C

An illuminating meditation on desire, connection and women in society, as screened through the lens of a so-called "murder mystery". I found Butter really refreshing for how it refused to fit nicely into the aforementioned genre, and for how it deliberately spent more time on its reflections on Japanese society instead. While it seems like the issue of beauty and body image struck a chord in other reviewers, the novel's musings on idol culture, paedophilia and acts of care/desire within relationships resonated with me more, as someone born outside of the West.

Asako Yuzuki writes beautifully and incisively: her descriptions of food were some of the best I've ever read, and her main characters feel real and fully fleshed out. I particularly enjoyed her depiction of Rika and Makoto's lukewarm relationship, perhaps because I've been lucky enough to have never experienced that kind of dulled, monotonous mix of care and obligation. This, in contrast with the alluring pull of Manoko Kajii and (my?) frustrated attempts to understand her through Rika's interactions with her, was something of a masterful juxtaposition.

The last third of the narrative felt very rushed however, speeding through an array of new and underdeveloped characters, surprise backstories (that don't satisfactorily resolve imo), lingering queerbaiting, and sudden reflections on God (and Ramadan!). In contrast with other reviews, I wish this book could have gone on for longer! The world of Asako Yuzuki's Butter is deliciously rich and complex, reminding me of Banana Yoshimoto's Kitchen in their sensitive exploration of relationships and care in Japan.

"For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. (Luke 12:2)" // "In all desire to know there is already a drop of cruelty. (Nietzsche)"

So opens Maggie Nelson's The Red Parts. Reading it felt like holding your hands up to your face and yet watching something terrible unfold through gaps between your fingers. Precisely what that terrible thing was (is?), however, remains elusive: the speculation and recreation of how one murder (or a couple dozen) unfolds? The way suspected criminals and the victim's families are treated throughout a judicial trial? The wider ecosystem of the patriarchy that normalises violence against girls and women? Or that creeping horror directed at my own self, the reader, in my incessant need to know "the root of the matter"?

Nelson is frustrating, saintly and all I wish myself to be in the face of repeated tragedy and manmade horror. All I wanted of the book was a chance to dissolve my person, my own history of childhood abuses, into the rest of the faceless, angry mob that demands a verdict and a tell-all: justice for the deceased. Yet Nelson implodes that idea entirely, asking what justice means for those already dead, how resolution can ever possibly be offered to those who remain, and what we are to do with the emotions that we're left with.

Midway through the book, Nelson attends a vigil for a serial rapist sentenced to the death penalty. Despite how her own life has been affected by the murder of her aunt (possibly linked to a string of other related rapes and murders), she insists on attending, considering herself a bodhisattva, someone who "[enters] challenging situations in order to alleviate suffering" (p. 79). I am conflicted, myself an angry mobster, but one against capital punishment. My latter persuasion wins over, but this only lasts for an instant as Nelson's next line again disturbs whatever stable moral ground I thought to anchor myself on.

An essayist on ethics proffers this: "'My own view is that [a transfer of concern from victim to criminal] occurs in large part because of our unwillingness to face our own revulsion at what was done. It allows us to look away from the horror that another person was willing to cause. ... By repressing anger at wrongful violation, we may be attempting to deny we live in a society in which there really are fearful and awful people.'" (p. 80) Indeed, what is there to know beyond the painful possibility that sometimes violence is random, hate is unjustified, and all we do is continue to suffer through hurt?

The Red Parts, at least to me, is an astounding, baffling exercise of begrudging compassion for the hurt parts of myself and other people. I have no doubt that the finer points of Nelson's exploration of the issue are lost on me in this current state, but this only means I will be back for another re-reading or two as I interrogate the limits of my own care and understanding afforded to all of us whose lives have been affected by male violence.

Asako Yuzuki's writing is a joy to read. While Butter is meditative and lush in language, Hooked is fast-paced and plot-driven--not at all a bad thing when it comes to more character-focused narratives. Told from the perspective of 2 women who struggle to make friends with other women, the absence of any sane main character made the whole book arguably darker and more morally challenging than Butter. What arises in Hooked then, is a cruel, dog-eat-dog world where people's vulnerabilities are exploited (just because!), alienation is rife, and time is either squandered or optimised for efficiency in production. Marx would love this novel.

Between Eriko's immediate instability and Shōko's refusal to think, I delighted in the fact that the only two decent characters were men: the manager and Shōko's husband. I love seeing weird, deeply flawed and outright crazy women represented on the page, vis-a-vis upstanding ideals of men. Talk about flipping the script! The novel was pretty Caryl Churchill,Top Girls-esque for how it depicted power and selfishness as patriarchal, non-gendered traits that lead to one's detriment, not essentialised characteristics of men.

Despite me not knowing many women who struggle to make friends with women, or anyone downright lazy, Hooked was a humbling read for how it made its flawed characters off-putting in one instant, and then all-too-familiar in another. Seeing flashes of myself in even the most repugnant characters made me reflect a lot on how I was showing up for others in my own life, be they family, friends, and wider society. Another highly recommended read!

I loved how the playwright did not endeavour to resolve emotional tensions in her work. Written in 2007 following the property market boom and its corresponding complications like the phenomenon of the en bloc sale, Jean Tay handles her characters' respective arcs with care and consideration. Her overall motifs are real, genuine, and yet artsy and creative without losing that distinctive Singaporeaness. I especially appreciate the grounded quirkiness of the overall play: somehow it doesn't get more Southeast Asian than writing about the supernatural!

Sally Bong is an NPC protagonist. She allows life to happen to her because she has never felt strongly for anything, and yet possesses a strong moral compass that makes her hard to dislike. Her personal entanglements with fellow everyday folk lead her to discover a myriad of social issues that marginalised communities face in Singapore, and she is driven by her commitment to these human relationships--rather than any socio-political alignment--to make life a little easier on everyone.

Sebastian Sim's writing goes down easily. The language is entirely straightforward, with cause and effect explained in every line, and plot points are introduced and resolved within the chapter--sometimes even within the paragraph! Sim effectively uses a mixture of kooky situations, local history, and characters' naïveté to expose hypocrisy within the system, but the whole novel lacked any real tension point and felt more like a laundry list of issues presented in a rushed first draft. It read less like a narrative and more of a collection of short stories: every chapter dealt with a specific marginalised community, and characters did not seem to have any meaningful interiority explored beyond the sentence / paragraph / section they were allocated. What compounded this issue was the unchanging English-language register used to illustrate their multilingual speech (and the language they were speaking was not clearly indicated, which made some plot points confusing). Regardless of whether one spoke English / Malay / Mandarin / Chinese dialects, everyone's speech was peppered with overly English, overly formal, multi-syllabic adjectives and terminology that did not quite give off the unique texture of these languages, spoken in real life.

Sim's style might have been better suited for satires like his preceding Let's Give It Up for Gimme Lao! . Here, his attempts at sincerity sometimes fall flat. Still, And the Award Goes to Sally Bong! is a light and enjoyable read, seeking to dignify the life of the little man in prestige-seeking Singapore, where life (and general humanity) is validated through awards doled out by the ruling party. Sally Bong shows us that there is honour in simply being a good friend to those around us, with or without state-sanctioned recognition.