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justabean_reads's reviews
1190 reviews
Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich
5.0
Read this slowly over Lent, and really appreciated it. Julian was such a powerful writer, and you can tell how much thought she put into the meaning of her visions. There's quite a lot of graphic Passion details, which I usually don't like, but her descriptions are so grounded and compassionate that it takes the edge off. I really empathised with her spiritual turmoil, and loved how she combined down-to-earth practicality with spiritual yearning. There's a comprehensive introduction and endnotes, which helped a lot with understanding the context of what Julian was saying (citing scripture quotes back, explaining the politics of the time, and why she was so clear about some points that didn't seem related to her visions: not wanting to be executed as a heretic is very motivating, apparently.)
That said, the theology is very dense, and I think I would benefit from both rereading it, possibly multiple times, and reading some interpretations.
That said, the theology is very dense, and I think I would benefit from both rereading it, possibly multiple times, and reading some interpretations.
Portrait of a Body by Julie Delporte
4.0
Another drop-dead gorgeous graphic novel by Drawn & Quarterly. (Seriously, the cover is textured, and I keep petting it.)
Though perhaps graphic novel is not the correct term. It's a written meditation on the author's experience with sexuality, gender and sexual violence, as she came out as a lesbian later in life, or perhaps decided to be a lesbian because the other options were immensely tiresome. This is all illustrated with her drawings of somewhat thematic series of objects, such as vulva-shaped geodes, bits of seaweed, and flowers. (I'm curious if the translators also redid all the lovely looping cursive, or if Delporte redid all that in English once she had the translation.) It's meditative, and rewards reading slowly (and looking up the end notes), and I liked the emphasis on finding solace and self-knowledge in other women.
Though perhaps graphic novel is not the correct term. It's a written meditation on the author's experience with sexuality, gender and sexual violence, as she came out as a lesbian later in life, or perhaps decided to be a lesbian because the other options were immensely tiresome. This is all illustrated with her drawings of somewhat thematic series of objects, such as vulva-shaped geodes, bits of seaweed, and flowers. (I'm curious if the translators also redid all the lovely looping cursive, or if Delporte redid all that in English once she had the translation.) It's meditative, and rewards reading slowly (and looking up the end notes), and I liked the emphasis on finding solace and self-knowledge in other women.
How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures by Sabrina Imbler
4.0
Autobiography via essays about marine life, which could be a little bit clunky at times, and very insightful at others. I think queer community & selps was a favourite, but the format also grew on me as I got used to what Imbler was doing. I think the strongest line in the whole book was the more implicit comparison of the flaws and oversights in scientific research/assumptions scientists make about their subjects, and both the author's own knowledge gaps, and societal bias at large, for example in researching males of a species as more important than females, and discussions of hybridity. I was fully expecting there to be more "this starfish has fourteen genders so why not humans?" than there was, and Imbler's feelings around gender only come into focus towards the end of the book. Which felt like a bit of a missed opportunity, but it also sounds like Imbler is still coming to terms with the topic, so maybe in a future book. I'll certainly read whatever they do next!
Wild Spaces by S.L. Coney
3.5
(Disclaimer, I know the author of this.)
Tor.com in physical copy, which is really making me feel that the quality of their paperbacks is leaning harder into the pulp side of things than is needed for the vibes. But the book was shortlisted for the Philip K. Dick award (for SF/F/H first published in paperback), so I guess it worked out.
"What a lovely family," I said to my wife as I started this horror novella. "I sure hope nothing bad happens to them!" It's not much of a spoiler to say that something bad happened to every one of them. We get three pages of perfect happiness of an adolescent boy, his dog (with which there is absolutely nothing wrong), and his very cute parents, before his maternal grandfather arrives for an indefinite stay (there's absolutely something wrong with him). The tension ratchets up with every page, the boy able to tell that something is wrong, but not what, and yet when we find out the answers, it's neither relief nor catharsis, only more horror.
The prose is gorgeously specific to the sticky coastline of the Carolinas, some of the descriptions and turns of phrases enough to make me stop and stare. Likewise well handled are the powerless feeling of being stuck inside a slowly unrolling disaster, the ways people can be monstrous, the question of your body changing with puberty, but into what?
I've been trying to put my finger on why it didn't a hundred percent work for me, and I think there's a couple reasons: the parents felt a little underdeveloped, in part because it's the son's point of view, but I'd still have liked a little more from them: it was sort of "father perfect, mother troubled"? I also found the ending a little... I'm not sure if "showy" is the right word, but it felt like a more experienced author might have handled the resolution with a lighter touch. But horror's also not my usual genre, so difficult to tell.
Tor.com in physical copy, which is really making me feel that the quality of their paperbacks is leaning harder into the pulp side of things than is needed for the vibes. But the book was shortlisted for the Philip K. Dick award (for SF/F/H first published in paperback), so I guess it worked out.
"What a lovely family," I said to my wife as I started this horror novella. "I sure hope nothing bad happens to them!" It's not much of a spoiler to say that something bad happened to every one of them. We get three pages of perfect happiness of an adolescent boy, his dog (with which there is absolutely nothing wrong), and his very cute parents, before his maternal grandfather arrives for an indefinite stay (there's absolutely something wrong with him). The tension ratchets up with every page, the boy able to tell that something is wrong, but not what, and yet when we find out the answers, it's neither relief nor catharsis, only more horror.
The prose is gorgeously specific to the sticky coastline of the Carolinas, some of the descriptions and turns of phrases enough to make me stop and stare. Likewise well handled are the powerless feeling of being stuck inside a slowly unrolling disaster, the ways people can be monstrous, the question of your body changing with puberty, but into what?
I've been trying to put my finger on why it didn't a hundred percent work for me, and I think there's a couple reasons: the parents felt a little underdeveloped, in part because it's the son's point of view, but I'd still have liked a little more from them: it was sort of "father perfect, mother troubled"? I also found the ending a little... I'm not sure if "showy" is the right word, but it felt like a more experienced author might have handled the resolution with a lighter touch. But horror's also not my usual genre, so difficult to tell.
Firebugs by Nino Bulling
3.5
I don't see a translator here, so I'm assuming Bulling wrote the English version themself. This was originally published in German a few years ago, and is now out in a gorgeous English edition by Drawn & Quarterly, whose books are so well-constructed that I want to lick them. The art is sketched, all fast-moving curves, black and white save for the many meanings of red as it comes in and out of the picture. And again, the book is so pretty as an art object.
As wild fires rage in Australia and existential dread creeps over a whole generation as climate change makes things very bad very quickly, a queer German party enby tries to figure out of there's much point exploring their gender feelings or figuring things out as the world's in the midst of ending. They're dating a trans woman, who is doing her best to be supportive, while dealing with her own damage, but as the months pass, stress builds in the relationship.
As you can probably tell from the above, there are a lot of unresolved feelings on the go here, and they remain unresolved at the end of the graphic novel. I appreciated the rawness, and how of the moment it felt, but I do think I'd have liked it to be a little longer, and to have spent more time with the characters.
As wild fires rage in Australia and existential dread creeps over a whole generation as climate change makes things very bad very quickly, a queer German party enby tries to figure out of there's much point exploring their gender feelings or figuring things out as the world's in the midst of ending. They're dating a trans woman, who is doing her best to be supportive, while dealing with her own damage, but as the months pass, stress builds in the relationship.
As you can probably tell from the above, there are a lot of unresolved feelings on the go here, and they remain unresolved at the end of the graphic novel. I appreciated the rawness, and how of the moment it felt, but I do think I'd have liked it to be a little longer, and to have spent more time with the characters.
Gender Queer: A Memoir by Maia Kobabe
4.0
Biographical graphic novel about slowly, slowly coming into an understanding of eir gender. I can find this style a little pedantic at times (I wasn't entirely in love with ND Stevenson's comic collection along similar lines, though that was before he figured out some of the gender stuff), but this one felt more cohesive, and Kobabe has a great perspective on what e was feeling at the time, combined with eir thoughts in retrospect. I think e's a little younger than I am, true Harry Potter generation, but a lot of eir fandom/pop culture experiences resonated. E joined a QSA club, which basically turned into a Lord of the Rings movies discussion group after three meetings. And there are a couple of great "things I did for fanfic research" moments as well. I liked how well e showed the one step forward two steps back feeling of coming out. The art felt a little basic at times, but there were also some wonderfully evocative panels and page spreads in a more metaphorical/abstract style.
Curious Sounds: A Dialogue in Three Movements by francesca ekwuyasi, Roger Mooking
3.0
This book's a bit of an odd duck, and I'm not entirely sure what to make of it. The core of it is multi-genre artist Roger Mooking making a micro-album playing with the idea that we now have attention spans shorter than goldfish. Each song is between eight seconds and a minute and a half, and is paired with a story between twenty and a hundred words long, and a piece of art; they collectively talk about youth, life and death. That's the second half of the book.
The first half of the book is a conversation between Roger Mooking and author francesca ekwuyasi (who I pretty much only know from Butter, Honey, Pig, Bread, and indeed the two met when Mooking was defending that book on Canada Reads). The album/stories/art give direction to the conversation, but it ends up being mostly about different forms of creativity, family, history and art. ekwuyasi is a woman who loves a footnote, and also ties the project into other discussions about trauma and culture and art happening in the Black community.
I got more out of the first part, especially in regards to why people create, and the emotions around creativity. Maybe I'd appreciate the album more on listening to it again, but I've gotta say it was a lot all at once. It's very dense, and happens very fast (in nineteen minutes and twenty seconds), and though I generally liked Mooking's music and art (not as sold on the prose), it's just... a lot. Which is the point! It's just that I hit the thing with modern art where I get that it's making a point, but I don't always enjoy the ride? Or find the message itself buried by the medium? Art for artists, or something?
It's a beautiful book though, and I'm glad they got to make it together.
The first half of the book is a conversation between Roger Mooking and author francesca ekwuyasi (who I pretty much only know from Butter, Honey, Pig, Bread, and indeed the two met when Mooking was defending that book on Canada Reads). The album/stories/art give direction to the conversation, but it ends up being mostly about different forms of creativity, family, history and art. ekwuyasi is a woman who loves a footnote, and also ties the project into other discussions about trauma and culture and art happening in the Black community.
I got more out of the first part, especially in regards to why people create, and the emotions around creativity. Maybe I'd appreciate the album more on listening to it again, but I've gotta say it was a lot all at once. It's very dense, and happens very fast (in nineteen minutes and twenty seconds), and though I generally liked Mooking's music and art (not as sold on the prose), it's just... a lot. Which is the point! It's just that I hit the thing with modern art where I get that it's making a point, but I don't always enjoy the ride? Or find the message itself buried by the medium? Art for artists, or something?
It's a beautiful book though, and I'm glad they got to make it together.
Fayne by Ann-Marie MacDonald
4.5
(But it's weird that it happened twice meme re: historical fiction with a non-binary main character and magical vibes. Though both this and The Cure for Drowning book a radically different run at those ideas.)
Our hero(ine) in this case grew up in the Scottish borderlands (or the English borderlands), in the late 19th century, raised by an absent-mindedly affectionate (or conflict avoidant to the point of infamy) father, whose barony mostly consists of a patch of moorland, a standing stone, an unremarkable old manor, and about five servant. He married an American heiress, who allegedly died giving birth to the protagonist, but might also be a protagonist herself. We read her letters intercut with her daughter's narrative, then flashback to her meeting with the the baron, and life in Edinburgh and on the more. Meanwhile, the child is trying to figure out her place in the world, when she wants to be a medical doctor, and her father has finally noticed that she should probably be wearing like dresses and stuff, and is also thinking of marrying again. But what happened to her mother? Is she actually a young lady, or something else? Why is her dead older brother haunting her? What is going on with the old man of all work and his buckets of muck from the bog?
It's a long book. I ran into my brothers in law reading it when it came out, and their feeling as of about a third of the way in was that it could've been a good deal shorter. I'm assuming they'd just hit the flashback about the mother, which seemed to just repeat the information we'd been getting from her letters. And to a certain extent I agree that maybe the letters might have been cut? But on the other hand, I really appreciated the jarring changes in style between our pedantic aristocratic main character, and her chatty Irish American mother. In any case, once past that first long flashback, the alternating timelines and the reasons therefore become increasingly clear, and increasingly tense as the book continued. The reader starts to realise that pretty much everyone is lying all the time. Will the protagonist figure out the truth in time? Who's actually alive or dead? Which of the multiple orphans have which established characters as parents?
There's a delightful mix of playing in the style of long Victorian gothic novels (several of which, especially Jane Eyre, get name checked), mixing with the grim reality of what the Victorian medical system would do to women, non-binary people, gay men, and on and on and on. There are the joys of science and the work engine of the Scottish Enlightenment discovering fossils and describing electricity and bridging the Firth of Forth, and there's the way that the baron can wield his power with no one questioning him. There's also something much much older on the moor. I liked the way MacDonald balanced all of this, and didn't shy away from the brutality or the beauty. I maybe felt like the borderlands = gender confusion metaphor was laid on a bit thick, but it somewhat went with the meta tone of some of the book. I'm really not scratching the surface of how many characters and relationships there are, and how much your perception of characters change over the course of the book.
It's an absolute voyage, and I'm so happy I bought a ticket.
Our hero(ine) in this case grew up in the Scottish borderlands (or the English borderlands), in the late 19th century, raised by an absent-mindedly affectionate (or conflict avoidant to the point of infamy) father, whose barony mostly consists of a patch of moorland, a standing stone, an unremarkable old manor, and about five servant. He married an American heiress, who allegedly died giving birth to the protagonist, but might also be a protagonist herself. We read her letters intercut with her daughter's narrative, then flashback to her meeting with the the baron, and life in Edinburgh and on the more. Meanwhile, the child is trying to figure out her place in the world, when she wants to be a medical doctor, and her father has finally noticed that she should probably be wearing like dresses and stuff, and is also thinking of marrying again. But what happened to her mother? Is she actually a young lady, or something else? Why is her dead older brother haunting her? What is going on with the old man of all work and his buckets of muck from the bog?
It's a long book. I ran into my brothers in law reading it when it came out, and their feeling as of about a third of the way in was that it could've been a good deal shorter. I'm assuming they'd just hit the flashback about the mother, which seemed to just repeat the information we'd been getting from her letters. And to a certain extent I agree that maybe the letters might have been cut? But on the other hand, I really appreciated the jarring changes in style between our pedantic aristocratic main character, and her chatty Irish American mother. In any case, once past that first long flashback, the alternating timelines and the reasons therefore become increasingly clear, and increasingly tense as the book continued. The reader starts to realise that pretty much everyone is lying all the time. Will the protagonist figure out the truth in time? Who's actually alive or dead? Which of the multiple orphans have which established characters as parents?
There's a delightful mix of playing in the style of long Victorian gothic novels (several of which, especially Jane Eyre, get name checked), mixing with the grim reality of what the Victorian medical system would do to women, non-binary people, gay men, and on and on and on. There are the joys of science and the work engine of the Scottish Enlightenment discovering fossils and describing electricity and bridging the Firth of Forth, and there's the way that the baron can wield his power with no one questioning him. There's also something much much older on the moor. I liked the way MacDonald balanced all of this, and didn't shy away from the brutality or the beauty. I maybe felt like the borderlands = gender confusion metaphor was laid on a bit thick, but it somewhat went with the meta tone of some of the book. I'm really not scratching the surface of how many characters and relationships there are, and how much your perception of characters change over the course of the book.
It's an absolute voyage, and I'm so happy I bought a ticket.
After That: Poems by Lorna Crozier
5.0
Local poet writes about mourning the death of her partner of four decades, following a slow decline and long illness. I feel like writing about grief is a whole sub genre of poetry, and can fall into trite or overdone, which would be a terrible thing to say about someone processing an actual loss, but fortunately, I don't have to say it about this book!
Both the individual poems and the structure of the book as a whole worked perfectly. There's something of a progression from blank incomprehension to starting to pick up the pieces, but not in a terribly linear way. At the centre of the book, are lists of ways to get over loss, "Seven Ways to Keep on Going" then "Six Ways" and so down to down, and you realise that the fragments that showed up between poems through the book are items from those lists, scraps she's gathering together and trying to put into some kind of order. Several poems are biting comments on other people offering received wisdom on how to handle loss, not aimed at the givers themselves, but at the idea that there's any map besides the one you make yourself. She imagines a goat coming through the house and eating all the funeral flowers, she imagines hauntings, wishing for them more than dreading them. Crozier is from Saskatchewan, and a number of her poems reminded me of Anne Szumigalski's writing about loneliness and isolation. The last poem is a single list: "One Way to Keep on Going," and no clear resolution.
(I will add that it was a little odd to think about this in technical terms, as I know the poet in passing, and mostly feel really bad that her partner died! I hope she's doing okay.) I wish I had the book to quote it, but back to the library it went. I might end up buying it.
Both the individual poems and the structure of the book as a whole worked perfectly. There's something of a progression from blank incomprehension to starting to pick up the pieces, but not in a terribly linear way. At the centre of the book, are lists of ways to get over loss, "Seven Ways to Keep on Going" then "Six Ways" and so down to down, and you realise that the fragments that showed up between poems through the book are items from those lists, scraps she's gathering together and trying to put into some kind of order. Several poems are biting comments on other people offering received wisdom on how to handle loss, not aimed at the givers themselves, but at the idea that there's any map besides the one you make yourself. She imagines a goat coming through the house and eating all the funeral flowers, she imagines hauntings, wishing for them more than dreading them. Crozier is from Saskatchewan, and a number of her poems reminded me of Anne Szumigalski's writing about loneliness and isolation. The last poem is a single list: "One Way to Keep on Going," and no clear resolution.
(I will add that it was a little odd to think about this in technical terms, as I know the poet in passing, and mostly feel really bad that her partner died! I hope she's doing okay.) I wish I had the book to quote it, but back to the library it went. I might end up buying it.
A Grandmother Begins the Story by Michelle Porter
4.5
The intertwined narratives of five generations of Metis women, a variety of bison, two dogs, a car, and the prairie. I admire the confidence of this author! She's just like, "And it's going to have dirt as a point of view character! And you're going to have to go with it or get out of the car."
The chapters are only a few pages long, the book flittering between characters telling and retelling stories from a variety of perspectives: The grandmother talking to her granddaughter, her own grandmother now in the spirit world, her mother talking to her sister's ghost, while the youngest generation, separated by adoption into an non-Indigenous family, is now trying to catch up with centuries of backstory, and also figure out her own trashfire of a life. Meanwhile the bison aren't doing much better! Porter does a fantastic job of giving each character a distinct voice, and letting them all have a point of view that makes sense to them, if not to anyone else. I loved seeing how it all fit together in the end, and think it would reward rereading.
If I had one quibble with it, it's that the middle generation, the grandmother who wants to commit suicide, felt like a bit of a cypher. I suspect this is somewhat intentional, and she never really gets much of her own point of view shown, but I still wish I could've gotten a better feel for her.
The chapters are only a few pages long, the book flittering between characters telling and retelling stories from a variety of perspectives: The grandmother talking to her granddaughter, her own grandmother now in the spirit world, her mother talking to her sister's ghost, while the youngest generation, separated by adoption into an non-Indigenous family, is now trying to catch up with centuries of backstory, and also figure out her own trashfire of a life. Meanwhile the bison aren't doing much better! Porter does a fantastic job of giving each character a distinct voice, and letting them all have a point of view that makes sense to them, if not to anyone else. I loved seeing how it all fit together in the end, and think it would reward rereading.
If I had one quibble with it, it's that the middle generation, the grandmother who wants to commit suicide, felt like a bit of a cypher. I suspect this is somewhat intentional, and she never really gets much of her own point of view shown, but I still wish I could've gotten a better feel for her.