wrap up: June 2018

Best book of the month: On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
Other favorites: From a Low and Quiet Sea by Donal Ryan, The Blood Miracles by Lisa McInerney, The Trojan Women by Euripides, The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson


It was a pretty decent reading month!  There were a handful of duds but also a lot that I ended up really loving.

Currently reading: Suicide Club by Rachel Heng, How to Be Both by Ali Smith

I think July is going to be an interesting reading month – I’m determined to read more classics than I have been recently, plus I have a planned buddy read of a Robin Hobb novel and also have a library hold for The Poppy War coming in soon, so it’s going to be a lot of classics and fantasy, apparently.  And I’m not totally caught up with ARCs yet but I’m getting there, so I’m hoping to do quite a bit more mood reading than I have been recently, which is exciting!

What’s the best book you read in June?  Comment and let me know!

book review: Whistle in the Dark by Emma Healey



Harper, July 24, 2018


Whistle in the Dark begins with one of the most enticing premises of anything I’ve read all year: when Jen Maddox and her fifteen-year-old daughter Lana are away on holiday in the English countryside, Lana goes missing for exactly four days, and after she’s found, she claims to have no memory of what happened to her. This book had all the potential in the world to be eerie and gripping and moving, but it sadly dropped the ball.

This is not a mystery about a girl’s disappearance; at the heart of Whistle in the Dark is Jen and Lana’s fraught relationship, which feels almost claustrophobic. You want to take both characters by the shoulders and scream at them for their inability to communicate with one another. Which isn’t a criticism – I thought the tension in this relationship was Whistle in the Dark‘s biggest strength, even if it wasn’t the most pleasant reading experience.

I just felt like this book didn’t quite know what it wanted to be. It was part crime thriller, part literary character study, and all the while just spinning its wheels, never really going anywhere. The same ideas are recycled ad nauseum in a sort of cyclical format that doesn’t suit the kind of depth that Healey is trying to achieve here. I feel like there’s a lot that could have been said about mental health, religious fanaticism, and motherhood, but none of this is fully realized. Instead we chronicle Jen’s almost comical levels of paranoia as she over-analyzes every breath that Lana takes, which gets old after several hundred pages.

This also has some of the most trite dialogue I’ve ever read – this is one of those books where no one talks like an actual human being, but instead pontificates with the articulation of a philosophy scholar, speaking in bizarre abstractions and it ultimately detracts from the realism of their characters.

I think most readers are going to be very unhappy and underwhelmed by the ending, but I actually didn’t mind it. I think it’s important not to think of it as a twist or a reveal, necessarily, just kind of… a logical conclusion? I don’t know. But I liked the way it was done and I liked the closure Jen was able to glean from that. I just wish it hadn’t been such a drag to get to that point. I couldn’t wait for this book to end.

Thank you to Harper and Emma Healey for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.

book review: A Double Life by Flynn Berry


A DOUBLE LIFE by Flynn Berry
Viking, July 31, 2018

Flynn Berry’s debut novel Under the Harrow was one of the more pleasant reading surprises I’ve had this year; I felt like I’d found a hidden gem that ticked all of my thriller boxes (atmospheric, dark, is more of a character study than a fast-paced page-turner). A Double Life just reinforced my appreciation of Berry’s style. I can see where her books won’t work for all thriller lovers, but they really work for me.

Loosely based on the Lord Lucan case, A Double Life follows Claire, whose father murdered her nanny, beat her mother, and vanished without a trace when she was a child. Now Claire is a successful doctor in London, but each possible sighting of her father sends her into such a state of anxiety she finally decides to seek answers for herself.

A Double Life is first and foremost a psychologically driven character study, which examines class and privilege and the role that plays in the crime that was committed. This kind of reminded me of something like The Secret History or Social Creature or The Riot Club, but instead of telling the story from an insular perspective that indulges in the fantasy of living that kind of possibly elite life, it’s like if The Secret History had been narrated by Richard’s mother, or someone else who was close enough to touch that lifestyle without actually living it. Consequently it’s not quite as glitzy and glamorous as any of those other stories mentioned, but it gives us a protagonist who’s easy to relate to and root for. The plot is gripping as well, though it’s not particularly twisty – but that’s fine as Berry’s writing keeps you engaged throughout.

Overall I have to say that I did prefer Under the Harrow to A Double Life since the former had more to offer in the way of atmosphere with its setting in the English countryside, but I did really enjoy this as well. If you prefer your thrillers to be character-driven and lean a bit more toward the literary side of things, I’d highly recommend giving Flynn Berry a try.

Thank you to Netgalley, Viking, and Flynn Berry for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.

book review: Can You Hear Me? by Elena Varvello



CAN YOU HEAR ME? by Elena Varvello
Quercus, June 2018


Can You Hear Me? by Elena Varvello was originally published in Italian in 2016 under the title La vita felice (The Happy Life), and was recently translated into English by Alex Valente. It’s part thriller, part coming of age novel set in Northern Italy in 1978 and follows a sixteen-year-old boy Elia Furenti, whose father is suffering a mental breakdown after being laid off his job.

I’m struggling to get my thoughts together on this book, and I think it’s because it felt more like a first draft than a finished novel to me, and it’s hard to critique something with such abundant potential. It’s gripping and eerie and the setting of this small Northern Italian town is brilliantly realized, and the examination of mental health at a time when the vocabulary and resources for Elia’s father’s breakdown weren’t readily available was handled very well.

Interestingly, most of this book’s tension came from a subplot whose climax is spelled out to us from the very beginning. Can You Hear Me? opens with Elia telling the reader that his father kidnaps a girl and drives her into the woods – and then in a series of chapters scattered through Elia’s own narrative, he speculates on what exactly happened in his father’s van, what the girl was thinking and feeling in those moments. There isn’t much of a mystery here, but these chapters are filled with such a sense of foreboding that I found this technique – stating the resolution and then backtracking to hypothesize on the details – quite effective.

Where this book fell short for me was the coming of age element, which was just so paint-by-numbers. Elia meets a boy his age, Stefano, and is drawn to Stefano’s young mother, Anna, who, according to this book’s summary, ‘propels Elia to the edge of adulthood’. I mean, we can probably all fill in the blanks from there.

There’s also an undeniable sense of detachment from all of these characters, who all speak in abstract, fragmented sentences (this is where I’m wondering if I should have opted for the Italian text instead of the translation) and walk around all in varying states of apathy. Elia’s teenage ennui just felt so generic to me – it was like Varvello took a handful of bildungsroman protagonists and put them in a blender to achieve peak indifference but then forgot to imbue her creation with any sort of personality of his own. And then multiply this vacuousness by ten and you get Anna.

Varvello says in an afterward that Elia’s father was loosely based on her own father, and this shows in how he is clearly the most intriguing figure in this novel. And while her decision to tell his story from the point of view of his teenage son clearly came from her own personal history, Elia’s own narrative just never came to life in a satisfying way. This novel just felt too short and fragmented to pack a real emotional punch, and I think it could have benefited from fleshing out the majority of these characters. But I did race through this and find it sufficiently tense and engrossing.

Thank you to Netgalley, Quercus, and Elena Varvello for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.

book review: On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan


Jonathan Cape, 2007

What a quietly stunning little book. I didn’t know what to expect from On Chesil Beach, having only read and been somewhat underwhelmed by Atonement about a decade ago, but I have now officially been converted to the church of Ian McEwan. I could not believe the emotional torment he managed to put me through in the space of 200 bite-sized pages.

On Chesil Beach is an almost-love story about Florence and Edward, two young lovers on their honeymoon on the coast of England in 1962. What should be a romantic weekend quickly devolves into something much sadder as an ocean of miscommunications piles up between the two characters. Florence is asexual, though the term asexual is never used because of the time period, and the lack of access to this concept and vocabulary has led Florence to believe that she’s fundamentally broken. As she’s unable to communicate this feeling to Edward, he imbues her actions with false meanings, drawing from his understanding of social conventions to fill in the blanks – she’s shaking because she’s terrified and repulsed and ashamed, but Edward assumes she’s shaking because she’s nervous and excited, because don’t all young women act demure to mask a secret sensuality? There is no precedent for Florence falling outside this expected norm.

McEwan also ties in Florence and Edward’s story to the shifting social attitudes of the time – they’re living in a Britain which hasn’t quite normalized sexuality and celebrated youthful freedom. The two are inexperienced and unable to communicate their thoughts and feelings and desires and expectations to one another, because how do you even start a conversation about sex when it just feels like this abstract concept both to be revered and ashamed of?

I wasn’t prepared for how expansive this book was going to be – McEwan dexterously explores themes of class differences, propriety, love and sex and sexuality, all in economical prose that says so much in a book whose conflict ironically hinges on a lack of articulation on the part of both characters. And above all else this book is just bitterly sad. The final pages are like an emotional gut-punch. If McEwan managed all this in 200 pages, I can’t wait to see what he’s done in his other novels.

book review: The Last Time I Lied by Riley Sager



Dutton, July 10, 2018


The Last Time I Lied is a perfectly worthy successor to Sager’s Final Girls, which was one of my favorite thrillers of 2017. His follow up novel is every bit as fun and twisty as his first, and I read the bulk of it in one sitting. Sager returns to his tried and true cabin in the woods setting, this time following Emma, a painter who spent two weeks at a summer camp fifteen years ago which ended with the disappearance of three of her friends; now Emma is returning to Camp Nightingale as an art teacher, hoping to get to the bottom of the events of that first summer.

But as gripping and addicting as it was, the criticisms kept piling up as I read. Emma was a notably bland narrator, who had no personality beyond her survivor’s guilt about the girls’ disappearances. And Sager’s depiction of female friendships was frankly bizarre to me: Emma was unnaturally interested in describing and thinking about other girls’ appearances, and Sager seemed obsessed with the idea of every single friend group having an ‘alpha,’ whatever that means (I mean, I know what it means, but how many friend groups have you been in that have an established alpha??? is that a thing that happens in real life???) And look, I’m not claiming that you can’t write a sufficiently gripping drama set at an all-girls camp – of course teenage girls can be catty and mean to one another – but some of the social dynamics that Sager relied on to tell this story didn’t quite ring true for me, and felt more like stereotypes than actual human behavior.

But my biggest issue (which I won’t get into very much to avoid spoilers) was that there were just so many coincidences and contrived plot points. Throughout the book clues essentially fell into Emma’s lap, to an extent where it struck me as laughable that the police could have overlooked some of these things for fifteen years.

That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy the book, though. I had a lot of fun with this. But when I take a step back from the readability factor, I think the overall construction of The Last Time I Lied could have been stronger. But I still devoured it. And I think some people will take issue with the (outlandish?) final reveal, but personally I loved it – that was exactly the jaw-on-the-floor kind of shocking twist that I loved about Final Girls so much. Sager knows how to keep you hooked until the last page, that’s for sure. If you’re looking for a good and gripping beach read this summer, I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this.

Thank you to Netgalley, Dutton, and Riley Sager for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.

book review: From a Low and Quiet Sea by Donal Ryan



Penguin Books, July 17, 2018

From a Low and Quiet Sea is my second Donal Ryan novel after All We Shall Know, and so far he’s two for two if we’re grading for emotional devastation and positively stunning prose. Ryan’s style is everything I love about contemporary Irish literature incarnate – the lyrical, almost breathless writing which deftly balances black humor with an aching sadness, the quiet introspection of his characters, the skillful exploration of pain and loss and grief and religion and loneliness.

From a Low and Quiet Sea is essentially a series of three short stories – the first follows Farouk, a Syrian refugee who pays a man to help him escape his country with his wife and daughter; the second is about Lampy, an Irish teenager who lives with his mom and grandfather and who’s still desperately in love with his ex-girlfriend; and the third follows John, an old man who grew up under the shadow of his brother’s death. Their stories converge at the end rather unexpectedly, but in a way that I thought was rather brilliantly conceived.

As with any novel that changes perspectives, it’s inevitable that some will be stronger than others. The opening chapter – Farouk’s – is far and away the most accomplished of the three. Ryan doesn’t rest on the already tragic premise; he crafts a positively harrowing journey for this character, and as we wrap up his story and proceed into the second section, it’s almost painful leaving him behind. John’s chapter is stunning as well – it’s the only one told in first-person, as his story takes the form of a confession – and of the three it’s the most episodic, lending it a very readable quality while still getting to the heart of this troubled and compelling character. For me, Lampy’s chapter was notably the weakest. Though there was some poignant commentary here about growing up fatherless, I felt that there wasn’t enough of a story or a character arc to justify this section’s length.

This is one of those books that was stressing me out as I headed toward the conclusion, because I couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going to connect these three disparate stories, and I was almost afraid that whatever Ryan had come up with wasn’t going to be satisfying enough. I needn’t have worried – the resolution is surprising but gratifying. There’s also an undeniable thematic interconnectedness that I thought was handled wonderfully throughout the book. I thought Ryan’s examination of the role of storytelling in the lives of these three men was a beautiful element, as well as the similar yet distinct meditations on loneliness and grief as each of these characters search for some kind of peace.

4.5, which I’m rounding down now for the weak middle section, but which I may round up later depending on how this book stays with me over time. I really loved this.

Thank you to Penguin Books and Donal Ryan for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.