Nik Kroushl
Maybe it was because I listened to this book rather than read it and that makes the teenage affect much heavier, or maybe Lin Manuel-Miranda's voice reading teen boys in love broke my suspension of disbelief, but this book's writing felt heavy on the cheese and sentimentality and light on plot. I don't remember feeling that way about the initial book, which I really loved. The sequel has its moments – the author has a poetic style that frequently resolves in great lines, the incorporation of the AIDS pandemic and the stakes of queerness in this world being high, and the characterization of the parents especially is multilayered. (It's rare to get a YA book where parents are people too, and even good people central to the book.) Often I felt like this book walked in circles; I felt unconvinced at certain plot points.
Other reviews have correctly pointed out that the plot point of transphobia in the first book was not resolved or addressed in the second. In hindsight there's no reason why Ari's brother's crime had to use a trans woman as a victim when the books do not deal with broader trans representation or issues in any way.
I didn't quite finish this before the audiobook zipped back to the library but I got close enough – and the reason I didn't finish before the due date is because this book is a slog. The author uses the phrase “which is to say” approximately a thousand times, is deeply enamored with adverbs, and writes in a dense and somewhat confusing way, vascillating between describing a catastrophic effect of climate change as a foregone conclusion and then writing something like “but actually, scientists don't know how this will play out and there are several things that might stop it.” (I mean, just admit that we don't know exactly what might happen up front?)
It's entirely possible that I had trouble engaging with this book because it's so very bleak. For the first couple hours I did feel weirdly empowered by getting a vision of what a heavily climate-change-affected world might look like – and hope because, in the introduction, the author notes that he decided to become a parent despite the bleak outlooks. Wallace-Wells does do a good job of describing scientific processes in laymen's terms (things like the Albedo effect and carbon capture). I do feel like I received a broad survey of the potential effects of climate change which I did not previously have appreciation for, though the sheer volume of information (and perhaps the audiobook format) made it difficult to hold onto the information. That said, the most concrete conclusion I got from this book was that we really have no damn clue what climate change will wreak upon us, except that it's probably going to be pretty damn bad. And that at this point, cutting emissions will not on its own be enough to change the course – that now, we do actually need to look at technology solutions in addition to drastic changes to our infrastructure and ways of life.
What a wonderful first book of the year. So much love clearly went into writing this book about love, which encompasses not only romantic love but all relationships and a “love ethic” with which we treat ourselves and strangers. There are some dated moments (including a weird condemnation of Monica Lewinsky?) but overall this is a timeless book. One that I feel might be worth a yearly revisit.
I really loved how concrete this book was. Very rarely is a personal finance book going to discuss NIMBYism and gentrification, or to clearly articulate the complex overlapping circumstances of trying to “do good” with money. Hester also does a great job in my opinion of emphasizing that personal choices can't eclipse the need for system level policy change, but that consumer behavior can in some circumstances exert influence. She also pulls in more than just climate and environment, including considerations of labor rights, racial justice, international development, and social justice in evals of consumer choices.
This book gave me some achievable goals for 2022 and a better framework for evaluating the behavior of companies and my choices as a person who buys stuff (which we all are).
This was a fun book with a singular voice. I liked the second half better than the first (or maybe I settled into the style more). I think the humor is definitely meant for folks in their 30s and 40s (as Irby is) but I still enjoyed the book a lot, especially when she was able to tie the funny and ridiculous to the profound.
I flew through this book, partly because I did identify with a lot of the experiences and partly because I am a trash Zillennial so Jen's sense of humor soaked in internet memes and self deprecation really worked for me. There were several really poignant essays and concepts: The Power Dynamic, Neon Sweater. Knots (all in a row!), A Queer Love Story. There were also resonant parts of other essays. Jen's memoir encompasses queerness but also privilege, politics, parriarchy, technology etc., a kind of overlap that feels necessary to me.
Some small complaints. Jen pulls influence from Shiri Eisner whose book similarly has some resonant points and also some big flops. Jen also apparently has only had exclusively bad experiences with lesbians, and makes several offhanded quips about how lesbians don't like them. (These are mostly jokes and obviously the author's experiences are their own, but still.) (I'm disgustingly in love with a lesbian and thus defensive. Lesbians are great! Dating in New York just apparently sucks no matter which genders you're into.)
Some other reviewers have mentioned Jen's passages about privilege and unlearning. I feel split on these because while on one hand I think it's refreshing to have someone own up to being a clueless white person who did racist things and is trying to do better, and on the other hand the inserts felt performative in some ways (especially because... she is writing and making money on a book in a space/platform that QTPOC authors are often denied). But also, writing this book without acknowledgment of privilege or fuckups or the impacts of racism & race on queerness would be worse, and nonfiction books written explicitly about bisexuality already seem scarce. I'm not sure white people “unlearning” in public forums/platforms is ever not going to be somehow performative. For this reason I would say that anyone who doesn't want to deal with “unlearning” white people can skip this one, but there are essays and moments worth reading if you don't mind (or if you are or have been that same cringey “unlearning” white person... I have been, probably still am).
Jen doesn't write anything more revelatory than the queer theorists she often quotes. But couched in the narratives of their experiences, I resonated with many of the essays in a visceral way that sometimes doesn't happen for me with theory.
I flew through this book, partly because I did identify with a lot of the experiences and partly because I am a trash Zillennial so Jen's sense of humor soaked in internet memes and self deprecation really worked for me. There were several really poignant essays and concepts: The Power Dynamic, Neon Sweater. Knots (all in a row!), A Queer Love Story. There were also resonant parts of other essays. Jen's memoir encompasses queerness but also privilege, politics, parriarchy, technology etc., a kind of overlap that feels necessary to me.
Some small complaints. Jen pulls influence from Shiri Eisner whose book similarly has some resonant points and also some big flops. Jen also apparently has only had exclusively bad experiences with lesbians, and makes several offhanded quips about how lesbians don't like them. (These are mostly jokes and obviously the author's experiences are their own, but still.) (I'm disgustingly in love with a lesbian and thus defensive. Lesbians are great! Dating in New York just apparently sucks no matter which genders you're into.)
Some other reviewers have mentioned Jen's passages about privilege and unlearning. I feel split on these because while on one hand I think it's refreshing to have someone own up to being a clueless white person who did racist things and is trying to do better, and on the other hand the inserts felt performative in some ways (especially because... she is writing and making money on a book in a space/platform that QTPOC authors are often denied). But also, writing this book without acknowledgment of privilege or fuckups or the impacts of racism & race on queerness would be worse, and nonfiction books written explicitly about bisexuality already seem scarce. I'm not sure white people “unlearning” in public forums/platforms is ever not going to be somehow performative. For this reason I would say that anyone who doesn't want to deal with “unlearning” white people can skip this one, but there are essays and moments worth reading if you don't mind (or if you are or have been that same cringey “unlearning” white person... I have been, probably still am).
Jen doesn't write anything more revelatory than the queer theorists she often quotes. But couched in the narratives of their experiences, I resonated with many of the essays in a visceral way that sometimes doesn't happen for me with theory.
As I said to my girlfriend, “I was expecting to read some fun lesbian comics but here I am getting life lessons and models of being and confirmation that the world has always been this ridiculous and people live in it anyway. Like it's both strange and comforting to see them all stressing over Bush and related political events because at least other people have felt the apocalypse is nigh for many decades.” Basically this book is what The L Word should have been, particularly as it incorporates politics directly and materially into the lives of the characters. I particularly enjoyed the long running motif of contrasting Mo's hysteria about global catastrophes and oppression with the material life of grassroots organizers and working class folks around her – essentially, we can theorize and catastrophize all we want, but doing so won't change things, because only working in community with others for material good changes things. The cast is broad, diverse, fully realized with plenty of depth (even in characters who are less frequent or introduced later)... and full of queers, and mostly queer women, all of which I love.
I do feel that the comics were better in the beginning. Toward the end, many of the characters got complacent and it sometimes felt like Bechtel did too. I felt this particularly with the introduction of of Cynthia, the Republican college student taught by Ginger. The characters, who cut their teeth as radical feminists, battle wits with her but rarely challenge her materially; it is surprising to me to see Cynthia and Ginger interact without any real interrogation of the racism of Republican policies (the xenophobia and classism, yes, does get engaged; but still). My other complaints are that some of the characters' transphobia, while checked and picked apart by others (usually Lois), does not often have material critiques or consequences; and that Sydney is a terrible person and Mo is kind of also a terrible person for being with her. (Which... is maybe the point. But seriously how are you supposed to root for Sydney who does terrible shit routinely and never actually apologizes or changes??)
Despite these gripes, I have a feeling I will return to this book whenever I want to be around queer women who are unapologetically political and who muddle on even when the world around them seems bleak.
This book is really all over the place. Some positives are the inclusion of trans experiences and issues, critique of whiteness in bisexual and queer communities, critique of assimilationism in mainstream queer movements, and some thought-provoking writing on bisexuality as a means of disruption and and hybridity. Some negatives include the lengthy discussions of “monosexism,” some strained comparisons of bisexuality to “racialized identities”, and the fact that I can't really find a compelling thesis in the book.
The author contradicts herself a lot, which she might argue is a quality of bisexuality and therefore not necessarily bad. In fact, the first thing she does is say that bisexuality cannot be defined. And then she defines it. I found it difficult to follow and believe her argument that bisexuality is both a unique and distinct identity/concept and also a fluid connector of many things. The author states many times that she doesn't want “monosexism” to imply that biphobia expressed by gays and lesbians is equal to biphobia expressed by straight people, and then repeatedly implies that it is. The same thing happens in the discussions of “passing,” where the writing tries to say that bisexuals “passing” for straight is not a privilege but also is. (I think we need to be honest that the emotional damage of being presumed straight is different from the potential physical violence that could result from being clocked as queer. Equating those things feels lacking in truth.)
I think other readers have mentioned this also, but it could've been a much shorter book. There are some pieces of value here but it's very esoteric.
Read cover to cover in 24 hours. Every delicious thing about YA fantasy–the secret and dark world of magic that our main character enters; the mysterious powers she just discovered in herself; the charming and powerful love interest who captures her heart at a breakneck pace. (And of course the hint of a potential love triangle.) The writing was well-paced with a large but well-delineated cast of complex characters and richly descriptive, often lyrical writing. Most people probably saw the twist at the end coming, but I didn't because I'm thick when it comes to plot twists (but it was great). Deonn writes about grief in an especially poignant and poetic way. I also loved reading a YA fantasy set in a place so familiar to me: NC, not NYC (and it engaged with UNC's legacy being built by enslaved people). Deonn pulls what is most compelling about Arthurian legend, the lineage and myth, the power and loyalty, while also engaging the horrific history of the secret magic world's colonialism and enmeshment with white supremacy. As Deonn writes in the end notes, this book asks the question of who gets to be legendary, and anchors a Black heroine as the heir of multiple lineages of power–and specifically contrasts the magic grounded in white supremacy with the magic of Bree's family and their resistance to it.
Very excited for book 2 and all to come.
Read in one sitting. I loved Juliet from her first letter at the start of the book. Might be one of favorite books of the year. Wonderfully complex characters, lots of queer found family content (and also wholesome birth family content.... I'm a sucker for families), nuanced critiques of white feminism and biological essentialism, delicious moments of romance (and heartbreak), the demonstrated danger of meeting your heroes, a singular and funny and sweet voice (though also a very YA voice for those who prefer other styles), and an all around beautiful capture of what it is to be 19 and figuring so much stuff out.
I have read very few books with an almost 100% queer cast and it was so fun to be in this world (which also was almost devoid of male characters). Harlowe Brisbane also occupied a complex dual role of mentor/idol and antagonist, and the conflict there has no easy resolutions, which feels true to life. Most of all, Juliet is a beautiful character learning how to claim her own space and her growth throughout the novel is warming to witness.
Just as good the 2nd time around, going through with my students in a “Personal finance and systemic inequality” course. The students got a lot out of the book and the discussions it inspired!
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Another “required reading” book. Excellent treatise linking historical events and policies with modern economic and health outcomes in the U.S. A perfect blend of policy research and statistics with personal narrative and anecdotes.
Butler continues to tell gripping stories with well-wrought characters and large-looming social commentary. Butler's use and building of religion is beautiful and grounding and unique. This story is incredibly dark but still somehow hopeful. I see it less as a cautionary tale and more an example of the sort of community building that will be necessary if we want to build a better world. There are definitely some loose ends I'm hoping get tied up in the sequel.
Desmond used ethnography to create vivid narratives of the lives of people facing eviction and weave in data on eviction and affordable housing crises, explanations of processes and systems and their failings. I have a much better understanding of housing voucher programs, landlords' exploitation, and gaps and holes in our welfare systems through which people fall (I also think my reading was very much helped and contextualized by having read The Color of Law beforehand). My two main gripes here are that a) despite his attempt to remove himself from the narrative, Desmond's writing about the people in the book often feels paternalistic, and b) his ending recommendation for universal voucher systems doesn't fully convince me that such a system wouldn't still be ripe for abuse (by landlords) and leave people behind. To his credit he admits other solutions can and will come and perhaps vouchers are a helpful stopgap.
I love that Jemisin has an incredible ability to mythologize, and she does it beautifully as usual. I don't know that any other writer captures the ineffability of godhood the way she does. But this book felt like a haphazard means to achieve an end (and I do like the end and think it makes sense, but the getting-there is frazzled and has more than a few confusing plot holes). The character development and relationships are much stronger in the first two books and the main villain/problem are a confusing coverup for the real problem of the book. The story did a lot but it was trying to do even more (probably too much).
That said. I would read a whole novel about Glee Shoth. Please and thank you.
This book was so much freaking fun. I was unexpectedly sucked in and compelled. Impeccable research on all levels. A surprising amount of wrestling with complex parts of the human experience. A pace that never felt sluggish despite a good amount of time spent in Regency mundaneness. I only wish the romance had felt a more natural.