nathalie

Grotesque queer horror of the most beautiful and trashy variety. It is so rare to find something that so bluntly captures the trans experience, trans survival, love and gore wrapped in a scrapnel coated blanket. It is uncompromising, at times bordering on cruel, the accumulation of a thousand daily tragedies spilling out over a ceaseless apocalypse.

Within that pain are the pockets of hope that sustain us. The relationships and messy connections and bitter loyalty of communities continually rebuilding themselves because nobody else is going to save them. It is an uncertain future, but a future all the same.

Decent body horror novella with a lot of queer subtext. I think it tries to be about too many things and doesn't end up having coherent thoughts about any of them (transhumanism, being trans and beholden to the pharmaceutical industry, trauma from complicity with a dehumanizing corporation), but it's pretty sick when a lesbian turns into the monster from Carrion and eats Newark.

A compulsive and brutally nihalistic romance novel. This is my first Sally Rooney and not at all what I expected, but it's very easy to see why she has become so highly regarded. She writes her characters with such tenderness and empathy, in spite of their confounding decisions and cycles of self alienation. At the same time they possess an acute, almost meticulous physical awareness that nevertheless only makes their pain more acute.

This book is predominantly about an inability to connect to others, of superficial interactions insufficiently standing in for a deeper connection the two protagonists crave. The conclusions they arrive at are frustrating, but so deeply articulated that they make a sort of sense. Nobody is capable of unpacking their adolescent (and ongoing) trauma because it requires a vulnerability that frankly terrifies them. So they dissociate, attempt to mirror each other, cling to the closest approximation of happiness they can find. It is unrelentingly bleak and I admire the willingness to refuse an easy resolution.

The degree to which this articulates an actual worldview of impossible codependency is murkier for me, with a lot of baggage of outdated psychology being inserted as an inherent cause of the isolation everyone feels (rather than, say, the class disparity that is crudely gestured at but far outside the novel's interests). I cannot begrudge it too much as it is well in line with characters who themselves have very little awareness of the reasons they are so unhappy, but I am skeptical about the ways that viewpoint inevitably gets expanded to be some sort of social truth.

Mostly I am surprised by the book's coldness. I devoured it in a few days and came away feeling profoundly empty. I do mean this as a compliment of sorts.

Read this while trying to work through my thoughts on Arrest of a Stone Buddha (a game that blends French nihilism with Hong Kong action... definitely an interesting combination). It's a very compelling and enraging book, I think if I'd read this as a depressed teen alongside Myth of Sisyphus it would have been an instant favorite.

A decade later I don't have much use for nihilism and find the exercise here cloying and unmoving. I will give it props for being the type of philosophy I so strongly disagree with that reading it does prompt me to think a hell of a lot about why I am so put off, which I suppose is the purpose of philosophy in a way.

What an exasperating novel! Literally half of it is made up of the most inane, indulgent emails where characters ponder about consumerism and cosmetics and the philosophy of relationships, with zero theoretical background. Literally hundreds of pages of people just saying shower thought nonsense about labor and the exploitation of the global south and being like “idk if that makes sense, I've just been thinking about it.” These are the sorts of conversations I have with friends over coffee and they tell me to read a fucking book.

The parts that aren't Wikipedia rehashes are also bizarrely inert. Huge chunks of the book read like alt text (constant plain descriptions of characters opening messaging apps), with almost no character voice because it's written in this detached third person style where everyone is a soup of the author just trying to have a single coherent idea. The back third of the book is the best by a wide margin because the emails go away and characters actually interact, but even that is too little too late because it's coming in with dynamics that are explicitly pulling from decades of friendship we barely see. We're meant to assume these characters are best friends despite only having uncomfortable interactions and bizarre emails. Then - psych - it's COVID time and we're talking about how actually nothing changed and isn't it sad we can't go to the cinema. Just exhausting stuff.

Finally, there are ongoing gestures at queerness which are so fucking obnoxious. Two of the characters are supposedly bisexual but everyone craves the traditional stability of heteronormativity. The book literally ends with a character getting pregnant and talking about marrying her childhood best friend and moving to the country.

This will certainly appeal to a certain type of middle class liberal that fancies themselves progressive but refuses to engage with actual materialist reality. Why consider decades of theory when you can act like you're the first person who has ever thought maybe it's wrong to subjugate much of the world to preserve an expendable lifestyle. Rooney is so transparently trying to come to terms with her own wealth and celebrity and it's just embarrassing.

What a fucking let down after Normal People.