Elissa

On the one hand, The Midnight Library has the rare distinction of being a quick, compelling read that stirred me to serious introspection; I have always identified with Plath's fig-tree metaphor in The Bell Jar, and Haig's alternate take on the choices that make up our lives is an existentialist rebuke that resonated strongly for me personally. This is a page-turner: the chapters are short, with many bordering on abrupt (a stylistic choice that works well for the subject matter), and the prose is straightforward but contains more than a few pithy jewels. I loved the concept of a library wherein a visitor could flip through alternate lives as easily as through pages

On the other, I found this book to be predictable, heavy-handed, and overly didactic. (The further the protagonist, Nora, progressed toward self-actualization, the more The Midnight Library read to me like a self-help book, especially insofar as I felt free to assimilate what I wanted and scratch the rest.) With as much telling as the book does, it seems to show something different with surprising frequency; for instance, the book spends a couple of pages explaining in no uncertain terms that Nora should prioritize her own wishes rather than those of others, but, from start to finish, illustrates that her happiness hinges on her impact on others' lives. I also think it's dangerous and offensive to imply (as this book does) that depression is, or is the result of, a choice; so too is Nora's unnecessarily stigmatizing aversion to any of the many lives in which she discovers she is on antidepressants, as though this were a personal failing.

Ultimately, I found this novel a largely enjoyable and thought-provoking use of an evening, but it's no surprise that it's polarizing despite its acclaim and continued popularity.

Butts: A Backstory is an engaging, thoughtful microhistory of the phenomenon that is the human butt, placing society's current focus on bringing the rear to the fore in a larger societal context and interrogating its relationship to issues of gender, race (particularly Blackness), and cultural appropriation.

I've seen this book described as “funny”, and I'm not sure I agree; although Radke peppers wit throughout, unless you feel that seeing the phrase “human butt” in print is the height of comedy (I agree, but that's on me, not the author), you should prepare not for a cavalcade of laughs but for a journey to answer sometimes uncomfortable questions with a dose of good humor and a body-positive message.

Thanks to Radke's perspective, I'm glad to have begun 2023 not with another vow to transform myself, but with a healthy dose of self-love and an inquisitive, critical look at the societal pressures that shape the way we view our shapes.

Although I often felt so adrift in imagery and metaphor while reading this epistolary novella that I had a hard time grasping the ancillary plot elements, this inventive work left a smile on my face. The prose poetry of This Is How You Lose the Time War, if at times abstruse, gleams even when describing the horrific, and especially when describing the beautiful.

Note: unless I missed more here than I thought, it is never once explained how the protagonists travel in time. Some other key details I'd have liked to see elaborated include the inner workings of the protagonists' unconventional letter-writing and, indeed, the reason for the time war itself; these were either implied, glossed over, or outright ignored, which rankled me. If you must be told the “why” and “how” to enjoy a time-travel story, this book is probably not for you.

This book's saving grace is that it is not actually about the titular time war. At its core, This Is How You Lose the Time War is a romance, one that the travel back and forth in time and space ultimately serves to facilitate. In this respect, it tells a brilliantly original story of the triumph of love in the face of the horrors of war. I can't say I enjoyed this book until I really got into the rhythm of El-Mohtar's and Gladstone's worldbuilding-by-implication, but when I did get into it, oh, boy, did I.

First of all, I mean no disrespect to the sisters who endured the horrors detailed within the pages of If You Tell. I spent most of this book viscerally disgusted by the fact that a human being could do any of this to other human beings, let alone her own daughters. I feel for them; the trauma they suffered should not be minimized, and their stories should be told, so long as they wish it.

I will give credit to Olsen where credit is due: this is an incredibly compelling story. However, the same cannot necessarily be said about the storytelling. The structure of the book puzzled me: it seemed linear, except when it wasn't. Too many of the approximately ninety chapters (no joke) largely seemed to restate facts that had already been covered, making the book a slog despite relatively easy reading. Olsen's frequent employment of line breaks for emphasis quickly became a pet peeve, as did his use of “at once” to juxtapose two essential synonyms (i.e.—and I'm paraphrasing, because I've already returned the book—”It was at once repulsive and disgusting”).

I only saw If You Tell through to the end because I had to know what happened next. Some people surely will—and do—love this book; ultimately, I was not one of them.