Why. do I still have a love/hate relationship with book posts? I’ve been struggling with this one for a month, and I know the problem is all in my head. It has reached the point where I don’t think I can write anything unless I get this post out first. So here goes.
I opened the month with Colwill Brown’s debut novel, We Pretty Pieces of Flesh, and my complicated feelings about this novel in particular are the reason I have not previously managed to write this post. As a debut novel, I think it is brilliant. The author’s technique of using written phonetics for South Yorkshire accents added a lot of color and brightness to what is otherwise a very sad, traumatic and dark novel, filled with violence, about girls growing up with few prospects, girls who, unlike the popular fictional trope, do not escape. I get that this specific place, and certainly this time — the 1990s, possibly early 2000s, does not correspond to my experience but I can still viscerally feel that anger and longing that fuels these girls — anger at being objectified, longing to be desired and loved. The wall of misogyny that surrounds these girls drives me to despair. Yes, it is specific to time and place, but it is also universal. I am fortunate to live in a highly educated privileged microcosm of society that sees only the fringes, and it is good to be reminded that in many ways my world is a small subset of what is experienced.
I am glad I read this book. I do not want to read it again, which for me is a criticism. I am a person who thinks readers form relationships with good books. Not this book, not for me. It is ambitious, compelling even. I don’t need a happy ending. But on some level the novel failed to carry me along; the novel became boring, trite, accepting. This may be the state of the world; it is not what I want from my literature.
Luckily for me, I adored Bryan Washington’s novel, Palaver. I found the story much more compelling and satisfying, if not perhaps quite as technically dazzling. But I do not actually read books for their technical qualities. Washington also takes risks here. The novel is the story of two characters, a mother and son, referred to throughout the book as “the mother” and “the son” even though every other character in the novel has a name. The pair have a difficult relationship, and they have not been in contact for a number of years, not until the mother feels compelled to visit the son in Tokyo. They have trouble connecting, not only with each other here, but I increasinlgly think, as I read the novel, with themselves. Washington uses their inner musings, as well as their interactions with others (named) and with food, to explore their relationship. They are like two ships, two people who, despite their blood relationship, seem to have no shared culture or even language in which to communicate. I get the impression that this disconnection is not what drives this novel, but rather the way that we bridge the gaps between us. Thus the use of two separate spheres of influence, two unnamed characters and the way their circles overlap, as they learn to know each other, and in a very real sense themselves. In the end our two protagonists begin to grow into a new relationship, beyond the parent/child relationship which has defined much of the novel. It is an interesting path, a good one, and one that often does not develop. It is hard to see our parents, and our children, as the people they are, apart from the parent/child relationship. I think Washington explores this process really well. I initially read Palaver last November, and think it stands up well to rereading, revealing more with continued acquaintance
I needed the relative “lightness” of Palaver, because at the same time I was continuing to work my way through Gertrude Stein Writings: 1903 – 1932, which I finished late in the month. I can’t say that I enjoyed everything in this book, but I am glad I read it. Many of the specific works were rereads, but not all of them. I actually read QED, The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas, and several of the shorter works in December, and aside from stating that I still feel, as I did in college, that the Autobiography is the least interesting thing Stein wrote. I can see why it brought her fame. I think I appreciated Tender Buttons more today than I did in my 20s, mostly because I’ve learned to just let the language set its own pace in my heart, and stop fretting over what it might “mean” and, as a corollary, whether I am smart enough to understand it. I also now think “Melachantha” is the strongest and most powerful part of Three Women. To write a story from the perspective of a black woman was ground breaking enough, even if Stein was not black. But by doing so, this highly educated and ambitious Jewish lesbian woman was able to explore what it means to be separate, and different, and on the fringes of society. I think I still have a lot to learn from Gertrude Stein.
I ended the month by reading Han Kang’s 2025 novel We Do Not Part. As expected I was drawn in by Kang’s intensely poetic prose, its strong humanity, and her masterful use of metaphor. If you have not read any of Kang’s previous novels, I think this one might be the best starting place. Kang she explores not only Korea’s dark history and the terrible things humans inflict upon each other, but also the humanity of people, and how simple acts of human care, kindness, and shared suffering also keep love alive. Kang’s novels are not for those who do not want to bear witness, who insist on believing that humanity is better than it is, but she also shows us the beauty in sharing our past, in shared connection, and how we can be stronger, and perhaps even more loving, than we might ever have thought.