide the scaffolding for Vanderslice's story. Impressively, these sections felt much deeper than mere story device; rather, the authors reverence for the miracle that is bread utterly suffused the text and gave richness to an already compelling story. The balance of food writing, theological reflections, and personal memoir is well-struck and results in a really lovely work.
Set largely in the eponymous Memphis and flashing between the 1950s and 1990s, this book follows the women of the North family as they navigate life and hardship.
I’ll admit that I went in with some trepidation after seeing some lukewarm reviews and the abrasive behavior from the author towards critical discussions. However, I tried to read with openness, especially considering the longlist recognition. I’m grateful I did because I found it very engaging and rich. The women centered in the narrative face impossible choices thanks to the racist society where they live and the unhealthy men in their orbits. The writing is descriptive and honest, offering complex characters with dreams, shortcomings, successes, and heartbreaks. You could come away from the book feeling like the North women faced and excessive amount of trauma, but I believe Stringfellow presents their story in such a way as to communicate that their lot was due in large part to the world they inhabited and their own personal convictions of self-worth.
My two main criticisms are mostly around Joan. I found that the parts from her perspective, especially in her youth, used language that was too mature and complex. Additionally, she was the only character written from first person and I found that a little disorienting, especially since her story doesn’t really feel like the central one (I’d argue that August is the “main” character).
Julia Lee expertly harnesses her wholly warranted rage into a sharp reflection on life as a second-generation Korean American. She walks us through her childhood in California, highlighting tensions with her parents, microaggressions in an all-girls private school, and the radicalizing experience of the 1992 LA Riots. Drawing on her literary education, Lee layers her own experience onto a collage of the menacing & varied experiences of oppression encountered by BIPOC in America. This powerful book belongs alongside Karla Cornejo Villavicencio's Undocumented Americans, Jesse Wente's Unreconciled, and Emi Nietfeld's Acceptance.