The Break by Katherena Vermette

The Break is a harrowing yet lucidly written intergenerational family saga that examines the repercussions of a horrific act of violence.
The book opens with Stella, a young Métis mother, witnessing a violent attack on some land near her house. Although torn, Stella doesn’t rush to the victim’s rescue and calls the police instead. When they show up the senior officer is quick to dismiss her, as there is no ‘body’, just some blood, and believes that she merely saw some ‘gang violence’. Scott, the younger officer, who is of Métis heritage, is not so sure. We eventually learn that the victim’s identity and that she happens to be related to Stella. The girl, a self-identifying ‘good’ girl who is an all-around good egg, is hospitalized and both physically and psychologically traumatized. Her mother, aunt, grandmother and great-grandmother are all deeply affected by her attack. They question who would do it and how to best help her in her recovery. Some want answers, others believe that finding the people who did this to her will not solve matters. We are also given the perspective of Scott who is hellbent on ‘solving’ this case, to the point where he disregards the magnitude of what the girl has experienced (pushing her to talk even if she shows signs of distress etc.). We learn of his struggle over his identity, from his colleague’s microaggressions to his own partner’s unfunny remarks about indigenous people. Although we are given insight into his experiences I had a hard time sympathizing with him as his voice stood out (and not in a good way) from the rest. I would have much preferred if the narrative hadn’t included his perspective and had focused on the women making up the girl’s family. There was something gimmicky about his chapters and it seemed to me that the author couldn’t’ choose between making him into a flawed yet ultimately empathetic guy or an unscrupulous ambitious dick. Another pov that felt unnecessary was Phoenix’s. She is an older teen who has severe mental health issues (from body dysmorphia and disordered eating to extreme anger and violent episodes). There were aspects of her character that struck me as gratuitous and sensationalistic. Also, having her pov didn’t really make her into a more nuanced character. While I understand that often abuse breeds abuse (so we have someone who was abused becoming an abuser) I am tired of how often this is ‘used’ in fiction as a way of not quite condoning but of making ‘sense’ of an abusive character’s actions. I also found it frustrating that her pov featured more in the story than the girl (i have forgotten her name, even though she is meant to be the figure tying all of these narratives together) who was attacked. She and her friend have a chapter now and again but I found them somewhat simplistic compared to the others. That the first time that they sneak out and ‘lie’ to their mothers ends in such a horrifying way also struck me as a wee bit much.

Still, this book certainly packs a punch or two. Katherena Vermette doesn’t soften the brutality of what the victim experiences nor are she quick to condemn characters like Stella. Throughout these perspectives, Vermette also explores the discrimination, violence, and abuse directed at indigenous women. Some of the characters are trapped in a stark cycle of violence, addiction, and or abuse and Vermette doesn’t shy away from portraying the harsh realities that many of them live in. The story also dabbles with magical realism as there are chapters from the perspective of a character who is no longer alive. Their identity isn’t quite a mystery but I appreciated that Vermette didn’t feel the need to over-explain their presence in the overarching narrative.
I would definitely read more by this author and I would encourage readers who can tolerate graphic descriptions of violent/sexual assault(s) to give The Break a chance.

my rating: ★★★☆☆

Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 by Cho Nam-Joo

While I appreciated the subject matter (no matter how infuriating & depressing), I could not get into the robotic style.

This book opens with Kim Jiyoune, a housewife and stay-at-home mother, acting in an increasingly concerning manner. Depressive episodes give way to ‘bizarre’ instances in which she emulates the behaviour of other women. Her concerned husband decides to enlist the help of a psychiatrist. The narrative then recounts Kim Jiyoung’s life prior to her marriage. We are given a brief picture of her life at home that highlights the double standards between sons and daughters (which generally see boys having more freedom while girls are expected to be more obsequious and to help around the house). We also ‘overhear’ her father’s victim-blaming rhetoric, which sees him blaming his daughter when harassed by a boy in her school (things on the lines of, ‘you obviously did something to make him think that you were interested in him’). At school male teachers act in highly inappropriate if not downright criminal ways (especially when ‘checking’ the female students’ uniforms). While boys are allowed more casual uniforms, girls have to wear a lot of layers and uncomfortable shoes so that they do not distract male students/teachers (i see red whenever i hear stuff like this), they are discouraged from playing physical activities, and during lunchtime, they are served after the boys and told off for not finishing their food fast enough.
At every stage of her life, Kim Jiyoung is confronted with gender-based discrimination. Once in the ‘workforce’ she quickly realizes that female employees are paid less, have very few chances of advancing, and are often given responsibilities and tasks that should be assigned to the newest employees. Married women are seen as undesirable as ‘likely’ to leave their position due to pregnancy/child-rearing, and very few places offer child-friendly work hours. Additionally, working would earn societal disapproval (because ‘they aren’t taking care of their children and it is ‘unnatural’ for a mother not to want to be with their child 24/7 etc.).
We see how all of these incidents over the years chip away at Kim Jiyoung. Time after time she’s faced with sexist and misogynistic behaviour, from colleagues, strangers, and her loved ones. The more aware she becomes of this, the less able she is to suppress her mounting desperation.
The final chapter brings us back to the present but doesn’t delve too deep into Kim Jiyoung’s mental state.

Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 reads a lot like a piece of nonfiction. The author’s prose is exceedingly impersonal, clinical even. While I’m not wholly against this type of detached writing style, here it was so unemotional and analytical that I really had a hard time caring and believing in Kim Jiyoung. Did this book elicit some sort of emotional response in me? Yes. But, I’m afraid I cannot credit the authors’ storytelling as being responsible for this. When reading at length about this kind of subject matter (gender inequality, misogyny, sexism) I will inevitably ‘feel’ something (anger, frustration, etc.). While reading Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 I was reminded of my own close encounters with sexism and misogyny, which aren’t even all that bad but whenever I think back to them mi incazzo (from men leering/shouting at me on the street when i was aged 13 or so, to being told that i should pay no mind to men making inappropriate comments, and if anything, i should be grateful/happy that they were making comments about my body/person, or that time when i and my bf worked in a shoddy cafe together and the team leader used go on anti-women tirades and seemed to enjoy groping us female colleagues, to a stranger sticking his tongue down my throat and snapping at me after being pushed away, to being told that i shouldn’t do certain things because i’m a girl, etc. etc. etc.). What I’m saying is, of course, I felt something. I’m sure many other readers can relate to ​​Kim Jiyoung’s experiences. But I also wondered what was the point of making all these things into a ‘story’? The author basically lists the everyday realities of an average woman, specifically a Korean woman born in 1982 into a relatively stable household.
The recounting of these episodes of sexism & co are a matter of fact and often surface level. The characters are one-dimensional and exist only to illustrate a certain point or address a certain type of behaviour. Kim Jiyoung is so generic that she seemed devoid of a personality. The narrative, whether intentionally or not, robs her of a distinctive voice… So, not only is Kim Jiyoung disempowered by her society’s oppressively traditionalist gender roles and by the many injustices she faces growing up female in Korea, but, the narrative itself denies her an identity. And, while I recognise that the last chapter reframes the rest of the story, I still cannot reconcile myself with this narrative choice. If anything, that last chapter reads like a gimmicky twist. Also, I didn’t quite like how Kim Jiyoung’s breakdown is shown to be a direct result of the patriarchy (especially considering that while she does experience gender-based injustices and microaggressions, at the of the day, much of what she experiences is very much your regular every-day sexism).
Maybe cis male readers or readers who have grown up in really progressive countries will be able to gain something from this book that I wasn’t able to.

my rating: ★★½


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The Clothing of Books by Jhumpa Lahiri

In this short and meditative piece, Jhumpa Lahiri examines the role that book jackets play in a person’s reading experience and the responsibility they have in not only conveying the book within but in catching someone’s attention. Lahiri looks back to her youth and recalls how the books she borrowed from at the library were ‘naked’. Lahiri considers how book jackets have changed over the years, the amount of information that gets added, sometimes, too much or simply rather irrelevant. Yet, she also realises just how important book jackets, particularly the book covers, can be. I appreciated how she also notes how different countries do jackets differently, and the analogy involving school uniforms. In discussing book jackets Lahiri inevitably turns to the ones of her own books, and, without mentioning names or titles, she does express her disappointment and frustration over some of them. Because much of her fiction centres on Indian-Americans many of her covers contain rather clichéd imagery related to India (when most of her work is set outside of this country).
I found it really interesting to read her personal thoughts on book jackets, and she makes some great points regarding the importance these have. While I am someone who is often lured by pretty covers (although i rarely buy books anymore before i go on to buy a book i try to find photos of its spine so i can envision how it will sit on my shelf…yeah, i have a problem) ugly covers do not prevent me from picking up a book, let alone loving it.If you are bibliophile who is keen on Lahiri I would definitely recommend this, it makes for a quick yet reflective read.

my rating: ★★★½

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Shoko’s Smile: Stories by Eun-young Choi

When it comes to collections of short stories, more often than not, I find myself rather unaffected by them. While most collections do have one or two good stories in them, the remainder tends to be either forgettable or plain bad. The stories in Shoko’s Smile are by no means terrible but they did strike me as rather monotonous, dull even. I liked Eun-young Choi’s restrained prose and that many of her stories hone in on life’s quieter moments. Most of her stories are characterised by a sense of loss: there are those who are grieving the death of a loved one, those who regret not having done more to understand a friend or a relation of theirs, and those who long to be reunited with someone they care for. Generational divides also seem to be a recurring motif within this collection, as many stories feature children/parents or grandchildren/grandparents.

The blurb’s comparison to Banana Yoshimoto does seem rather fitting, although I did find Choi’s tone to be slightly more sombre. I liked that the stories didn’t exclusively focus on South Korean characters, as we ones are starring Vietnamese and Japanese ones.
While Choi’s themes were interesting and I did like her unadorned yet polished, the stories themselves…well, they didn’t necessarily move me. Take the first story for example. The dynamic between the narrator and Shoko had potential but then as the narrative progresses the story veers into melodrama. A lot of the characters also sounded very much like the same person, which didn’t help to differentiate their stories. They were too ‘samey’ and despite their relatively short length, I found my interested waning more often than not.
I am sure other readers will find these stories more heart-rendering than I did so I recommend you check out some more positive/in-depth reviews.


my rating: ★★★☆☆

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What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours by Helen Oyeyemi

“A library at night is full of sounds: The unread books can’t stand it any longer and announce their contents, some boasting, some shy, some devious.”

Confusion galore! What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours is a relentlessly inventive and delightfully playful collection of interlocked short stories. These intentionally bewildering fabulist stories are inhabited by off-kilter characters who find themselves in increasingly fantastical scenarios. Magical keys, doors, puppets, and houses populate their lives, and Oyeyemi treats these elements with little fanfare. While readers will find her characters’ circumstances and misadventures to be bizarre to the extreme, they seem relatively nonplussed by how weird and absurd their lives are. While I loved that these stories celebrated books and creativity, and I found the quirky dialogues and character responses to be amusing, I did have a hard time figuring out what the hell was happening. The stories begin with little ceremony, plunging straight into bizarroland. It isn’t often clear where or when we are but we are made to accept these stories offbeat premises. Rather than having straightforward plotlines, these stories seem to be composed of eccentric vignettes that aren’t going in any particular direction. The stories seem to end randomly, providing no real closure or insight into whatever these characters were going through.
leaving me feeling rather The carnivalesque elements embedded in these narratives brought to mind la commedia dell’arte (i believe pulcinella gets a mention). These stories are so profoundly perplexing that I struggled to follow whatever was happening. While I’m sure this was intentional, it did work against my being able to feel involved in whatever was going on. Still, I did appreciate Oyeyemi’s British humor. I also loved how casually queer these stories are.
If you are a fan of absurdist tales, this may be a collection worth checking out.

my rating: ★★★

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Three Daughters of Eve by Elif Shafak

She and Mona and I. The three of us: the Sinner, the Believer, the Confused.”

Since I fell in love with Shafak’s The Forty Rules of Love back in 2016, I have made my way through her oeuvre, even her more ‘obscure’ titles such as the overlooked gem that is The Saint of Incipient Insanities. Three Daughters of Eve marks the sixth novel that I’ve read of hers and while it certainly showcases many of her wonderful trademarks—there is a touch of magical realism, a non-linear narrative, tension between past and present, East and West, Turkish politics, a nuanced exploration of faith and modern Muslim identity—it lacked that certain je ne sais quoi that made her other books such compelling reads.

The novel opens in Istanbul where Peri, a married and wealthy woman in her late thirties, is mugged while on the way to a fancy dinner party. Following an altercation with the robber, Peri finds herself thinking back to her time at Oxford University and the part that she played in a ‘scandal’ there.
Chapters detailing Peri’s time at this party are interested with ones delving into her childhood and teenage years in the 1980s and 1990s to her time at Oxford. Once at Oxford Peri meets and becomes close to two other girls: Shirin, a free-spirited British-Iranian girl who is bisexual and kind of counterculture, and Mona, who is a Muslim Egyptian American feminist. Peri grows increasingly intrigued by Professor Azur, who teaches divinity and is idolised by many students because and in spite of his ‘allegedly’ unconventional teaching methods.
One of the novel’s main preoccupation is that of reconciliation: Peri grew up in a divided household. While her mother was a staunch believer, her father was more of a sceptic. Peri felt torn between their different temperaments and beliefs. At Oxford Peri is still uncertain about her own relationship to her faith, so her fascination with Professor Azur is somewhat understandable. While I liked those early sections focusing on Peri’s childhood I do wish that the narrative could have reached her time at Oxford more quickly. By the time we get to her first interaction with Professor Azur we are about 60% into the novel. And this drawn-out build-up to his character does him no favours. When ‘we’ meet him I was underwhelmed. He was not particularly charming or controversial, and the few scenes he was in gave me a rather limited glimpse of his character. To be honest, I found most of the novel’s central characters to be somewhat clichéd. Peri was not particularly sympathetic, her main characteristic is that of being in a perpetual state of confusion, Shirin was the classical rebel, her bisexuality another sign of her subversive nature, while Mona is the classic studious and kind girl. In the scenes set in the present, during the dinner party, Shafak lampoons the Turkish upper-class, emphasizing their shallowness and pettiness. We don’t learn much about Peri’s husband nor of Peri’s life. Her daughter is the typical annoying angsty teenager who is all the rage in ‘adult’ novels.

Still, while I never warmed to Peri or her story, I still found Shafak’s prose to be lovely and I always appreciate her dynamic portrayal of Istanbul. While I did find the novel’s forays into theological debates relatively interesting these did not quite make up for the two-dimensional characters. I think sticking to the one perspective limited the story and I for one would have much preferred it if the story could have also followed Shirin and Mona, rather than solely focusing on Peri. I also felt somewhat cheated by the supposed friendship between Shirin, Mona, and Peri…as Shafak barely scratches the surface of their relationship. Lastly, the whole ‘scandal’ was painfully obvious (I mean, I had an idea of what it would be from reading the summary but I hoped Shafak would not be so predictable).
To be honest, I think that The Saint of Incipient Insanities was a lot more successful in its portrayal of the highs and lows of a disparate group of multicultural university students.

my rating: ★★★☆☆

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The Mothers by Brit Bennett

“Grief was not a line, carrying you infinitely further from loss. You never knew when you would be sling-shot backward into its grip.”

The first time I picked up The Mothers was back in 2017. After reading a few chapters I set aside thinking that it was not for me. And then came the advent of The Vanishing Half. To say that I like that novel would be an understatement. I’ve read it twice and twice I fell in love with it. After rereading it I found myself wondering whether this time around I would actually be able to appreciate The Mothers so I gave it another shot. If I only had to rate this novel in terms of its literary merits this would easily get a 5 stars. While I wasn’t overly keen the mother’s ‘chorus’, I remain in awe of Brit Bennett’s luminous prose. The reason why I cannot sing this book’s praises lies in its storyline, specifically in the way Nadia’s abortion is handled.

The book is set in a conservative and religious Black community in Southern California. ‘The mothers’ are an older group of church-going women and their Greek chorus is interspersed throughout the narrative. Their traditional values are reflected through the judgments they make about the rest of their community. They seem particularly disapproving of young people and their ‘inhibited’ ways. The actual story follows three people: Nadia Turner, who is seventeen and grieving the death of her mother (who committed suicide); the pastor’s son, Luke Sheppard, who is twenty-one and working in a diner after an injury ended his promising football career came to pastor’s son; Aubrey, a pious girl who is living with her older sister. Nadia and Luke begin sleeping together but their casual relationship is complicated when Nadia becomes pregnant. Nadia, who is desperate to leave her town behind and wants to college, decides to get an abortion and Luke comes up with the money for it. But, when he fails to collect from her after her appointment at the clinic Nadia is deeply hurt. The two no longer spend time together and Nadia becomes close to Aubrey. In spite of their different personalities, the two feel seemingly unmoored. Their bond at the beginning of the story is one of the highlights of the novel. Alas, all good things come to an end and Nadia goes off to college while Aubrey remains in their hometown. Over the next few years Luke and Aubrey fall in love and when Nadia returns home things get complicated.

spoilers below

I was not a fan of this love triangle, which was at best unimaginative. Luke was a lustreless and often cowardly character. I genuinely thought that Nadia and Aubrey had more chemistry then either Luke/Nadia or Luke/Aubrey. But I could have looked past this rather clichèd love triangle (one girl is the wild and beautiful one, the other is the quiet plainer looking one) if it hadn’t been for the way both the characters and the narrative itself punish Nadia for her ‘sin’. Throughout the narrative abortion is associated with being a sin, a crime, an abhorrent act. None of the majors character challenge this view. There is not one voice of reason. Nadia, years later, is haunted by the ‘what if’. She ends her pregnancy early on yet she believes that she knows that the ‘baby’ was a boy and is wracked by guilt envisioning him growing up. I am not about to argue that abortions are not traumatic experiences or that the person who chooses to get an abortion does so lightheartedly but come on, having Nadia be haunted forever seems a tad too much. Who cares that she’s gone to college or soon to be a lawyer? Her life is forever defined by her abortion.
Luke is horrible about the whole thing (piling on the guilt by also going on about ‘our baby boy’). And you might say that of course every person in their community is going to shame Nadia or think her sinful. But, why does the narrative reinforces this? Nadia is ostracised and by the end of the novel it is implied that by she will never be happy or content or able to settle down.
Luke on the other hand is not punished. Nadia is made into the story’s villain as she not only gets an abortion but she also betrays her best friend (again we have the implication that the ‘type’ of woman who gets an abortion has loose morals). So ‘other woman’ and sinful Nadia is given a miserable ending while kind god-fearing Aubrey alongside Luke are blessed with a child. Puh-lease.

The thing is, I may have been more understanding if this novel had been set in the early 20th century. After all, I love Toni Morrison’s Sula which shares quite a few similarities with Bennett’s novel. But, Morrison never condemns Sula herself. She makes it quite clear that she becomes her community’s scapegoat. The complicated friendship between Sula and Nel remains the focus of the narrative, whereas here Luke takes the centre-stage.

In spite of my issues with the characters and their storylines I did find Bennett’s prose to be beautiful. There are some poignant observation on grief, loneliness, and friendship.

While I recognise that Bennett is a fantastic writer this novel’s not to subtle anti-abortion message did not sit well with me and because of this I cannot on a good conscience recommend it. Read Sula instead.

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Behold the Dreamers by Imbolo Mbue

Written in a direct yet luminous prose, Behold the Dreamers chronicles the trials, and occasional joys, of a Cameroonian couple in New York. The Jongas move to America to improve their circumstances. In pursuit of the elusive American Dream Jende secures a position as chauffeur to a Wall Street senior executive while his wife Neni is studying to become a pharmacist. Neni eventually also begins to work for Jende’s employer, working under Clark’s wife, Cindy.
Imbolo Mbue brilliantly evokes time (2008-2009) and place (New York). She captures, in particular, the apprehensive atmosphere pre and after the crash, the hope brought by Obama’s presidency, as well as showcasing the realities and ramifications of racial and class disparities in America.
Although there are a multitude of characters, the Jongas remain at the heart of this novel. Mbue captures their experiences in America with precision and empathy. From the Jongas’ attempt to assimilate to this other culture and to understand how they fit in this new society, to their many hardships. The threats of deportation and unemployment become constants in their lives, and the Jongas will try their hardest to keep these at bay.
I appreciated how imperfect Mbue’s characters were. Jende and Neni make bad choices or behave selfishly. Yet, given their precarious positions, readers will have a hard time condemning them. The Edwards’ too, for all their privilege as a white and wealthy American couple, are given depth. Although we see them only through the eyes of Jende and Neni, we are given an impression of what kind of people they are, for better or worse. The juxtaposition between the Jongas’ and Edwards’ lifestyles is a stark one, yet Mbue does not paint either couple as good or bad.
Mbue provides a rich commentary on class, immigration, race, American society, consumerism, and, of course, the American Dream. The characters populating this novel are compelling, if not always likeable. The sorrow and suffering the Jongas’ experience are somewhat alleviated by the author’s subtle irony or by the humour provided by their closest friends.

If I had to rate the first half of this novel I probably would have given it a strong 4 stars, however, certain events in the latter half lessened my overall appreciation. I had a hard time glossing over Jende’s behaviour, and, if I had to be completely honest, his actions seemed a bit out of character. The subtlety that had made the first part so poignant is also lost, and I found myself growing frustrated by the characters’ arcs. I also would have liked to see more of the Jongas’ relationship with their parents (they are only alluded to now and then).

Still, I loved the author’s prose and her piercing observations (on love, ambition, family, survival). Mbue is a clearly talented writer and I look forward to reading more by her.

my rating: ★★★½

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At the End of the Matinee by Keiichirō Hirano

Although At the End of the Matinee shares stylistic and thematic similarities with Keiichirō Hirano’s A Man, it makes for a far less intriguing read. At the End of the Matinee lacks the psychological edge that made A Man into such a compelling read. The story and characters of At the End of the Matinee have little depth, and, as the narrative progresses and the storyline veers into melodrama, I found myself growing increasingly frustrated by what I was reading (and disappointed too, considering that—abrupt ending aside—I found A Man to be a well-written and engaging read).

The opening pages of At the End of the Matinee are very reminiscent of the ones from A Man. Readers are informed that the story they are about to read is real and that to “protected their privacy” this unnamed author has “altered” certain details (such as their names). Yet, whereas this ‘fiction posing as true story’ device fitted A Man (given that the novel adopts a story within a story structure) here it just seemed a half-hearted attempt to make Satoshi and Yoko’s story more interesting to the reader. This prologue, after all, has no real impact on the remainder of the narrative.

Set in the mid to late 2000s At the End of the Matinee recounts the love story between Makino, a classic guitarist who as of late has become a wee bit disillusioned by his playing and performances, and Yoko, a journalist daughter of a Japanese mother and a Croatian father, who happens to be a renowned film director. The two are introduced after one of Makino’s performances through a friend of Yoko and immediately hit it off. Yoko is however engaged to a generic American man.
Despite the distance between them—Makino is in Japan or on tours that take him all over the world while Yoko, who is based in France, is for a period reporting from Iraq— the two begin an email correspondence. Their connection to and feelings for one another are intensified by their virtual exchanges. Makino believes they are meant to be together so decides to visit Yoko once she is back in France. Their reunion is ‘complicated’ by Jalila, who was forced to leave Baghdad and is now staying with Yoko. Yoko, who is also dealing with PTSD from her experiences in Iraq, is unwilling to leave Jalila by herself so her relationship with Makino is postponed. It became quite clear that Yoko cared very little for her American fiancée, and he merely functions as a plot device to make Yoko ‘unavailable. Makino is also going through a musical crisis of sorts, he feels like he is no longer a musical prodigy and that he does not compare to up-and-coming young musicians. The guy was bland, he is the kind of male protagonist you could expect in a work by Murakami. Yoko, instead, is the kind of female character that was clearly written by a man. Her love for Makino makes her all the “more beautiful” and she “ached to give herself to [him] with total abandon, to dissolve in his arms”. After Makino declares himself to her she immediately wants “to marry him and have his child”. And we are supposed to believe that a female journalist in the 2000s has never been confronted by an arrogant and or condescending man. Yeah, two days ago a British man, who knew full well that I am Italian, felt the need to tell me about how the rest of Italy views Rome.

Half-way through the novel reaches sky-high levels of miscommunication and I hated how things unfolded. I just did not buy into any of it. It also seemed far too easy to make certain characters into ‘bad’ eggs make Yoko and Makino’s behaviour seem just. And, I am so sick of this kind of clichéd portrayal of women (Yoko with her “unself-conscious beauty”, the ‘other woman’ is vapid and big breasted—a trollop clearly—and the ‘jealous’ woman whose jealousy knows no bounds).
The story is brimming with platitudes (“Happiness was having someone with whom to share all the everyday experiences”) and spirals into soap-opera levels of melodrama. There are attempts to make Makino and Yoko Not Like Other People™ because they talk extensively of literature but I found their comparison to Death In Venice to be both contrived and ill-fitting (also, they do not seem to feel the need to point out that Aschenbach’s obsession with Tadzio is…problematic to say the least).
At the End of the Matinee was a vexing read. The story is clichéd, the characters lack depth, the obstacles that keep Yoko and Makino apart were overdone, and I found myself annoyed by almost every single thing I was reading (like having Yoko and Makino be Jalila’s ‘saviours’….bah!). If you have not read anything by this author I suggest you pick up A Man instead.

ARC provided by NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

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Winter in Sokcho by Elisa Shua Dusapin

“Oozing winter and fish, Sokcho waited. That was Sokcho, always waiting, for tourists, boats, men, spring.”

I have once again a bone to pick with the person responsible for the blurb of a novel. Elisa Shua Dusapin is a Franco-Korean female author so that means she will be compared to a French author (Marguerite Duras) and to an author from East Asia (Sayaka Murata). Just like an an author from Latin America will be inevitably be compared to Isabel Allende and Gabriel García Márquez (often regardless of whether they have even written a magical realist work) or an Italian author will be pitched as being the new Elena Ferrante. This is so LAZY. Case in point, stylistically and tone-wise Winter in Sokcho shares little in common Murata and Duras. If anything, the protagonist’s somewhat detached narration brought to mind Sally Rooney and Naoise Dolan. Okay, now that I have gotten that out of my chest…onto the actual review.
As the title suggests Winter in Sokcho takes place during the winter in Sokcho a town in South Korea near the country’s border to North Korea. Our nameless narrator, a listless young woman, works at a guesthouse as a receptionist. She has a boyfriend she does particularly care for and seem to have no ambitions. Other than the fact that he is French, our protagonist knows little about her father’s identity. Her mother, alongside others, thinks that she should go to Seoul and seem to believe that our mc’s life would be easier if she underwent some cosmetic surgery. Our protagonist’s rather unenthusiastic daily-routine is interrupted by the arrival of a French cartoonist who is staying at her guesthouse. The two speak little but our narrator is shown to feel a certain lure towards him.
While I can see that for some this novella will be alluring, I found it boring and clichéd. The story lacked an ‘edge’, be it a biting humour or a more subversive protagonist. Nothing much happens and most pages seem dedicated to our narrator’s navel-gazing. There are also some odd description and word choices, such as when our protagonist notes that her “breasts tightened”. Wtf? And, no, she is not a bodybuilder. If she is aroused, wouldn’t have made more sense for her nipples to harden?
Not only did I find the protagonist to be bland but her rapport with the French guy came across as flat. Yet, I am meant to believe that they ‘share’ a connection…
I found this novella to be very much style over substance, which I am sure works for many other readers, I am just not one of them.

my rating: ★★☆☆☆

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