Eduardo Santiago
What is this power King has? She creates characters with whom I have nothing in common; whose lives are completely alien to me, nearly incomprehensible; who nevertheless draw me in so completely and intimately. Are there really people like this? Relationships? Is this what life is like for artist types? The sane part of me knows this is fiction but there’s this weird other facet of me that gets sucked in and so fervently wants to believe. This facet is making it hard for me now: having spent the past forty-eight hours immersed in these lives, vicariously feeling their connection, ... how do I reintegrate back into my own bleak life?
‘Isn’t love a kind of hope?’ I said.
‘No. Love is crushing. Love is something you let yourself feel at your own peril, despite your better sense.’
Then again, maybe I’m better off as I am.
Riveting. Mesmerizing. Beautiful language, minimalist and spare yet evocative. Savory. Intimidating at first, because she’s so well read, so many literary references and probably many more that I missed, but curiously she adds these in a way that exalts humanity, the reader included. I felt uplifted, never inadequate.
Highly recommended with two suggestions: if you can, read Writers & Lovers first. It’s not necessary—this book stands alone—but there’s just a little bit of context that you might appreciate. Second, grit your teeth through the abusive religiofreak shit in the first fifty pages. It’s offputting AF but do keep going, it gets better.
What is this power King has? She creates characters with whom I have nothing in common; whose lives are completely alien to me, nearly incomprehensible; who nevertheless draw me in so completely and intimately. Are there really people like this? Relationships? Is this what life is like for artist types? The sane part of me knows this is fiction but there’s this weird other facet of me that gets sucked in and so fervently wants to believe. This facet is making it hard for me now: having spent the past forty-eight hours immersed in these lives, vicariously feeling their connection, ... how do I reintegrate back into my own bleak life?
‘Isn’t love a kind of hope?’ I said.
‘No. Love is crushing. Love is something you let yourself feel at your own peril, despite your better sense.’
Then again, maybe I’m better off as I am.
Riveting. Mesmerizing. Beautiful language, minimalist and spare yet evocative. Savory. Intimidating at first, because she’s so well read, so many literary references and probably many more that I missed, but curiously she adds these in a way that exalts humanity, the reader included. I felt uplifted, never inadequate.
Highly recommended with two suggestions: if you can, read Writers & Lovers first. It’s not necessary—this book stands alone—but there’s just a little bit of context that you might appreciate. Second, grit your teeth through the abusive religiofreak shit in the first fifty pages. It’s offputting AF but do keep going, it gets better.