These Precious Days: Essays by Ann Patchett

“As it turned out, Sooki and I needed the same thing: to find someone who could see us as our best and most complete selves. Astonishing to come across such a friendship at this point in life. At any point in life.”

Ann Patchett is easily one of my favourite authors of all time. The Dutch House and The Magician’s Assistant are absolute favourites of mine and I’ve also loved her previous collection of essays, This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, which managed to bring me hope during one of my ‘down in the doldrums’ phases. This is all to say that I will read anything by Patchett. These Precious Days, her latest, is yet another winning addition to her already impressive oeuvre. While many of these essays are preoccupied with death and mortality they ultimately struck me as life-affirming. In some of these essays, Patchett writes about her family, in particular of her relationship with her three fathers. There are also essays in which she looks back to her ‘youthful’ days, for example, of that time when she and a friend were so taken by the tattoos of a Parisian waitress that they were determined to also get tattooed. Patchett also gives us insight into her married life, writes of her love for dogs, of her relationship to Catholicism, of that year she gave up shopping, and of authors, she admires such as Eudora Welty and Kate DiCamillo. It is difficult for me to articulate just how much comfort I find in Patchett’s ‘voice’ but within a few pages of her first essay, I found myself immersed in that which she was recounting. Patchett has a knack for rendering both people and space and it was easy to be transported by her writing. Of course, the ‘These Precious Days’ essay is this collection’s crowning glory. In this essay, Patchett writes of her friendship with Sooki, Tom Hanks’ assistant. This was such a moving and thoughtful essay, one I look forward to revisiting again.
Patchett’s meditations on death, mortality, family, friendship, and creativity definitely struck a chord with me. I loved learning about her childhood and I appreciated those glimpses into her everyday life.
Reading this inspiring and beautifully written collection of essays was a balm for my soul.

my rating: ★★★★½

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Sunset by Jessie Cave

“When I next love someone, they will die suddenly, unfairly, quickly, oddly, suspiciously, horrifyingly, traumatically; they’ll die in the worst way that someone could, and I will have to stand by and watch, take a photo.”

Funny, raw, heartbreaking, Sunset is an exceptional debut novel. Jessie Cave’s unsparing portrayal of grief in all of its complexities is striking for its realism and depth. Cave’s blend of humor and tragedy did bring to mind Fleabag and I would definitely recommend fans of that show, or I May Destroy You for that matter, to pick this up. The novel is narrated by Ruth who is in her mid-20s and leading a rather directionless lifestyle. Her older sister, Hannah, is very much her anchor and the two share an intense bond. Rather than resorting to the classic good/bad sister type of characterisation Cave makes both Ruth and Hannah into multidimensional and entirely authentic people, who have flaws and idiosyncrasies as well as many other qualities. The two love each other to bits, even if they bicker a lot. They are best friends, each other’s worlds, really. The two go on a summer holiday together and a horrific accident happens to leave Ruth bereft. She attempts to shut other people out and begins working at a Costa in Heathrow airport. As time goes by Ruth is forced to confront what happened on that holiday.

There is so much that I loved about this novel. Ruth is a wonderful narrator. Her anger, loneliness, grief, numbness, frustration, and sadness are depicted with such heart and realism as to bring her character to life. Her sense of humor, occasionally dark, always weird, made me laugh out loud and like her almost instantly. Some of her thoughts may very well make you uncomfortable but I appreciated how honest Ruth’s voice was. Her relationship with her sister is the central aspect of her story and their dynamic was wonderful and heart-rending. From their small habits to the way they speak to others or each other, Cave captures everything about them, making Ruth and Hannah feel less like fictional characters than real-life individuals.
I also loved the way Cave portrays and discusses things like depression, death, sex, menstruations, and other things that are usually sensationalised or romanticised or completely glossed over. In addition, Ruth’s narrative is full of piercing observations about other people or her own life. I also found that those references to ‘real’ places (such as Costa, Tesco, WHSmith) made Ruth’s London all the more vivid.
It’s impressive that this is Cave’s debut as it is such an accomplished novel. Her prose is self-assured, her tone is consistent, and her characterisation is phenomenal. Cave’s depiction of grief and sisterhood is moving and believably messy.
At first, I wasn’t sure about the way the dialogue is laid out (it appears in a script-like way) but I soon grew accustomed to it and I commend Cave for her choice (rather than jumping on the no quotation marks bandwagon). Speaking of dialogues, these too are marvellously realistic. The exchanges Ruth has with others could be funny, awkward, and/or tense. Regardless of the nature of the discussion or conversation, Cave’s dialogues rang true-to-life.
Sunset is a bittersweet love story between two sisters that is bound to make you tear up and laugh out loud (often in quick succession). If you happen to like stories that focus on sibling bonds or that follow the experiences of directionless millennials, well, consider giving Sunset a shot.
To sum it up: I loved this review so much one day after reading my netgalley copy I popped into waterstones during my lunch break and bought a hardback edition of it.

ARC provided by the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

my rating: ★★★★½

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White Ivy by Susie Yang

“She never got too greedy. She never got sloppy. And most important, she never got caught.”

Ivy Lin gives characters like Madame Bovary, Becky Sharp, and Lily Bart a run for their money. She’s terrible (and I loved her).

White Ivy is an addictive and razor-sharp debut novel. Susie Yang has spun a deliciously dark and deeply beguiling story, one that presents its readers with a piercing examination of class, gender, and culture. Part coming-of-age part psychological thriller White Ivy makes for a subversive and layered character study. The novel’s adroit commentary on privilege and powers is as unsettling as it is gripping. Yang’s taut storytelling not only amps up the tension between her characters but makes White Ivy into an edge-of-your-seat read. Fans of Patricia Highsmith and Barbara Vine/Ruth Rendell should definitely consider picking this up.

The novel’s very first line functions as a warning of sorts: “Ivy Lin was a thief but you would never know it to look at her.”
Ivy is indeed a thief. After spending her early years in the care of her grandmother, who would later provide her with an invaluable (if unorthodox) education in shoplifting, Ivy is reunited with her parents in America. Over the course of her childhood Ivy begins to despise her family and everything they stand for. By the time she’s a teenager, Ivy feels little other than loathing toward them. Her distorted sense of self and dubious worldview has been shaped by the books she read as a child. In a manner very reminiscent of Madame Bovary, Ivy’s attitude towards others and herself is irrevocably shaped by these fictions. While Emma read medieval romances that made her long for poetry-reciting-knights-in-shining-armour, Ivy’s imagination is populated by half-formed images of wealth, beauty, and whiteness. Ivy’s self-loathing, her internalised racism, and her contempt towards the poor and the working class are not easy to read. Yet, for the life of me, I could not bring myself to judge or condemn her. As the story progresses we see just how intent she is on attaining the riches and ‘class’ she so idealizes.
Growing up in suburban Massachusetts Ivy tries to fit in with her American peers. Ivy is ashamed of her Chinese immigrant parents and their low-income, finding them wanting of those ‘all-American’ qualities she has so come to yearn for. Although Ivy forges a temporary friendship of sorts with Roux Roman, a fellow outsider who shares some of her criminal inclinations. Ivy’s object of devotion is Gideon Speyer, the classic ‘golden boy’ who comes from a hideously wealthy family. Ivy longs both to be with Gideon and to have what he has.
After Ivy’s forced vacation in China, she returns to America to discover that her parents have moved so she loses touch with both Roux and Gideon. Years later, after Ivy has moved out and gone to university, Ivy comes across Gideon’s sisters and quickly inserts herself into Gideon’s life. All of a sudden her dreams seem to have been made into her reality. Not only is she socialising with the so-called upper-crust, spending her time in fancy mansions and eating at luxury restaurants but something may be happening between her and Gideon. Her social-climbing is thwarted by a ‘ghost’ from her past, someone who knows that Ivy isn’t the kind and friendly woman she is pretending to be with Gideon and his family.

Ivy shares quite a few similarities with classic anti-heroines who are determined to improve their circumstances, be it through lies or clever manipulations. Ivy also reminded me of Tom Ripley. Like him, Ivy is hungry for something more. She believes that wealth and Gideon will fill the hole within her but nothing seems able to satisfy her hunger. Gideon is not flawless, he is a rather remote and undecipherable figure. Unwilling to upset or break the idealized vision that she has of him, Ivy leaves much of his behaviour unchallenged. Of course, their dynamic had a ‘who’s using who’ angle to it that makes for some captivating reading material. Roux, for better or worst, is far less opaque. Similarly to Ivy herself, I felt rather conflicted towards him, unsure whether I should despise him or root for him. Speaking of rooting, I was rooting for Ivy. She’s vain, selfish, manipulative, and yet, I thought she was a truly fascinating character. As I said, she shares quite a lot in common with Tom Ripley so being on her side sometimes made me question my own judgement. But, given that every character in White Ivy is flawed or downright nasty, it wasn’t all that hard to be on team Ivy.
Yang’s prose is both elegant and astute. Her interrogation of class and privilege, which had some strong The Great Gatsby vibes (especially in contrasting old vs new money), is both unsparing and sophisticated. The world she portrays is as glamorous as it is terrible. Those who have always had money are disconnected from the everyday difficulties and realities experienced by those like Ivy, while those who do not but want to have that glittery lifestyle are almost blindsided by their wants.

I wish the ending could have been different as I found myself wanting more closure from the story and some of the characters. I also probably would have preferred it if Roux hadn’t been Romanian. Hear me out, I come from a country with a strong anti-Romanian attitude so I am quite susceptible when it comes to how Romanian characters are presented (and making them criminals and/or violent risks fuelling already existing harmful stereotypes).

White Ivy is a riveting debut novel. Ivy was a fascinating character, Yang’s prose is truly phenomenal, and the suspense is something else. Yang has spun an exceptional tale about love, obsession, lies, and betrayals. If you don’t mind reading about alienated characters whose moral compass is more than a little off, well look no further.

my rating: ★★★★½

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Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner

Ever since my mom died, I cry in H Mart.

Richly observed and heartbreakingly candid Crying in H Mart provides a powerful account of a complicated mother-daughter relationship. In her memoir musician Michelle Zauner writes with painful clarity of when at age 25 her mother was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. Zauner’s recollection of her mother’s terminal illness, her rapidly deteriorating health, and eventual death is heart-wrenching. Zauner conveys with devastating precision the grief, confusion, and hurt she experienced in the wake of her mother’s diagnosis. Interspersed throughout her memories of her mother’s illness are glimpses into her childhood and teenage years. In looking back to her youth Zauner examines her strained relationship with her mother, her evolving relationship to her Korean American identity, and the crucial role that food, in particular Korean food, played in her upbringing and adulthood. Food becomes a tether to her mother and her Korean heritage (speaking of which, there is this wonderful video starring Zauner & Maangchi ).
Zauner’s immersive storytelling, which is brimming with piercing insights into love, loss, and language, is utterly captivating.

Despite the harrowing subject matter, I found myself unwilling to interrupt my reading. In navigating her grief and her shifting perception of her mother Zauner presents her readers with some truly beautiful reflections on motherhood and daughterhood. I admire Zauner for being able to write with such lucidity about her grief and her mother’s illness. Zauner’s introspections also are worthy of praise as she is unflinching in her critiquing of her past-self.
Zauner’s examination of her often uneasy relationship with her mother underscores each episodic chapter within her memoir. In her recollection of her mother Zauner stresses how easy it is to mistake less ‘conventional’ demonstrations of love and affection as ‘lesser’.
Reading Crying in H Mart made my heart ache. Frank yet lyrical this is the kind of memoir that will leave a mark on its readers.

ARC provided by the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

re-read: this was just as heart-wrenching this second time around. Yet, there is something about Zauner’s voice that I find so compelling that makes her memoir into an ultimately uplifting book. There were many instances where I was moved to tears: from reading of the tragic reality of helplessly witnessing your own mother’s deteriorating health, to those instances where food becomes a binding force. I loved the way Zauner wrote about the power of food, in particular those recipes that are part of our childhood or that remind us of our culture or of a specific person. I was reminded of the important role that food played in my family growing up, in particular during my stays with my grandparents. Even if I wasn’t familiar with the foods and ingredients populating Zauner’s story the vivid way in which she wrote about them—their aromas, their compatibility to each other, the places where you would find these—made it all too easy for me to visualise them. This memoir is a powerful ode to food and the bond between mothers & daughters, specifically Zauner’s immeasurably complex and fierce relationship with her mother.


my rating: ★ ★ ★ ★ ½

My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh

“Sleep felt productive. Something was getting sorted out. I knew in my heart—this was, perhaps, the only thing my heart knew back then—that when I’d slept enough, I’d be okay. I’d be renewed, reborn. I would be a whole new person, every one of my cells regenerated enough times that the old cells were just distant, foggy memories. My past life would be but a dream, and I could start over without regrets, bolstered by the bliss and serenity that I would have accumulated in my year of rest and relaxation.”

I listened to the audiobook of My Year of Rest and Relaxation over the course of 4 days. During this period of time I was sleeping very little (the joys of work and uni assessment). And maybe that’s why I really felt this book. That and the fact that 2021 is proving to be just as delirious a year as 2020. Although My Year of Rest and Relaxation was by no means a breezy read (or listen) it was funny in the most fucked up kind of way. It made me laugh and cringe, it disgusted me and amused me.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a novel that has been in my periphery ever since its publication back in 2018. I even picked it up at one point, but didn’t get past the 10% mark. I have noticed that lately there have been quite a few publications narrated by ‘perplexingly alienated’ young American women (here you can read an excellent article on this trend) and I these tend to be very hit or miss for me (I loved Luster, enjoyed Severance and Pizza Girl, did not think very highly of Exciting Times, Milk Fed, or The New Me). Finally, nearly three years after its release, I thought why not give My Year of Rest and Relaxation another chance? And this time around, once I started reading (listening) I did not want to stop. As I said above, this novel is by no means ‘light’, but boy was it entertaining (and it took my mind off my own need for sleep).

Set in 2000s New York This novel is narrated by a nameless narrator (because duh, narrators with names are passé) a woman in her twenties. She’s attractive, skinny, and blonde. She can even afford not to work and has her own flat in New York. Aaaaand she is an orphan, having lost both parents in quick succession. Still, she has plenty of reasons to be happy…right? Except she isn’t. This girl is pretty fucking miserable. She’s extremely self-centred, extremely misanthropic, cruel, delusional…the list goes on. But our narrator has a plan. As she finds her life unbearable she decides—you guessed it—to have a year of rest and relaxation. In other words, she is going to be eating sleeping tables and other medications as if they were tic tacs (or smarties or popcorn…take your pick). She wants to sleep life away, believing that by the end of the year she will be ‘restored’ to health. Once a month she sees a psychiatrist, Dr. Tuttle, someone who is very much a menace to society let alone her patients. Our protagonist’s sleep schedule is also interrupted by her best friend, Reva, who she can hardly stand: “I loved Reva, but I didn’t like her anymore”. To our narrator’s annoyance Reva seems to revel in her own victimhood. Reva is also painfully insecure, bulimic, possibly alcoholic, and her mother terminally ill. Our narrator has little time for Reva, ignoring her pleas for help or affection, and tries to remain focused on her ‘rest & relaxation’. As the narrative progresses we learn more about her family life, her tense relationship with her mother (a real piece of work) and her on again off again boyfriend (a massive bellend). Some of the medications our protagonist begin to influence her state of mind during her waking hours, so she often seems to operate under a trance.

In spite of its relatively short length Moshfegh achieves so much within this novel. This is a brilliant work of satire. The narrator’s inner-monologue is as fascinating as it is repulsive (the girl has a sick sense of humour). And while I found most of the characters horrible, and at times intentionally absurd, this novel is disconcertingly realistic (especially in the portrayal of the relationship between the mc and her best friend….which was a weird flavour of codependency). Alienation is at the root of this story and Moshfegh demonstrates a cunning understanding of this subject.
Subversive, grotesque, surreal, shockingly funny, and surprisingly insightful My Year of Rest and Relaxation is fucked up in the best way possible.

my rating: ★★★★½

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Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self by Danielle Evans

Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self is a fantastic collection of short stories. Having loved Evans’ latest release, The Office of Historical Corrections, I had high hopes for this first collection and it did not disappoint. Each short story delivers, there isn’t one ‘weak’ or boring story. Although they explore similar themes and subjects they offer different perspectives and or they reach contrasting conclusions. Evans’ combines heart-rendering scenes with more light-hearted ones, and delivers her sharp commentary—on race, class, gender, sexuality—with a delightful side of humour.
I truly enjoyed this collection and I hope Evans will soon be publishing something new.

my rating: ★★★★½

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The Office of Historical Corrections by Danielle Evans

The Office of Historical Corrections is a striking collection of short stories, easily the best one to be published this year. Unlike many other collections—which tend to have a few forgettable or ‘weaker’ stories—The Office of Historical Corrections has only hits. There isn’t one story that bored me or wasn’t as good as the rest. This is truly a standout collection. If you happen to be a fan of authors such as Curtis Sittenfeld, Edwidge Danticat, and Brit Bennett you should definitely give The Office of Historical Corrections a shot.

This collection contains 6 short stories and 1 novella. Although each one of these has its own distinctive narrative, they do examine similar themes but they do so through different, and at times opposing, perspectives. With nuance and precision Evans navigates the realities of contemporary America, focusing in particular on the experiences of black people in a country that considers white to be the ‘norm’.
There are so many things to love about this collection. Evans’ prose is superb. Her writing is incisive, evocative, and perfectly renders her characters and the diverse situations they are in without ever being overly descriptive or purply. While short stories and novellas are usually plot-driven, Evans’ narratives spouse a razor-sharp commentary—on race, modern culture, class—with compelling character-studies.

The scenarios and issues Evans explores are certainly topical. In ‘Boys Go to Jupiter’ a white college student, Claire, is labelled racist after her sort-of-boyfriend posts a photo of her wearing a Confederate bikini. Rather than apologising or even acknowledging what this flag truly symbolises Claire decides to make matters worse for herself by ridiculing a black student’s outrage at her bikini and by claiming that the flag is part of her heritage. As this controversy unfolds we learn of her childhood, of how she became close with two siblings who were for a time neighbours of hers, of her mother’s illness and eventual death, and of the part she played in her friend’s death. This story is very much about denial, culpability, and grief. It also brought to mind ‘White Women LOL’ by Sittenfeld and Rebecca Makkai’s ‘Painted Ocean, Painted Ship’.
The titular novella instead follows two black women who have never been on easy terms. This is partly due to their different economic backgrounds and partly due to their different temperaments. Having lost touch after college they both end up working at the Institute for Public History where they are tasked with correcting historical inaccuracies/mistakes. Often their corrections raise awareness about America’s colonial and racist past in order to challenge white historical narratives. Given all discussions about decolonising the curriculum and about historical statues and monuments this novella definitely touches on some relevant topics. The revisions made by the Institute for Public History are often not well met and they are targeted by white ‘preservationists’. As our narrator unearths the true story behind a black shopkeeper’s death back in 1937 she unwillingly joins ‘forces’ with Genevieve, her longtime not-quite-friend. The two women have very different approaches and their search for the truth behind this man’s death soon sparks the anger of the white ‘preservationists’.
All of these stories are worth a read. My personal favourites where ‘Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain’, ‘Alcatraz’, ‘Why Won’t Women Just Say What They Want’ (which had some serious Kevin Wilson vibes), and ‘Anything Could Disappear’ (this almost had me in tears).

There are so many things to love about this collection: Evans’ focus on women and the thorny relationships they can have with one another, the wry humour that underlines these stories, Evans’ ability to capture diverse and nuanced emotions. The list goes on.

Evans’ stories are thought-provoking and populated by memorable and fully fleshed out characters. Although she exerts an admirable control over her language, her writing is arresting. Evans does not waste words and she truly packs a punch in this ‘infamous’ medium (short stories are often seen in terms of their limitations) .
Throughout this collection Evans’ touches themes of injustice, forgiveness, history (a character’s personal history as well as a nation’s history), freedom and identity, grief, loss, fear, failed relationships and human connection.
This is a fantastic collection and you should definitely give it a try.

my rating: ★★★★½

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Tunneling to the Center of the Earth: Stories by Kevin Wilson

A very Wilsonesque collection of stories: dysfunctional families, spontaneous human combustion, surreal scenarios, and plenty of eccentric characters. Each story in this collection held my attention, and while they share similarities, they also showcase Wilson’s range: from lighthearted tales (such as “Grand Stand-In” and “Tunneling to the Center of the Earth”) to more bittersweet stories (such as “Birds in the House”) and even ones that I can best describe as heartbreaking (“Mortal Kombat”).
Regardless of their tone, each story is permeated by surrealism. At times the surreal elements are overt (such as with the first story in this collection), while in other times they are more covert. Ordinary moments or exchanges are injected with a dose of the bizarre, and this weirdness was a delight to read. Wilson vividly renders his characters and their experiences (however unreal they were), and his mumblecore dialogues always rang true to life (even when the discussions veered in seemingly absurd territories).
This was a wonderful collection of short stories. They were extremely amusing and always surprising. Each story had a certain focus, and didn’t meander in other directions, seeming committed to expanding on specific feelings or ideas. My favourite ones were “Mortal Kombat” (as sad as it was), “Birds in the House”, and “The Museum of Whatnot”.
Funny, original, and tender, Tunneling to the Center of the Earth is a marvellous collection of stories, one that I would thoroughly recommend it to readers who enjoyed other works by Wilson, such as Nothing to See Here.

MY RATING: 4 ½ stars

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No Name by Wilkie Collins

I love Wilkie Collins’ humour, the quirkiness and mannerisms of his characters, and the intricate plots of his novels. No Name focuses on a rather unconventional heroine, Magdalen Vanstone, who in a short amount of time finds herself orphaned and – due to an idiotic a legality – penniless. Her rightful inheritance lands in the hands of her cruel uncle who refuses to help his nieces. While Nora Vanstone, the older sister, becomes a governess, Magdalen will resort to all sort of tricks and subterfuges to get her inheritance back. Aided by a distant relation, Captain Wragge, a cunning man who prides himself for his transactions in ‘moral agriculture’ aka all sorts of frauds and schemes, and his wife, Mrs Wragge, a gentle soul in the body of a giantess. Magdalen will use her incredible skills of mimicry and acting to trick those who have robbed her and her sister of their fortune.
For the most part No Name was a fun read. Captain Wragge and his wife offer plenty of funny moments, and secret war between the captain and Mrs Lecount kept me on my toes. However, the latter part of the novel does drag a bit. There were a lot of instances where I think Magdalen should have remained in the limelight, given that she was the protagonist. My favourite part remains the first act, before the tragedy struck the Vanstone family. We get to see the lovely dynamics between the various family members and their routines. I loved those first 100 pages or so.
The ending sort of made up for all that Magdalen endures but…still, part of me wishes (view spoiler)[she had been able to get her fortune back by herself and that she had not fallen ill…I am glad that she ends up with Kirke but it seemed a bit rushed that ending. (hide spoiler)]

MY RATING: 4 ½ stars


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The Bridge by Bill Konigsberg

The Bridge by Bill Konigsberg took me by surprise. While I did enjoy reading two of Konigsberg’s previous novels, Openly Straight and The Music of What Happens, they certainly didn’t affect me as The Bridge. This is the kind of novel I wish had been around when I was sixteen and contemplating suicide.
While there are quite a few novels that expand on ‘what if’ scenarios, Konigsberg’s diverging timelines are far from gimmicky. The first scene in The Bridge, regardless of its different outcome, plays a pivotal role in each section of the novel. Within the first pages of this novel we are transported to George Washington Bridge where two teens, Aaron and Tillie, strangers to each other, are planning to jump. In the first section, titled ‘A’, Tillie jumps, while a traumatised Aaron returns to his home, unable to forget what happened. As we become acquainted with Aaron, reading of his relationship to his extremely supportive father, and of the anxiety and depression that made him go on the bridge, we also read of the repercussions that Tillie’s suicide has on her adoptive parents and younger sister, as well as the guilt felt by those who in their own way contributed to her decision to end her life.
In ‘B’ it is Aaron who jumps and Tillie who survives. Aaron’s suicide destroys his father, leaving him bereft, while Tillie confronts the people who have hurt her the most—a former best friend, her ex-boyfriend, and her emotionally distant father. In ‘C’ they both die, and Konigsberg doesn’t repeat himself, offering his readers instead with just how everlasting is the grief and guilt experienced by the relatives and loved ones of suicide victims. He goes as far as envisioning the people Aaron and Tillie would have met, loved and helped, had they stayed alive.
‘C’, which for obvious reasons was my favourite, depicts a world in which they don’t jump, forming an unlikely bond, and finding comfort in each other’s despair.
I can’t stress enough how well-written and structured this novel is. However heartbreaking the various narratives were, I loved reading them. Konigsberg injects plenty of humour in his novel, alleviating somber scenes without making light of any of the subjects he writes of. Trough his portrayal of mental health Konigsberg demonstrates extreme empathy and sensitivity, never offering one-sided arguments or easy definitions. Both his adult and his teen characters are given their own distinctive voices, and regardless of what they say or do, they aren’t demonised or easily labelled as ‘bad’. Some of the parents in this novel are terrible. They are extremely unsupportive or blind to the pain their actions or words cause to their children. Our protagonists too are more than capable of making mistakes and or of jumping to conclusions.
Konigsberg is particularly perceptive when it comes to the effect that offhanded remarks can have on vulnerable young people. He doesn’t offer magical cures for Aaron and Tillie’s depression, and in the narratives where they do not jump, their lives aren’t depression or suicidal-thought free.
Konigsberg dialogues and his characters felt strikingly real. While each narrative navigates painful realities, The Bridge doesn’t succumb to the dark thoughts or difficult circumstances of its characters. Aaron’s relationship with his father and the bond between him and Tillie truly made the novel.
Unlike the other books I’ve read by this author The Bridge is a novel that will stay with me (as clichéd as that may sound) and I can’t wait to re-read this. If you are looking for a piercing and emotional YA contemporary read, look no further.

My rating: 4 ½ stars of 5 stars
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