Manuela

Flesh is one of those novels that feels deceptively simple as you're reading it... until you realise your entire nervous system has been quietly clenching the whole time. David Szalay writes with such a stripped-down, almost skeletal style that you start to feel like you're reading the outline of someone's life rather than the life itself — and somehow that makes everything ten times more unsettling.

What really struck me is how emotionally bare the book is. Not in a “raw, confessional, pour your heart out” kind of way, but in a “did someone redact every internal thought this man ever had?” kind of way. István goes through every stage of life — adolescence, violence, sex, war, marriage, wealth, tragedy — and we rarely get more than an “okay.” I genuinely don't want to know how many times that word appears in this novel because by the halfway point I was tempted to shake him by the shoulders and scream “react to something!!”

But that, I think, is the point.
This flatness reveals something about masculinity that we don't really talk about: how boys grow up without being taught how to process emotions; how men are socialised into silence; how their inner world isn't nurtured the way ours is. The writing style isn't just a stylistic choice — it's a commentary on a life lived without emotional vocabulary. A life observed, endured, reacted to, but rarely steered.

István doesn't live his life as much as life happens to him. Even when he tries to assert himself — like the affair that spirals into tragedy, his bleak military service, or the surreal rise into extreme wealth through marriage — he's not an active agent. He's a witness to his own story. The book is so sparse that you feel the emptiness around him, the lack of interiority, the unspoken grief of never having learned how to exist in your own skin.

And honestly? It made me uncomfortable.
I've talked to friends about it, and many said they recognised men in their lives in István — which terrified me. Surely society isn't this broken? Surely there are more tools available for men to process something? But maybe that's the quiet horror of this novel: that this emotional vacancy is far more common than we admit. That the men around us are just moving forward the way István does — by inertia, not intention.

As a reading experience, it's both fascinating and frustrating. Part of me wanted a sharper criticism, a clearer interrogation of the psychological damage. I would've liked something from inside István — a thought, a fear, a flicker of anger — instead of needing to infer everything through silence. But at the same time, maybe the silence is the message.

Flesh is a brilliant conversation starter because you can interpret it in so many different directions:
– a portrait of masculinity built on emotional starvation
– a study of how class mobility warps the self
– a life lived in quiet trauma, where no one ever asks the right questions
– a European novel about power, displacement, and drift
– or simply a deeply unsettling character study of a man who never learned how to be a person

Whatever the interpretation, the impact is the same: a lingering discomfort, a quiet ache, and a strange fear for the men in our lives who move through the world without ever being taught how to feel.

It's a great book — but don't expect comfort. Expect a very long “okay,” stretched across an entire human life.

Concept: 5 stars. Execution: trapped-in-eternity-with-a-woman-who-does-nothing stars.

This book had so much potential. The premise is fascinating. A woman wakes up to the same day—November 18th—again and again and again. Time loop, but make it literary. I was ready for existential dread, surreal self-discovery, emotional breakdowns, and maybe some chaotic reinventions. Instead... I got beige. Just pure existential beige.

Tara, our narrator, instead of doing anything remotely interesting with her infinite November 18ths, she mostly walks around being vaguely distressed and not particularly curious. Philosophical undertones? Sure. Emotional claustrophobia? Definitely. But plot? Action? Evolution? Not really. Just vibes. And not even strong ones.

I love literary fiction, I crave quiet meditations on time and being—but this one made me feel like I was stuck in the loop too, rereading the same sentence emotionally, if not literally. The book contemplates what it means to live when everything else stays the same, but it doesn't offer much more than a shrug.

I'm glad I read it, mostly because now I can stop reading it. I won't be continuing the series (six more books?? of this??). But hey—if slow abstract narratives with minimal plot and maximum thought spirals are your jam, this might just be your personal hell-loop of heaven.

I can't remember the last time I read a novel that juggled this much emotional weight — betrayal, illness, motherhood, identity — with such precision and restraint. Maggie; or, A Man and a Woman Walk into a Bar is a debut that's as inventive as it is quietly devastating. But while I admired a lot of what it did, I couldn't quite connect with it the way I hoped to.

The premise alone is unforgettable: a woman finds out her husband is cheating on her with someone named Maggie, and then shortly after, is diagnosed with breast cancer. She names the tumor Maggie too. And that's the setup — a dark, metaphor-rich duality that runs through the whole book.

Told in fragmented, sharp vignettes, the novel charts her quiet survival — talking to her tumor, creating a “user manual” for the woman who replaced her, and retelling Chinese myths to her children in an effort to anchor them (and herself) to something lasting. The writing is smart, darkly funny, and stylistically compelling.

But where it lost me a bit was in the narrator's almost clinical detachment from it all. She never fully expresses anger, even as her life is split apart by betrayal and illness. And while I can respect the choice to avoid melodrama or self-pity, I sometimes craved a flicker of real rage or emotional chaos — something human and messy to break through the cool surface. Her distance, while understandable, created a bit of distance for me too.

Still, there's a lot to admire. Katie Yee's voice is unique, her structure bold, and the way she weaves humour into pain is nothing short of impressive. This isn't a tidy, linear story — and it's better for it. If you're drawn to fragmentary narratives, quiet emotional journeys, and characters who process the unthinkable with a deadpan sense of humour, this might hit the spot. It didn't quite gut me the way I hoped it would, but I won't forget it either.

There's something timeless about Frankenstein. It's a story we all think we know - the mad scientist, the monster, the lightning bolt - but reading Mary Shelley's actual novel is a completely different experience. Beneath the gothic drama and fog-covered graveyards is a surprisingly introspective book about ambition, isolation, and the unbearable consequences of playing God.

What struck me most is how human the creature is. He starts out gentle and curious, only to become vengeful after being abandoned and rejected by everyone he meets - including his own creator. In many ways, Victor is the real “monster”: brilliant but arrogant, consumed by guilt, and too cowardly to face what he's done. The push and pull between these two tragic figures feels more psychological than supernatural, and that's what makes it powerful even two centuries later.

Shelley wrote this at 18 (!!), and it still feels unsettlingly modern - a warning about scientific overreach, but also about loneliness, responsibility, and what happens when we create something we refuse to care for. The language can be a little dense (hello, 19th-century prose), but the emotional core is as sharp as ever.

If you think you know Frankenstein, read it again. It's less about the monster under the bed and more about the one inside us.

ITCH! by Gemma Amor absolutely lives up to its name - I don't think I've ever felt so physically uncomfortable while reading a book, and I mean that as a compliment. The horror here doesn't rely on jump scares or shock value; it's that slow, creeping tension that makes your skin crawl and your stomach twist. I was reading this in public and had to stop myself from grimacing more than once because I was genuinely disgusted (in the best possible way).

The story follows Josie, who returns to her hometown after an abusive relationship, hoping to start over. Instead, she stumbles upon a decaying body in the woods - and from there, things spiral fast. What I really loved is how Amor balances the psychological with the physical: the body horror is relentless, but it's also a reflection of Josie's trauma, her loss of control, and the way abuse leaves marks that never quite fade.

It's also refreshing to read a folk horror that's grounded in the present - no distant, eerie village that time forgot, but a very real, recognizable setting that makes everything feel closer to home (and therefore way more disturbing). The themes around abusive relationships are handled with empathy and care, showing how hard it is to walk away and stay away, and how healing can be just as messy as the horror itself.

If I had to nitpick, I'd say a few of the more surreal moments stretched believability for me, especially since most of the story feels so rooted in reality. I think I wanted just a bit more buildup to Josie's descent to fully buy into her unraveling. But honestly, that's minor - the book delivers exactly what I want from horror: something tense, visceral, and emotionally sharp.

ITCH! is the kind of story that makes you want to shower immediately after finishing it, but you'll be thinking about it long after you do.

Merged review:

ITCH! by Gemma Amor absolutely lives up to its name - I don't think I've ever felt so physically uncomfortable while reading a book, and I mean that as a compliment. The horror here doesn't rely on jump scares or shock value; it's that slow, creeping tension that makes your skin crawl and your stomach twist. I was reading this in public and had to stop myself from grimacing more than once because I was genuinely disgusted (in the best possible way).

The story follows Josie, who returns to her hometown after an abusive relationship, hoping to start over. Instead, she stumbles upon a decaying body in the woods - and from there, things spiral fast. What I really loved is how Amor balances the psychological with the physical: the body horror is relentless, but it's also a reflection of Josie's trauma, her loss of control, and the way abuse leaves marks that never quite fade.

It's also refreshing to read a folk horror that's grounded in the present - no distant, eerie village that time forgot, but a very real, recognizable setting that makes everything feel closer to home (and therefore way more disturbing). The themes around abusive relationships are handled with empathy and care, showing how hard it is to walk away and stay away, and how healing can be just as messy as the horror itself.

If I had to nitpick, I'd say a few of the more surreal moments stretched believability for me, especially since most of the story feels so rooted in reality. I think I wanted just a bit more buildup to Josie's descent to fully buy into her unraveling. But honestly, that's minor - the book delivers exactly what I want from horror: something tense, visceral, and emotionally sharp.

ITCH! is the kind of story that makes you want to shower immediately after finishing it, but you'll be thinking about it long after you do.

Merged review:

ITCH! by Gemma Amor absolutely lives up to its name - I don't think I've ever felt so physically uncomfortable while reading a book, and I mean that as a compliment. The horror here doesn't rely on jump scares or shock value; it's that slow, creeping tension that makes your skin crawl and your stomach twist. I was reading this in public and had to stop myself from grimacing more than once because I was genuinely disgusted (in the best possible way).

The story follows Josie, who returns to her hometown after an abusive relationship, hoping to start over. Instead, she stumbles upon a decaying body in the woods - and from there, things spiral fast. What I really loved is how Amor balances the psychological with the physical: the body horror is relentless, but it's also a reflection of Josie's trauma, her loss of control, and the way abuse leaves marks that never quite fade.

It's also refreshing to read a folk horror that's grounded in the present - no distant, eerie village that time forgot, but a very real, recognizable setting that makes everything feel closer to home (and therefore way more disturbing). The themes around abusive relationships are handled with empathy and care, showing how hard it is to walk away and stay away, and how healing can be just as messy as the horror itself.

If I had to nitpick, I'd say a few of the more surreal moments stretched believability for me, especially since most of the story feels so rooted in reality. I think I wanted just a bit more buildup to Josie's descent to fully buy into her unraveling. But honestly, that's minor - the book delivers exactly what I want from horror: something tense, visceral, and emotionally sharp.

ITCH! is the kind of story that makes you want to shower immediately after finishing it, but you'll be thinking about it long after you do.