REVIEWING CONTEMPORARY ANGLOPHONE FICTION

AND NONFICTION, Vol. II

Sara Martín (ed.)

Reviewing Contemporary Anglophone

Fiction and Nonfiction

Vol. II

Sara Martín (ed.)

Contents

Preface: An Experiment in Teaching

1991. A Thousand Acres of Trauma-sowed Land: Digging Deep into Jane Smiley’s novel - Iris Monleón López

1991. There are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in the Other America by Alex Kotlowitz: Discipline and Tact - Daixing Cao

1992. The Children of Men by P.D. James: Finding Humanity in a Hopeless World - Clara Escriche Jiménez

1992. Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés: A Timeless Reflection or an Outdated Classic? - Irina Xicota Guasch

1992. Poetic, Rhythmic and Spontaneous Writing as Musical as Its Title: Jazz by Toni Morrison - Dafne Iglesias Solà

1992. Not All Men, But This Man: A Modern Take on Robert James Waller’s The Bridges of Madison County – Leire Olariaga Miera

1992. Paul Monette’s Journey in Becoming a Man: Half a Life Story: An Intimate Connection - Aray Teixidor Pérez

1992. Fools by Pat Cadigan: Demanding Reading - Queralt Meca Camprubí

1993. The Giver, or How Lois Lowry Wrote Divergent before Veronica Roth – Widad Moula El Moussati

1994. A Quest for Identity and Empowerment in Bulibasha: King of the Gypsies by Witi Ihimaera – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

1995. Affection, Irony, and Identity: A Cultural Satire of Britain in Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island – Aina Matamala Tuset

1996. Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace: The Art of Doubt in a Seamless Quilt of Lies and Truths – Anan Ye

1996. The Myth within Storytelling: The Englishman's Boy by Guy Vanderhaeghe - Nelly Villavicencio Ortega

1997. A Powerful Story Lost in Its Form: Reading Nadine Gordimer’s The House Gun – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

1997. American Pastoral by Philip Roth: The Collapse of the American Dream as Postmodern Nihilism - Roger Vallès Fitó

1998. The Mysterious, Compelling and Erotic Aftertaste of Good Wine: Elizabeth Knox’s The Vintner’s Luck – Leire Olariaga Miera

1998. Life as a Film Set: Life: The Movie - How Entertainment Conquered Reality by Neal Gabler - Daria Malashenkova

1998. The Hours by Michael Cunningham: Virginia Woolf’s Long Shadow – Núria Pedrós Peró

1998. History, Trauma, and Responsibility: Reading Sindiwe Magona’s Mother to Mother – Irene González García

1999. The Charm and Claustrophobia of Small-Town Life in Elizabeth and After by Matt Cohen: A Beautifully Melancholic but Flawed Novel – Dafne Iglesias Solà

1999. Misfortune And Survival: Questioning Authority in The Bad Beginning by Lemony Snicket and Brett Helquist (illustrator) – Samya El Kasmy

2000. A Light-hearted Mystery Novel with Charming African Characters: Tears of the Giraffe by Alexander McCall Smith - Lluna Heredia González

2000. Memory, Identity, and Resilience in Amitav Ghosh’s The Glass Palace – Marina Alsina Ferrando

2000. Revisiting the Essex Tragedy: Thoroughness and Authenticity in Nathaniel Philbrick's In the Heart of the Sea – Clàudia Puelma Jové

2000. How Life Shapes a Writer: Stephen King’s Honest Writing Guide On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft – Clara Escriche Jimenez

2000. Julia Quinn’s The Duke and I: A Romantic Portrait of Power, Desire and Social Constraint - Judit García Cimas

2001. The River of Wounds: Pain, Secrets, and the Fragility of Lives in Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

2001. The Constant Gardener by John le Carré: A Sophisticated Thriller on Western Corruption – Irina Xicota Guasch

2001. Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser: A Call for Awareness about the US Fast Food Industry – Neus Heras Mena

2001. Bonding Generations: Memory and Language in Amy Tan’s The Bonesetter’s Daughter – Aitana Tarango Encinas

2001. White Teeth by Zadie Smith: The Illusion of Control – Daixing Cao

2002. A Beautiful Tangle: Denis Johnson’s Rethinking of the Frontier Myth in Train Dreams – Nora Taher Martinez

2002. Intellect and Emotion, Conceptual and Human Frontiers in Ted Chiang’s Stories of Your Life and Others – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

2002. When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka: A New Perspective. Aray Teixidor Pérez

2002. Steel, Dust, and Ruins: American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center by William Langewiesche – Ivetta Portnova

2003. Among Chaos: Adrian Nicole LeBlanc’s Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx – Cèlia Saltó Parramon

2003. Feminism and Delicacy in Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

2003. In-Betweenness, Identity, and Memories: History and Personal Life in Colonial and Post Colonial Kenya in M. G. Vassanji's The In-Between World of Vikram Lall – Clàudia Puente Guarro

2004. Identity, Empire and Belonging: A Compassionate Portrayal of Post-Colonial Britain in Andrea Levy’s Small Island – Samya El Kasmy

2004. My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult: A Constellation of Voices Under a Single Grief – Anan Ye

2004. Aestheticism, Desire, Privilege, and Decay: A Portrait of Thatcher’s Britain in Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty – Aina Matamala Tuset

2005. Searching for Control in Tom McCarthy’s Remainder – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

2005. The Secret River by Kate Grenville: Echoes of Colonial Legacy in Early Australia – Roger Vallès Fitó

2005. Arthur & George by Julian Barnes: The Power of Narrative – Nelly Villavicencio Ortega

2006. I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman by Nora Ephron: Femininity Is Complicated – Laia Rodríguez Roca

2006. Of Islands and Literary Classics: Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones – Núria Pedrós Peró

2007. A White Man’s Fantasy: The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill - Mery López Díez

2007. Gut-Wrenching Love: André Aciman’s Call Me by Your Name – Noèlia Rodriguez Villanueva

2008. Authenticity, Ambiguity, and Intimacy: Exploring Love, Hope, and Political Oppression in John Berger’s From A to X – Clàudia Puelma Jové

2008. Rediscovering Self and Happiness in Sophie Kinsella’s Remember Me? – Marina Alsina Ferrando

2008. Here Comes Everybody by Clay Shirky: A Landmark Analysis of Digital Collective Action – Judit García Cimas

2008. The Accumulation of Testimony: Memory, Power, and Mercy in Sebastian Barry’s The Secret Scripture – Daixing Cao

2008. Laughing Through the Chaos: Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher – Lluna Heredia González

2009. A Story We Thought We Knew: Teen Depression, Media Spectacle, and the Lessons Unlearned in Dave Cullen's Columbine – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

2009. The Enthralling Folklore of Michael Crummey’s Galore – Irina Xicota Guasch

2009. The Spirit Level by Richard G. Wilkinson and Kate E. Pickett: From Data to Hope – Maria Sánchez Arjona

2009. Much To Pity: Barbara Demick’s Raw Portrayal of Not So Ordinary Lives in Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea – Nora Taher Martinez

2010. Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad: An Exploration of Time, Identity, and Reinvention – Clara Escriche Jimenez

2010. Polygamy, Power and Female Agency in Lola Shoneyin’s The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

2010. Far to Go by Alison Pick: The Train of Memory – Mila Torres Bondarenko

2010. Choice, Control, and the Cracks in a Perfect World: Matched by Ally Condie – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

2011. Humour as Feminism and Affection in Tina Fey’s Bossypants – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

2011. Rewriting the Muse: Violence and Female voices in Helen Oyeyemi's Mr Fox – Cèlia Saltó Parramon

2011. In the Presence of Pain: How Maggie Nelson’s The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning Reframes Violent Aesthetics – Èlia Llobera Camacho

2011. Trauma, Memory, and Identity in Jeanette Winterson’s Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? – Siya Kumar Rani

2012. Leaving the Past Behind: Deborah Feldman’s Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots – Helena Clot Perez

2012. From Broken Soles to a Reclaimed Soul in Cheryl Strayed’s Wild: A Long Walk Back to Oneself – Anan Ye

2012. Hilary Mantel’s Bring Up the Bodies: A Compelling Reimagining of the Tudor Court – Neus Heras Mena

2012. The Disappointing Promise of Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass – Aray Teixidor Pérez

2012. Louise Erdrich’s The Round House: Deeply Moving and Historically Significant – Anna Garriga Soler

2013. We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler: A Family’s Odyssey into Human Identity – Roger Vallès Fitó

2014. A Beautifully Wrapped Void: A Review of Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation – Leire Olariaga Miera

2014. The Trials and Tribulations of Kindergarten Moms in Liane Moriarty’s Bechdel-proof Big Little Lies – Dafne Iglesias Solà

2015. Stating the Obvious: Predictability and Unreliability in Paula Hawkins’s The Girl on The Train – Núria Pedrós Peró

2016. Facing an Uncomfortable Reality: Reading Peggy Orenstein’s Girls & Sex in a Culture That Refuses to Change – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

2016. Attention and Inheritance: Reading Ken Liu’s The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories – Daixing Cao

2016. Generations, Characters, and Perspectives in Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing: Over Two Centuries of Ghanaian and African American History – Clàudia Puelma Jové

2016. The Power by Naomi Alderman: Who Has It? Does It Really Matter? – Mery López Díez

2017. From Personal Trauma to Collective Resistance: Race, Voice and Social Justice in Angie Thomas’s The Hate U Give – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

2018. Reclaiming Voice and Power: Madeline Miller’s Circe as a Contemporary Myth – Aitana Tarango

2018. Beth Macy’s Dopesick: The Structural Failures behind the Opioid Crisis in The USA– Paula Portillo Jimenez

2018. Reading Sally Rooney’s Normal People: A Portrait of Modern Human Relationships – Aitana Tarango

2019. Time, Love, Strategy, and Betrayal: Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone’s This Is How You Lose the Time War – Aina Matamala Tuset

2020. Addiction, Poverty and Neglect in Douglas Stuart’s Shuggie Bain – Siya Kumar Rani

2020. The Line between Human and Monster: Ring Shout by P. Djèlí Clark – Joan Portals Bonich

2021. Horror as Empathy: Trauma and Misperception in The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward – Samya El Kasmy

2021. Honest Enough?: Reading Justin Baldoni’s Man Enough in the Cold Light of Day – Dafne Iglesias Solà

2021. The Story of One is the Story of All: Hell of a Book by Jason Mott – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

2022. A Survivor Hero on and off Stage: Finding Me by Viola Davis – Roger Vallès Fitó

2022. Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow: Both Sides of the Fragile Design of Friendship – Anan Ye

2023. Fern Brady’s Strong Female Character: Stepping Out of Shame into Understanding – Madeleine Lawrence

2023. Eleanor Catton’s Birnam Wood: A Great Message Through a Simple Story – Aray Teixidor Pérez

2023. Tender Prose and the Search for Belonging in Chloe Michelle Howarth’s Sunburn - Irina Xicota Guasch

2023. Respect for the Elderly: The Last Devil to Die by Richard Osman – Noèlia Rodriguez Villanueva

2023. Circling Without Landing: A Thoughtful but Fleeting Journey in Samantha Harvey’s Orbital – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

Creative Commons License and Disclaimer

Preface: An Experiment in Teaching

The book now in the hands of the reader is the result of the work carried out by the students enrolled in the second edition of the fourth-year core subject ‘Contemporary Anglophone Literature: The 20th and the 21st Centuries’ of the BA in English Studies of the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona. This is the fifteenth project of this nature that I produce with BA and MA students in different subjects, following a teaching methodology I first used in 2013-14 for a course on Harry Potter. As I have often narrated,[1] I realized then that the articles and papers written by students could and should be published, and I found in the digital repository of my university (http://ddd.uab.cat) the perfect solution to the problem of who would want to publish this type of text.

In all the elective courses that followed the one on Harry Potter, I have organized my teaching around the target of publishing a book, which has resulted, as I have noted, in fourteen previous volumes generating thousands of downloads (see https://webs.uab.cat/saramartinalegre/books/). Students react with puzzlement and surprise to my announcement on the first day of class that we will be writing a book together, but all respond wonderfully to the teacher’s crazy proposal. This has been the case in this volume again, though its purpose (and that of its 2025 predecessor) is quite different from the rest, being part of my latest experiment in teaching.

When we decided to introduce ‘Contemporary Anglophone Literature: The 20th and the 21st Centuries’ in the BA,[2] I volunteered to teach this semestral subject, after twenty five years teaching Victorian Literature, happy at last to focus on my own area of research. I knew from the beginning that the period 1990-2025 could not be taught on the basis of four books, or equivalent, as we do in other core subjects. I decided then to use a variation on the method I follow in the elective subjects, in which each student is assigned different texts to study and presents them to the rest, later writing an essay for the corresponding book.

I assigned to each of the 73 students four different volumes: a) a US or UK literary novel; b) a literary novel from other Anglophone areas excluding the US and the UK; c) a popular genre novel and d) a nonfiction volume. Then I turned the last 30 minutes of our 80-minute sessions into a time for interaction in which students told each other (in pairs) about the books they were reading. In this way, apart from their own four books, students heard from their classmates about between 50 and 100 more titles. Next, students turned their personal reading and class interaction into an 800-1000 word review. I have marked more than 260 reviews in total, of which 96 are gathered here (please, note that the covers illustrating the reviews are not necessarily those of the edition reviewed).

We don’t teach students how to review and they were initially a bit lost (as I was!). For the second edition of the subject, I invited students to read the volume of reviews published by the previous year’s students (https://ddd.uab.cat/record/307453). The students knew, of course, that the aim of teaching them to write reviews was publication and also that not all their reviews were to be published. In the end, however, the number I considered apt enough for publication is quite substantial and I thank all the students registered in the subject for their efforts at handling a completely new type of exercise for them.

My intention is to continue teaching ‘Contemporary Anglophone Literature’ until I retire, which means that, if all goes well, there will be a new volume of reviews each academic year at least in the following five years, perhaps in the following decade. I intend the series to grow into a solid guide to the period and its works though, of course, it might well be that some books are represented with more than one review and other key works get none. I am assigning the sets of four books at random, and there is no guarantee that all the relevant books will be covered, taking into account how amazingly rich the recent decades are in outstanding books of all kinds. I must explain that the reviews, all of them written in the Autumn and Winter of 2025, are organized chronologically by year of publication of the book reviewed because I wish to avoid separating the four categories that I have used into different sections. It’s about time we consider them together.

Finally, I would like to dedicate this volume to the journalists and reviewers employed in the prestigious book section of The Washington Post, who lost their job in the week I finished editing my students’ reviews. The unjustified dismantling of the section is a tragic loss for the newspaper, its readers, US culture and, indeed, contemporary Anglophone literature.

Sara Martín

Sara.Martin@uab.cat

Barcelona, 6 February 2026

1991. A Thousand Acres of Trauma-sowed Land: Digging Deep into Jane Smiley’s novel - Iris Monleón López

Edition reviewed: Flamingo, 1992

A Thousand Acres is the most highly praised novel by American author Jane Smiley (b. Los Angeles, 1949). Published in 1991, the novel is a strong example of domestic realist fiction, taking a modern turn at Shakespeare’s tragedy King Lear, by setting it on a family farm in Iowa. The plot explores themes of family conflict, control, gender roles, and inheritance in rural American life. Smiley received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the National Book Critics Circle Award for this novel, which helped establish her as one of the best-known authors in contemporary American literature.

Jane Smiley reinvents, as noted, Shakespeare’s tragedy King Lear in A Thousand Acres and sets it in the rural American Midwest. Instead of royal kingdoms and kings, there are extensive stretches of farmland and patriarchal farmers. The story introduces Larry Cook, an old, reserved farmer who decides to divide his one-thousand-acre Iowa farm among his three daughters. When the youngest voices her concerns, she is cut out of the inheritance by her father. His decision causes a series of betrayals, grievances and secrets to come to light. Told through the quiet yet strong and powerful perspective of Ginny, the eldest daughter, the novel gradually reveals the family’s hidden traumas, such as childhood abuse and incest, the awkward silences and the pattern of control passed on from father to daughter. Smiley uses the land itself as a symbol of memories, decline and decay, portraying how what is buried under the surface, both physically and emotionally, shapes the family’s downfall. Through this evocative retelling, the author exposes the consequences of repression, the burden that inheritance can imply and the silent power of women finding their long-lost voices.

One element to remark about Smiley’s novel is its intricate and detailed characterization, along with its psychological depth. While King Lear’s daughters Goneril, Regan and Cordelia are pictured as morally unchanging and unflinching, Smiley attributes to their counterparts Ginny, Rose and Caroline emotional complexity and varied moral ambiguity. With Ginny, the novel reveals years of memories, trauma and repression and how these aspects have shaped her entire life and her path into her adult life. Ginny is the embodiment of silent pain and tolerance; her calm and steady appearance quietly carries a past of abuse and inhibition. Rose, the middle sister, openly embodies defiance; she takes her rage and channels it into resistance. Caroline, the youngest, is the personification of conscience and caution. Because of the author’s realist approach to the psychology of their characters, the reader can perceive each sister as flawed yet sympathetic, shaped by the oppressive silence of their father as he descends into a spiral of anger and instability, mirroring King Lear’s dramatic unravelling.

The setting, a farm in Iowa as noted, also contributes to the deepening of the emotional landscape: the extensive and fertile fields become a symbol of the family’s entombed secrets. Smiley’s precision in picturing imagery and her descriptions of the scenery—the land is “as flat and fertile, black, friable, and exposed as any piece of land on the face of the earth” (4)—give the novel a sense of realism and also a touch of foreshadowing, as the reader can grasp the link between the land and the family’s emotional state. The dialogue between the characters is direct, sharp and often cold and restrained: “You are such a nice person. How come you and Ty don’t have kids?”, her lover Jess asks Ginny. “Well, I’ve had five miscarriages” (164), Ginny replies. The aloofness and stiffness that the dialogue evokes in the conversations about emotional and traumatic events captures the essence of the Midwestern speech, in which pain is frequently disguised as politeness. Smiley, through the cautious but steady pace of the novel along with the detailed characterization, writes a tragedy that feels as personal as inevitable.

The thousand-acre farm itself is the central symbol, a land so vast that, apart from sustaining the family, it also has the power of trapping them in a cycle of duty, guilt and denial. To Ginny, the land represents love, as it is the entirety of her father’s power being as well her family’s home, and on the other hand, loss, as it is the symbol of her own repression and silence. In reference to one of Ginny’s miscarriages, Smiley writes “I just wadded the nightgown and the sheets and the bed pad into a paper bag and took them out and buried them under the dirt floor of the old dairy barn, where the ground wasn’t frozen yet” (26); we see here the land acting as a literal vessel for Ginny’s loss. Smiley’s descriptive accuracy gives a steady but hypnotizing pace to her novel, while it lets the reader catch a glance of the undermining current of trauma and tragedy that flows along the novel, creating tension that eventually erupts. The punctuated, deliberate and meticulous pacing of Simley’s novel reflects the characters’ mental and emotional evolution as it slowly digs into the characters’ thoughts and secrets, revealing them in key moments in the story.

Overall, A Thousand Acres is an intricate and mesmerising novel. Smiley succeeds in retelling a story of inheritance, power and control by shifting the focus from the patriarch to his daughters’ perspective. While they were once represented as either totally good or evil in the Shakespearean black and white universe, the three sisters are here complex individuals with elaborated personalities that, in addition to other great aspects, make Smiley’s novel a fruitful field from which to reap a good harvest.

1991. There are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in the Other America by Alex Kotlowitz: Discipline and Tact - Daixing Cao

Edition reviewed: Anchor Books, 1992

Alex Kotlowitz is a journalist and nonfiction writer best known for pairing close, patient reporting with an unusual degree of ethical self‑scrutiny. First published in 1991, There Are No Children Here became a national bestseller and collected several prizes such as the Christopher Award and the Helen Bernstein Award. Situated in and around Chicago’s Henry Horner Homes in the late 1980s, the book belongs is both literary journalism and biography: it tracks brothers Lafeyette and Pharoah Rivers and their mother, LaJoe, while holding to account the public institutions that shape their days. Its achievement is double. On the one hand, Kotlowitz delivers a gritty portrait of childhood lived under pressure; on the other, his book conducts a disciplined inquiry into how housing, schooling, policing, and health care conspire—through ordinary procedures rather than dramatic abuses—to narrow the horizon of everyday life.

Covering roughly the years from 1987 to 1989, the narrative is linear and unhurried. Kotlowitz returns to the same stairwells, schoolrooms, juvenile‑court benches, and hospital corridors the children knew so that repetition itself does the analytical work. The title comes from LaJoe’s exhausted observation—”There are no children here. They’ve seen too much to be children”—a sentence the chapters then confirm not with slogans but with small, alarming particulars. We sit through a spelling bee where the room seems to hold its breath; we watch a hallway argument calibrated to avoid escalation; we hear a Police siren that frays the edge of every conversation. The boys learn a local grammar of danger: how to read posture, when to lower the gaze, which routes reduce exposure. Kotlowitz resists arranging events for effect. Instead, the chapters accrue like case notes, and the boys’ alternating hopes and hesitations supply the narrative arc. Where a more sensational book would hurry to a violent set piece, this one keeps faith with the texture of ordinary time—the errands, detours, and stand‑stills by which a year actually passes. Kotlowitz also registers muted victories—a clean report card tacked to a wall, a repaired appliance that holds for a week, a summer afternoon when play briefly outshouts the police scanner. These moments are not offered as offsets but as evidence that attention, properly paid, must account for everything.

The book’s signal strength is its marriage of reporting discipline and narrative tact. Dialogue arrives spare; exposition rides on the movement of scenes; numbers show up only when they clarify stakes already made legible by lived detail. Characterization is especially deft. Lafeyette’s wary composure and Pharoah’s tentative brightness feel earned rather than explanatory, and secondary figures—teachers, caseworkers, police officers—rarely appear as types. Place operates as a minor character: stairwells, lots, and train tracks do not sit passively in the background but shape which routes are thinkable. As Samuel G. Freedman noted in the Los Angeles Times, the result is both unsettling and impressive—a counter to the distancing language that converts neighbours into categories. Equally notable is pacing. Chapters close not on melodramatic cliffhangers but on ethical questions the next chapter must face: What do adults owe children who have learned to manage fear as a daily task? How does one tally “progress” where institutional competence is intermittent? Kotlowitz is present yet recessive, acknowledging his relationship with the family without making himself the subject. That editorial posture lets the argument emerge inductively: small, routine failures—missed appointments, broken elevators, absent nurses—multiply into catastrophe. In this sense the form embodies the thesis; the book teaches readers to recognize accretion as a cause.

The same choices bring scrutiny. What does it mean for a white reporter to mediate Black childhood for a largely white, middle‑class audience? Kotlowitz answers less with declarations than with restraint—keeping the camera on the family, naming his limits, refusing the tidy arc of a “success story.” Still, the book inevitably brushes the market for suffering, a friction any empathetic narrative must manage rather than eliminate. The 1993 television adaptation produced by and starring Oprah Winfrey broadened the audience while risking a more schematic moral line. Contemporary reviewers help gauge the balance. The New York Times praised the work’s meticulous portraiture and its insistence that ordinary endurance counts as heroism; Freedman’s already mentioned Los Angeles Times review emphasized how thoroughly the book unsettles received ways of seeing. Both responses matter not as blurb but as testimony to a shift the text helps effect: away from caricatured pathology toward attention to systems and to children as complicated agents. If there is a cost, it lies in occasional flatness of prose and in the structural narrowness that attends a focus on one family. Yet these are the predictable trade‑offs of the method that makes the book persuasive: proximity, accountability, and earned empathy.

I recommend There Are No Children Here without reservation. Clear‑eyed and rigorously observed, it refuses easy catharsis and insists on patient seeing. More than three decades on, it still sharpens public questions and enlarges private feeling—two tasks literature, at its best, performs together.

1992. The Children of Men by P.D. James: Finding Humanity in a Hopeless World - Clara Escriche Jiménez

Edition reviewed: Faber & Faber, 2018

The Children of Men (1992) is a dystopian novel by English author P.D. James (1920-2014). Born in Oxford, England, James was highly acclaimed for her bestselling crime novels, especially her series starring detective Adam Dalgliesh. She was honoured with numerous awards for her remarkable contribution to the crime genre, including the CWA Diamond Dagger in 1987 and the Mystery Writers of America Grandmaster Award in 1999. In this novel, however, James departs from detective fiction to explore an alternative reality where the human species is faced with infertility, giving rise to a shattered and hopeless society that anticipates its inevitable extinction.

James’s novel is set in England in the year 2021, twenty-five years after the last human being was born. The consequences of the catastrophe and how society has decayed since are explored through the eyes of Theo Faron, an Oxford historian who has lost all hope in humanity. Through Theo’s diary entries the reader learns about Xan, England’s current authoritarian dictator who is also his cousin, and with whom he has always had a turbulent relationship. The action starts when Theo meets Julian, a young activist who, by involving him in a projected rebellion, will completely change his life, forcing Theo to question his moral ground and consider if a decaying society is worth fighting for. Ultimately, the novel explores themes of hope, responsibility, and the power to find empathy, human connection, and a purpose even in the darkest circumstances.

One of the most remarkable aspects of The Children of Men is James’s ability in world-building. The reader is presented with a reality that almost feels soulless and that urges one to wonder if this is what our world would look like if we knew humanity had no future. She accomplishes this with the two narrative strands into which the novel is split: the first-person perspective from Theo’s diary entries and the third-person narration that, although still centred on Theo, allows for a broader depiction of the society around him. James’s dystopian society mirrors many of the social and moral issues that can be found in our own world, and that is what makes the story even more terrifying. When Theo meets with Julian and her small group of activists, they discuss the multiple reasons why they have decided to act against the government, which include the mistreatment of immigrants, the absence of a democratic government and the passive acceptance of tyranny by a population that has surrendered its sense of agency and moral responsibility. The root of these issues lies in the loss of empathy that has spread throughout society; since there is no hope for the continuation of the human species, people no longer feel responsible for one another, and they only care for their personal comfort and their security until their final days. Through this depiction, James offers a powerful social critique which suggests that the lack of empathy towards others can lead to the collapse of civilisation. And this dilemma is what Theo is forced to confront throughout the whole novel.

The characterisation of Theo and his evolution throughout the novel is also a highlight of The Children of Men. From the beginning, Theo is presented as a pessimistic person. Through his diary entries he expresses his disappointment in society and how little he cares about what life has to offer anymore for, as he says, “without the hope of posterity, (…), all pleasures of the mind and senses sometimes seem to me no more than pathetic and crumbling defences shored up against our ruin” (13). This disappointment not only emerges from the lack of a future, but also from his past experiences with his love life and family. However, as the story progresses, he is faced with some situations that force him to react and decide if he must confront the cruel reality of his world or continue to live ignoring it.

Signs of this change of mentality can be seen, for instance, when he witnesses a Quietus (the forced suicide of elderly people) and realises the brutality with which people are treated, reaching the conclusion that, “there was some dignity and much safety in the self-selected role of spectator, but faced with some abominations a man had no option but to step on to the stage” (119). While it is true that Theo does evolve as a character and by the end of the novel he is a changed person, at times his reasoning can be hard to follow. Even when he begins to show signs of personal growth and a willingness to support Julian and her cause, he occasionally reverts to his initial pessimistic mindset or acts in a way that contradicts what he has previously written in his diary, which can sometimes make him an unlikable and unreliable character. It is not until the second half of the novel that he fully commits to confronting the moral and social crises around him, but even then, it seems that he only does so because of his affection for Julian in her current situation. Nonetheless, by making Theo’s development inconsistent and emotionally driven, James creates a very real character, who, despite his mental conflict, must leave his trauma behind to fight for a cause larger than his personal struggles.

All in all, The Children of Men pictures a world that, while seemingly quite distant, is not so different from ours and encourages the reader to reflect on the fragility of our society and to remember the importance of human connection and empathy. Through her social critique, James highlights the dangers of moral apathy and the ways in which indifference can lead to injustice and inequality. Theo symbolises the struggle between indifference and responsibility, showing how even someone who feels hopeless can find the courage to act. While at times, especially towards the end, the writing felt repetitive and overly descriptive, slowing down the pace of the story, this is overall a novel both enjoyable and intriguing, which keeps the reader thinking about it long after finishing it.

1992. Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés: A Timeless Reflection or an Outdated Classic? - Irina Xicota Guasch

Edition reviewed: Ballantine Books, 2022

Women Who Run With the Wolves is author and Jungian psychoanalyst Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ most revered work to date. Commonly categorized as self-help, this book has become a classic of feminist literature. It is still highly regarded 30 years after its original publication for its spirituality and its use of folklore and storytelling to provide insight into the psychology of women. Estés’ book spent 145 consecutive weeks on The New York Times Best Seller list. This feat earned Estés (b. 1943, Gary, Indiana) a Las Primeras Award, granted by the Mexican American Women's Foundation, for being the first Latina author to be featured on the list (born to Mexican parents, Estés was adopted, aged four, by a Hungarian Family).

Estés’ main objective in this book, as described in its introduction, is to give women an insight into the archetypical force of the Wild Woman, the instinctual nature that all females carry inside but that has been stifled by the pressures of modern society. She postulates that qualities natural to women such as deep instinct or creativity have been disregarded in a society that devalues femininity and prioritizes rationality and over-intellectualization, which “obscure(s) the patterns of the instinctual nature of women” (23). This book aims to equip women with the tools to reconnect with the Wild Woman archetype and, in consequence, untie themselves from social and cultural impositions that restrain their freedom. To do so, Estés employs storytelling. Through the collection of tales from different origins that she has acquired throughout her life, in each chapter she analyses how a different aspect of the feminine self, such as creativity, the want for an equal partner, or the capacity to overcome one’s guilt, appear in these stories as reflections of the inner psyche. By examining how the different characters of the story operate as reflections of different facets of our own minds, the author encourages women to follow this instinctual nature and live a life better aligned with the natural patterns of femininity.

Despite the specialized topic the volume deals with, as a Jungian text, Estés achieves her goal of making the process of analysis accessible to the lay reader. Her exploration of the stories is very thorough. She does use specialized terminology to avoid watering down her background in psychoanalysis, but also describes her findings in an accessible language not to alienate the general public. Estés has a very unique voice and style which brings the book’s spirituality into the writing, which sounds mantra-like at times. Although its publication dates back to the 90s, the issues the book portrays are unfortunately still central in the lives of many women, such as the subjugation to partners’ who do not value them or the fear of being too aggressive or disagreeable in a society that pressures women to be always docile. Even though its main focus is femininity, the book also engages with universality: “man or woman, each must let themselves enter that state of sleep that returns one to a wise innocence” (160). Women, as the title shows, are the main target audience of this book, but instances such as this one show that this disconnection from instinctual nature is present in all humans, and Estés appeals to all people to become better identified with this wildness.

Notwithstanding, the book does explore ideas that may sound outdated to a contemporary reader in terms of the treatment of women and the conceptualization of femininity. When describing this connection to the instinctual self in the introduction, Estés states that women can become in contact with it “during pregnancy, during nursing their young, (...) during attending to a love relationship as one would attend to a beloved garden” (5). This connection of women to traditional patriarchal roles, such as caring for children or partners, appears throughout the book, as when she states that a woman “will give lifelong loyalty and love” to the appropriate “male” (126). Although Estés tries to reject culturally or socially imposed norms, her argumentation sometimes falls into heterocentric or patriarchal conceptions of femininity and relationships, and its definitiveness in the selection of naturally feminine traits evokes a bioessentialist understanding of gender that might seem old-fashioned to a modern audience.

At the same time, the portrayal of stories from many different cultures, some of them adapted by the author with some liberties, seems to some degree dismissive of their cultural value, being instead bent to serve to the argumentation of the author. Moreover, the stories lack the stylistic sensitivity that other parts of the text present, sometimes sounding too direct and lacking rhetorical devices that would make their consumption more enjoyable. These stylistic choices highlight the author’s prioritization of argumentation. The care dedicated to the idiosyncratic style of her thesis attempts to camouflage the lack of justification of her claims. Jungian psychoanalysis is presented as fact, and little effort is done in helping the reader understand its origins and validity, making the text somewhat dogmatic, as well as at times tedious, as it relies on repetition to assert its claims.

In conclusion, Women Who Run with the Wolves presents interesting insights on the current lack of connection to the instinctual and natural rhythms of the world in a stylistically original fashion, but its argumentation seems relatively outdated to current conceptions of feminism and gender. Although some contemporary readers might benefit from the teachings Estés offers, this factor, as well as its at times monotonous style, might deter many from enjoying her famous book.

1992. Poetic, Rhythmic and Spontaneous Writing as Musical as Its Title: Jazz by Toni Morrison - Dafne Iglesias Solà

Edition reviewed: Picador Books, 1993

Jazz (1992) is a fine literary novel by American author, editor, and professor Toni Morrison (Lorain, Ohio, 1931-New York, 2019). Morrison is best-known for her novel Beloved (1987), which won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. She was also awarded the Nobel Prize in 1993, becoming the first African American woman to receive this honour. Beloved, Jazz and Paradise (1997) make up the Beloved Trilogy, a series about love and African American history that Morrison intended to be read together. Jazz, second in the trilogy, explores love and obsession through the intertwined stories of a love triangle, while at the same time having Black history very present throughout the novel.

In the first paragraph of Jazz, the narrator explains the crucial events of the love triangle: Joe Trace, married to Violet, murders Dorcas, his teenage lover. At her funeral, Violet attempts to attack Dorcas’ corpse. From that point on, the narrator begins an exploration of the characters, approaching them one by one and narrating events without following any chronological or linear order. Mainly set in New York in the 1920s with the exception of some flashbacks into the past, the historical and social context naturally leaks into the personal lives of the characters, all of them African American. All the while a submerged storyline beats under the surface: the narrator is a character in its own right and, from time to time, they acknowledge their unreliability and reflect on why they devote time to telling the characters’ stories.

Morrison’s writing style is truly remarkable in this novel. If, before starting to read it, one wonders why it is named Jazz, this will be clear once immersed in her prose: it is poetic, rhythmic, and spontaneous, just like improvisational jazz. The first paragraph, and even more specifically the first sentence, perfectly encapsulates the narrative tone of the whole novel: “Sth, I know that woman” (3). Starting off with an onomatopoeia is an interesting choice, but definitely the perfect beginning for a book that seems to be written as if it were meant to be read aloud, as with an intention to honour speech and oral culture. This first sentence also brilliantly introduces one of its main topics: gossip and the need to imagine and tell other people’s stories, since the narrator claims to know Violet when in reality they have only heard about her. It is appropriate for the writing to be as spontaneous and sinuous as jazz can be, since that is a sensation that pervades the whole entanglement between the characters. This consonance between form and content is one of the highlights of the novel.

Morrison’s novel resembles a slice of life: depicting how surprising and unpredictable it can be, how every experience leaves its mark, and how passion can lead us in ways that seem incoherent to ourselves. The characters struggle to understand themselves and to find out what is right to do, resisting what tempts them and trying to forget what they are obsessing over. Every time jazz music is mentioned, it refers to how visceral and impulsive its melodies are and how emotion may lead these characters to their downfall. The narrator portrays them without resorting to over-explanations, but rather showing their complexity in their actions and dialogues and also letting them speak in their due turn, like solos in a jazz jam. The narrative voice also adapts to the manner of the character that is being narrated: one can feel Joe’s resignation, Dorcas’s angst, and Violet’s spiralling mind. While the characters are all very interesting, as a critique it could be noted that Morrison introduces too many of them. This saturation gets to a point in the second half in which the love triangle is almost lost from sight. In the end, the digressions make sense, but structurally they make the novel partly lose its pace.

There are many layers in this novel, too. As the narrator digresses and starts recalling events about the main characters’ ancestors, the reader naturally starts doubting what they are reading, since supposedly the narrator is a character contemporary to the main characters’ world. In a surprisingly honest passage in the midst of the characterization of Golden Gray, the narrator interrupts themselves to confront their lack of reliability: “What was I thinking of? How could I have imagined him so poorly? Not noticed the hurt that was not linked to the color of his skin, or the blood that beat beneath it” (160). They decide they have portrayed him too negatively and then they proceed to put him in a better light. This adds a meta layer to the novel: more than just a story about a love triangle, this book shows how a story is being crafted out of gossip and imagination by a mysterious writer, of whom we learn about more and more as the novel progresses. This leads to reflecting on the nature of storytelling and the role of the writer: how Jazz’s characters may be, after all, a projection of the narrator. Either way, we cannot help but feel for them.

Jazz is truly a remarkable and memorable novel and a pleasurable read. Many elements may linger in the reader’s mind time after they have finished reading it: its beautiful prose, its complex characters, its awareness of the social and historical context or even its mysterious writer/narrator character with its metafictional layers. All these elements are a testament of Morrison’s brilliance and sensibility and will most likely leave the reader interested enough to read it for a second time.

1992. Not All Men, But This Man: A Modern Take on Robert James Waller’s The Bridges of Madison County – Leire Olariaga Miera

Edition reviewed: Grand Central Publishing, 2014

The Bridges of Madison County is a 1992 best-selling romance novel by American writer Robert James Waller (1939-2017). Waller was a writer, a photographer, and a musician in addition to his job as a professor at the University of Northern Iowa. After its big success, this novel gained more attention thanks to the 1995 film adaptation, produced and directed by Clint Eastwood, who also starred in the film alongside Meryl Streep. The novel tells the story of a four-day intense affair between Francesca Johnson, an Italian woman who moved to Iowa after meeting an American soldier, whom she eventually married, and Robert Kincaid, a National Geographic photographer from Bellingham, Washington, who is visiting Madison County in Illinois to produce a photographic essay on the covered bridges of the area.

Beyond its romantic plot, The Bridges of Madison County adopts a metafictional frame. It begins with a prologue narrated by a fictional author, who starts telling the reader about two people who have made a curious request to him, one he cannot refuse. In the beginning this fictional author meets Francesca’s adult children who have discovered her deceased mother’s journals, mementos, letters, and a photo, and they ask him to write about her love story. The narrative then shifts to Kincaid and Francesca's actual love story. In this section an older version of Francesca is also presented recalling every detail of what had happened between her and Kincaid. Yet, in reality it is always the fictional author who is trying to portray the story as truthfully as possible. The novel also integrates other art forms, such as poems and the text “Falling From Dimension Z”, which Francesca receives after Robert Kincaid’s death. Finally, the narrator interviews a jazz musician who befriended Kincaid in his final years and who, moved by the love story, created another artform: a saxophone composition. In 1993 Waller wanted to make this dimension real and composed a collection of songs named The Ballads of Madison County: a Collection of Songs. He can be seen in a YouTube video singing them with a guitar, looking just the same as Robert Kincaid.

There is no doubt that the story is intriguing and beautifully painful for anyone who loves romance novels. Even though it strains credibility that a mother would write a letter to her children about an affair that she had 20 years ago in their house, the structure and the metafictional frame, as well as the other art forms make the novel interesting. Robert and Francesca’s story is tender and evocative; their brief, intense affair is captured with cautious detail and sensitivity by the ‘real’ author. Stylistically, there are moments when he shifts to a simpler, more delicate style and we can find genuine tenderness, like in the letter from Robert to Francesca: “so here I am walking around with another person inside of me. Though I think I put it better the day we parted when I said there is a third person we have created from the two of us” (29-30). However, the text is full of overtly pretentious parts, where we can clearly see that the author wants us to feel the grandiosity of his writing, which disconnects the reader from the plot. Aside from this problem, Waller’s novel is interesting for suggesting an interesting dilemma: should we choose passion or responsibility? In the novel Francesca chooses the latter. She decides to stay in Iowa with her family and to endure the deep sadness inside her, fuelled by the idea of what could have been. Some readers will think that she did the right thing while others will believe that she should have gone away with Robert Kincaid.

Robert is, ultimately, the centre of attention instead of Francesca, which does not seem quite right. In the cultural context of the early 1990s, Kincaid embodies a form of New Age masculinity that seeks to reconcile sensitivity with dominance. However, from a modern feminist perspective, the novel’s characterization reveals deeper issues. On the one hand, Robert Kincaid, who notably shares both name and traits with Waller, is the patient zero of all the sensible, alternative, ‘not all men’ type of guys. From the beginning, great emphasis is placed on showing how this man is so different from the rest, even his mother believes that “he came not from my husband and me, but from another place to which he's trying to return” (17-18). He is praised throughout the entire novel and even the fading dreams of Francesca are reborn by his presence, as the author claims that with Robert Kincaid “she had become a woman again” (112). She is framed through the male gaze, as she is too closely linked to the male character and to his glorification. Maybe, a richer exploration of Francesca’s inner life could have balanced the novel’s overwhelming glorification of Kincaid. Waller struggles indeed to capture the complexity of this woman’s character. On the other hand, the decision that Francesca makes by choosing to stay in Iowa with her family is crucial for the plot but doesn’t have the depth and protagonism required. It is addressed as the reasonable decision from both characters’ point of view, and after they part both continue living in quiet sadness, drowning in nostalgia and haunted by the four beautiful days that they had. Overall, the novel has the ingredients and the intention of becoming something more than a love affair story, but in the end the reader is ultimately left with an idea of a perfect man, an ideal love and an intense romance that feels too detached from reality.

All things considered, I would not recommend The Bridges of Madison County to readers approaching it through a contemporary lens. Although the story is engaging enough to sustain interest, it is at times difficult to endure, particularly for those who have grown weary of the romanticization of romance itself or of narratives that persist in idealizing men. Reading it today feels like watching a beautifully shot film on an old screen: romantic, nostalgic, and slightly outdated. It’s not that love stories like this can’t move us anymore, it’s that we’ve learned to ask for more than bridges built by men.

1992. Paul Monette’s Journey in Becoming a Man: Half a Life Story: An Intimate Connection - Aray Teixidor Pérez

Edition reviewed: Little, Brown, 1994

Paul Landry Monette (1945-1995) was an American poet and writer born in Massachusetts, best-known for his novels regarding sexual identities and AIDS/HIV, a disease he himself suffered in in his final years. Becoming a Man (1992), written three years before Monette’s death, is a memoir that earned him the 1992 National Book Award and that stands among his most significant works alongside Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir (1988).

Becoming a Man is a journey of self-discovery and of finding one’s place in society, even in one that does not accept you. Monette writes about his life, starting from his childhood until the moment he met his soulmate, Roger Horwitz, the man who helped him come out of the closet. As the author was battling AIDS, writing the book became a way for him to reminisce about his experiences as a bisexual man, reflecting on his struggles to find rewarding relationships, living in an unaccepting and judgmental society, feeling forced to remain in the closet and even create a fake personality or have fake relationships to fit in. However, the memoirs also dwell on those experiences in order to celebrate not only Monette’s sexual nature but his development as a person as he was finding himself.

Monette’s writing in Becoming a Man stands out for its accessible and conversational tone. The slightly casual style makes the narrative flow naturally while keeping the reader easily engaged. Additionally, his experiences are written with a sincere tone that blends nostalgia and raw emotion, allowing the readers to feel both the pain and beauty of his self-discovery. One of the ways in which this honesty appears in the text is in how Monnette inserts his reflections in between these experiences, occasionally contrasting how he felt in that moment with the current understanding he has at the time of writing. For example, when he recalls his sorrowful memories in Paris, he writes the following: “Now I see that Paris sorrow was trying to tell me something about the self I couldn’t run from anymore (...). But I wrote a poem instead of confronting the truth” (224), admitting to having avoided the issue at the time while expressing his present thoughts on the matter. This dual perspective highlights Monette’s personal growth, showing his changing point of view and his evolution as a person. However, the text’s sincerity is not always comfortable. For instance, this lack of filter also applies to some sexual descriptions that appear in the story. Although they are an important part of his experiences and on some occasions necessary to understand the context of what was happening, they feel at some points too disrupting and trivial. Nevertheless, Monette’s direct approach to every aspect of his life while maintaining his emotional authenticity reinforces his intellectual maturity as a writer.

The narrative follows the author’s path toward self-acceptance and love but not everything is a bed of roses. The process of coming to terms with one’s identity, especially in the context of societal pressure and rejection, is portrayed as both transformative and painful. Monette lived through many deeply unpleasant experiences that became internalized fears reflected on his actions and thoughts even after the causal events had happened. One crucial moment in Monette’s life which helped him change his ways towards self-acceptance was meeting someone who appreciated him regardless of his sexuality. At a time when Monette is dating a girl named Lois Bronner, she asks him why he wants to be a poet, a question he had never truthfully answered before other people, but he feels comfortable enough around her to reply with the complete story, which includes his attraction to men. Her positive response makes him realize that he was “having this thing with Lois instead of a summer love affair, and that its soul passion was as good as sex, maybe better. Because somebody found (him) extraordinary just the way (he) was” (115). Until that moment, Monette had been forcing himself into uncomfortable, failed heterosexual relationships, but realizing that passing as straight to be loved was unnecessary helped him to enjoy healthier, more nurturing relationships, both friendships and romantic bonds. Most of the memoir revolves around those relationships, which results in many characters appearing briefly never to be seen again, with some exceptions that reappear or are mentioned again later on. This mirrors how people we get to know in our lives can affect our perspective and character even for the short period of time shared with each other.

Overall, Monette’s story starts as a chronicle of struggle, with moments of self-doubt, repression and confusion, moving towards a gradual awakening thanks to his personal connections. Along with his sentimental narrative, the author reveals his intimate experiences to transmit a heartfelt story. Altogether, Monette’s combination of sentiment and sincerity gives the book a distinct, real voice that feels intimate without becoming self-indulgent. Despite all the pressure thrown upon him to fight against his homosexuality—both from his environment and himself—, Monette finds meaning and dignity within all that suffering and uses it to redefine what ‘becoming a man’ means. It is not about being more masculine or attracted to women, but about following your own path, no matter how painful it might be, and finding your true self along the way.

1992. Fools by Pat Cadigan: Demanding Reading - Queralt Meca Camprubí

Edition reviewed: SF Masterworks, 1992

Fools (1992), an SF novel by Pat Cadigan (b. 1953, Schenectady, New York) is the author’s most acclaimed work, together with Synners (1991). Cadigan is a key figure in the 1980s-1990s cyberpunk movement and has often been described as its ‘Queen’ for her success in blending technological dystopia with psychological depth (also because she was the main female figure in a genre dominated by men). During her long career, she has been awarded with distinctions such as the Hugo Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the Arthur C. Clarke Award (in 1995, for this specific novel).

Fools begins with Marna waking up in a luxurious club she does not remember entering, her memory unstable and fragmented. She recalls being a ‘Method’ actress, but her current surroundings do not match her past. Soon she realises that she is not alone in her mind, since other personalities coexist within her, including an ‘escort’/ memory addict called Marva and a Brain Police agent Mersine. In this futuristic, dystopian society, the advanced mind technology allows memories and personalities to be bought, sold, or stolen, and the protagonist becomes the carrier of too many conflicting individuals. As the story progresses, Marna discovers that her original self suffered an accident related to an identity transfer that has escalated out of her control. Each ‘persona’ inside her mind fights for dominance, blurring the boundary between real memory and dream. The novel ends ambiguously and unpredictably: the merged consciousnesses gain awareness of each other’s situation, but not of their originality, concluding, “I am all of them—and none of them” (263). The final philosophical deliberation suggests that in this world, individuality has become an illusion, a lie forced into the populations’ perception.

Pat Cadigan skilfully connects her character studies and the world she builds to create a pointed criticism of the era of fast information. Through Mersine's point of view, especially in the second and third parts, the novel explores the strange situation of a world that values speed but lacks any real substance. Mersine's ongoing frustration with the emptiness behind the new technology reveals the price of living in a society where quickness replaces real understanding. Her complaint that everything is “instant, automatic, and empty” (117) perfectly captures the mood of a society controlled by its own inventions. Cadigan's excellent use of different character voices, specifically the changes between ha and ha/migod, shows her deep understanding of psychology. The clear differences in pace, word choice, and inner thinking between these voices illustrate how identity itself has broken down into separate pieces of data. The world-building supports this central theme: the escort system, by which people can rent personalities for pleasure, becomes a symbol of modern loneliness, while the holos (seductive holographic worlds) show how humanity has given up on reality for illusion. Both reflect a world where the genuine self is traded for convenience and control. The narrative’s clever plot twist, revealing that the difference between the original and the implanted selves isn't real, changes the story from a psychological thriller into a deep reflection about consciousness. Finally, the self-reflecting ending, where the protagonist declares, as noted, that “I am all of them—and none of them” (263), forces the reader to question the very idea of individuality. By combining criticism, symbolism, and deep thought, Cadigan creates a powerful story about identity in the digital age.

Despite its impressive ideas, Fools suffers from structural and plot flaws that sometimes reduce its positive effect. The biggest issue is the sudden and confusing changes affecting the narrator(s): voices merge without warning, making it difficult to know who is speaking and when. Although this instability reflects the novel’s theme of fragmented identity, it also harms the story’s clarity, making it hard to follow emotional developments or the main plotline. In addition, several key ideas, like exactly how memory exchange works or how consciousness transfer is controlled, are not fully explained. These gaps weaken the world-building, leaving readers unsure how the society actually functions beyond its symbolic meaning. The supporting characters also lack depth; they often seem to exist only to interact with the protagonist, without having clear motivations or distinct personalities of their own. Sometimes, it’s even unclear which version of the protagonist they recognize.

In particular, the pacing and tone of the novel’s third part immensely diverge from the first two. The earlier sections raise multiple questions and cultivate a tense sense of mystery, but the final part simplifies the conflict, shifting toward introspection and abstract reflection. While being philosophically interesting, this transition feels sudden, and some of the narrative tension is lost. The ending, which calls for the sacrifice of the ‘fake’ personalities, lacks plausibility: several of these identities have previously shown strong survival instincts, and there is no convincing emotional trigger that explains their sudden surrender. This resolution, while fitting the novel’s themes, feels forced and inconsistent with the psychological realism developed earlier in the text.

In conclusion, Fools is a challenging and deeply rewarding novel. It is suitable for readers who appreciate psychological and philosophical depth within science fiction and who enjoy complex narrative structures. However, readers new to science fiction and cyberpunk or those looking for a fast, straightforward story may find its fragmented narration and ambiguity frustrating. On the whole, though, this is a novel that requires effort but offers great rewards.

1993. The Giver, or How Lois Lowry Wrote Divergent before Veronica Roth – Widad Moula El Moussati

Edition reviewed: Clarion Books, 2014

In a non-specific time in the future, society has evolved so much that humans have been able to create a paradise on earth known as the Community. In this society, there is no pain and no war, but also neither colour nor music. This is the plot of The Giver, winner of a Newbery Medal, a YA novel published in 1993 by American writer Lois Lowry (b. Honolulu, 1937), who crafts an interesting, innovative addition to the dystopian genre with a magical twist.

It is just a few days before the Ceremony of Twelve, and eleven-year-old Jonas is apprehensive and scared about his future. There, he will be assigned a job that fits his personality and will contribute to the Community, and yet, unlike his classmates and friends, he doesn’t have any idea about what it will be. Jonas is too creative and curious for his own good, and as the Ceremony is happening and his classmates are called out and given their dream jobs, his nerves turn into terror when he realizes his name has been skipped. In this novel, however, there is no such thing as suspense, and soon we learn the reason for that abnormality: Jonas is not like the other children. They get mundane and uninteresting jobs, but he is being assigned to be the new Receiver of Memories, working under the Giver, an old man with the capacity to transmit memories of the past by using magic. The unknown knowledge opens the boy’s eyes to the society in which he is living and to the horrors hiding underneath it, and will inspire him to try to do what the Community fears most: change.

The Giver’s main strength is its length: it’s short enough to finish in one afternoon, so the reader doesn’t have to waste more time than that reading it. The Giver is an excellent example of the famous “show, don’t tell”, in the fact that it does the complete opposite. Readers are told in the first chapter that the characters live in an ideal society called The Community, in which everyone is happy, and everything is regulated. In the Community you don’t choose, you are assigned. At the Ceremony of Nine, you are old enough to be assigned a bike; in the Ceremony of Twelve, a job. Later, you get assigned a spouse, and eventually, you need to apply for children, a boy and a girl, who are birthed by someone else and given to you when they are one year old. Once these children become adults, you are assigned to a different area, alongside other childless adults, where you will live happily until you are ordered to be released from the Community. What the Community is, when it started, and why it functions like that are left to the reader’s imagination. Lowry certainly believes that brevity is the key to writing, she never discusses anything for more than two sentences. Entire plot points, such as the memories that Jonas receives from the Giver, the existence of other receivers, and the exterior world, are skipped or summarized in clumsy dialogues between The Giver and Jonas, since these two are the only people who talk about anything relevant in the entire novel.

Lois Lowry’s The Giver lacks soul, owing to her need to rush the plot forward. In doing so, she hurts the most important aspect of any book: the characters. The superficiality of the protagonist and the supporting cast is so blatant that the reader can’t feel a connection to the story. Most of the characters named at the beginning of the book are immediately dropped and have been forgotten by the author by the end. When Jonas suddenly remembers that he indeed has friends and family and interacts with them. Lowry writes them as stupider and less patient than Jonas just to enhance and praise the supposed intelligence of her protagonist. This leaves the reader only two characters to remember: Jonas himself and The Giver.

Jonas does not feel like a real twelve-year-old boy for there is no depth to him. Although he supposedly grows at the end, the change is so sudden and so poorly written that it is almost laughable. In receiving memories of the past, he learns that there were things like colours, music, and war in whatever society that existed before. He wishes to share these memories with his loved ones, who aren’t interested in them. Jonas then distances himself from others and eventually runs away without a single thought for his family or friends. The Giver is similarly underwritten, serving as an example of the Gandalf archetype. He only realizes that sharing memories of the past with others could benefit the Community when a twelve-year-old points it out. The only interesting fact about him is his daughter Rosemary, the previous Receiver of Memories, who committed suicide after not being able to withstand her new ability. There is no indication of any familial connection between the Giver and Rosemary during most of the story, so when he says “I want to be with my daughter” (148), this is intended as a plot twist. Yet, due to the lack of development of the Giver as a character, the twist falls flat and predictable. You long for more information about Rosemary, a character who never appears, over both the protagonist and the one who gives the book its title.

The Giver can only be recommended to young readers with very low standards. The tragedy of this story lies in its wasted potential. With more pages and more motivated, unique characters, it could have been a great commentary on the world we live in. Instead, any political message hidden within the pages is lost amid the awkward dialogue, flat world-building, and shallow characters.

1994. A Quest for Identity and Empowerment in Bulibasha: King of the Gypsies by Witi Ihimaera – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

Edition reviewed: Raupo (Penguin), 1998

Bulibasha: King of the Gypsies is a historical fiction novel published in 1994 by the renowned Māori author Witi Ihimaera. Born in 1944 in Waituhi, a rural town near Gisborne in New Zealand (the setting of the novel), Ihimaera is considered to be the first Māori writer to publish both a collection of short stories and a novel. He has published numerous works during his career, always with the aim to give a voice to the Māori people, as they are often misrepresented in literature. Ihimaera has won multiple times the New Zealand Book Trust Awards, including for this particular novel. Incidentally, this novel was adapted into a film in 2016, Mahana (a.k.a. The Patrarchy), directed by Lee Tamahori.

What would you do if you were born in rural New Zealand, in a traditional Māori environment where your Grandfather Bulibasha was like a God to everyone around you—never questioned or contradicted—yet you could clearly see how they are all wrong for letting his mind games and abusive behaviour rule your lives? This is what Simeon, the protagonist, must face as one of the youngest members of his family, the so-called “family of God”. There is, besides, a complicated, historical rivalry with another sheep-farming Māori family, an enmity which carries many secrets behind that not even Simeon could have ever imagined. Readers follow Simeon’s narration through his coming-of-age, exploring universal themes of identity search, independence, and a constant dilemma between tradition and modernisation. Simeon’s courageous and honest first-person narration immerses readers into this Māori world, full of family secrets and evolving characters.

Concerning the main strengths of this novel, it is worth highlighting the exploration of female empowerment through Grandmother Ramona, a character with a firm sense of self, even in such a traditional, patriarchal, and sexist context. She is unequivocally courageous and resilient, refusing to let others decide for her and daring to defy the seemingly untouchable Bulibasha, her husband. Behind this façade, her story is compelling and deeply moving, revealed towards the very end of the novel as one of its striking plot twists. This actually illustrates another positive aspect of Ihimaera’s writing: his ability to build tension and suspense, capturing the readers’ attention through the initial foreshadowing opening many chapters, and through the unexpected turns in the story. Closely related to this is Simeon’s reflective and questioning narrative voice, allowing readers to access his thoughts, making him an endearing and relatable protagonist. These reflections, which are similar to those he provokes in readers, humanise him while making him believable and honest, even creating a sense of intimacy between reader and narrator. In addition, the novel follows the protagonist’s coming-of-age, proving the circular nature of his character and bringing him closer to readers as they accompany him during his search for identity, as illustrated in this passage: “I was able to build a sense of independence, a sense of my own self. It was not just a matter of distrusting his decisions. It was a matter of trusting my own” (201).

However, it is not until the end of the book that readers encounter the compelling and tense plot twists mentioned previously. Up until that moment, the narration can feel overly descriptive, dense, and slow-paced; especially in the first part, which is generally not plot driven. Thorough descriptions and contextual insights are crucial at the beginning of the novel in order to grasp the Māori context. However, some of these passages and scenes can feel imbalanced and excessive. For instance, scenes like the sports competition may feel excessively lengthy while not adding much to the plot. On the other hand, the most gripping moments, the final plot twists, might feel rushed and lacking detail. Moreover, Ihimaera frequently switches between English and Māori and even though this practice is effective in making the narration more authentic, it ends up being a challenge. The use of many Māori words and expressions such as Tapu or Karakia without translation, creates a sense of uncertainty and disorientation. Finally, there are numerous explicit violent scenes, including rape, that can overwhelm readers, despite serving to sympathise with the characters’ hatred towards Bulibasha, a man who exerts psychological and physical abuse persistently. As Grandmother Ramona complains, “It hurt. It always hurt with him. He was like a bull. So big. He gored me. Trampled on me every time. I pleaded with him to stop” (275).

In conclusion, Bulibasha: King of the Gypsies truly makes readers sympathise with characters like Simeon or Grandmother Ramona, realising the hardships of being born into a highly structured environment based on family, religion, work, and tradition. Although readers would benefit from some clarifications regarding Māori culture, from a better balance of the descriptions of some events, and some trigger warnings, the novel’s enormous significance for the representation of Māori people in literature ought to be recognised. The theme of women’s empowerment was not a recurrent theme in Māori discussions at the time and, giving it a space in literature is definitely an important tool to introduce real change and start questioning patriarchal roles.

1995. Affection, Irony, and Identity: A Cultural Satire of Britain in Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island – Aina Matamala Tuset

Edition reviewed: Transworld Publishers – Penguin Random House 2015

Notes from a Small Island is a humorous travel book first published in 1995 by the renowned American author Bill Bryson. Born in Des Moines, Iowa in 1951, he has been a resident of Britain for most of his adult life, holding dual American and British citizenship. Bryson, a best-selling non-fiction author is the recipient of awards and honours such as the Aventis Prize or the Descartes prize among many other recognitions. Bryson is most celebrated, precisely, by Notes from a Small Island. This book was voted by British citizens as the book that best sums up British identity and the state of nation. Through autobiography, social commentary, humour and satire Bryson’s Notes from a Small island is an uproariously funny social commentary that approaches and on occasion derides the essence of the British culture, topography, inhabitants and their manners.

In Notes from a Small island, Bill Bryson takes readers on an affectionate and humorous journey across Great Britain, a country the author has called home for many years. Prior to returning to his native country, the United States, Bryson embarks on a farewell tour of the island determined to visit both its famous landmarks and its forgotten corners. Commuting mostly by bus, train or on foot, he wanders through the rural countryside, quiet villages and bustling cities, perceiving with sharp wit and affection the charms and quirks of British life: “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I like it here. I like it more than I can tell you. And then I turned from the gate and got in the car and knew without doubt that I would be back” (379) Throughout his travels, Bryson reflects on the peculiarities of British culture—from polite manners and confusing road signs to the beauty of ancient architecture and the unpredictable weather. His encounters with locals or odd situations, and his nostalgic memories paint a vivid portrait of a nation that is both eccentric and endearing. Beneath the humour, however, there lies a deep affection and respect for Britain, its people, and its history. Notes from a Small Island is more than just a travel book; it is Bryson’s heartfelt tribute to a country that shaped him, blending comedy, observation, and nostalgia into a loving farewell to the small island he came to think of as home. Contemplating the view from Kirby Fell, Bryson writes: “It looked so peaceful and wonderful that I could almost have cried, and yet it was only a tiny part of this small, enchanted island” (378).

Bryson has a self-deprecating and witty voice which makes him instantly relatable. The locals he encounters—from talkative hotel clerks to odd bus passengers—are depicted with warmth and comic precision. With each inhabitant he runs into, the book is authentically and vividly shaped, often revealing British quirks with affectionate satire: “All the shop ladies called me love and most of the men called me mate. I hadn’t been here twelve hours and already they loved me” (22). Bryson excels at evoking the diversity of British landscapes, from bustling cities like London and Manchester to remote villages and seaside towns. In Bryson’s description, Britain feels alive, lived-in and layered with history offering readers a constant contrast between the beauty and the absurdities of modern Britain and the cultural understanding of the island. Dialogue is used to portray cultural contrasts between Bryson’s genial American perspective and the reserved, ironic humour of the British. The author’s descriptive prose is a strong tool as he balances precise visual detail with comic exaggeration. Hence, through original and sharp metaphors, Bryson transforms mundane travel observations into scenes of vivid charm and absurdity.

Given Bryson’s foreign perspective, reliance on humour, and occasional brusqueness, readers must weigh whether his observations are merely entertaining rather than insightful. Yet, only with this consideration can his travelogue be taken seriously beyond its comedic surface. As is the nature of the travelogue, always episodic, Bryson goes to town, reminisces, relays a few choice anecdotes, describes his stay humorously, and moves on to the next town. While most of these little episodes are amusing, his cycle of arriving somewhere, finding it charmingly odd or infuriatingly inefficient, and then wandering off in mild exasperation can, after several hundred pages, feel a little repetitive. The text brims with idiomatic peculiarities, colloquial British expressions and regional slang that can send non-British readers scurrying to the internet to keep up with Bryson’s banter. This writing style adds local distinctiveness and authenticity, yet it occasionally renders the prose less accessible to a non-native audience. Besides, in recounting his interactions, some stories reveal Bryson’s blunt or irritable side, particularly with salespeople, receptionists, or other hapless service workers. While these moments often aim for comic effect, they may leave some readers wondering whether his trademark curmudgeonly charm sometimes crosses into simple ill-temper.

Notes from a Small Island is a gently satirical and nostalgic travel book that represents a sentimental note to Britain during Bryson’s last tour of the country. The author delivers an entertaining and original narrative and at the same time encourages the readers to wade through the text critically and attentively while learning varied words and expressions from the British language. Bryson’s mixture of plain narrative and stilted vocabulary might frustrate readers who do not already possess a previous knowledge of the British language and culture. Yet, this is what his book is about: the charm of approaching a foreign culture through a shared, yet different, language.

1996. Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace: The Art of Doubt in a Seamless Quilt of Lies and Truths – Anan Ye

Edition reviewed: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2019

Alias Grace is a historical fiction novel published in 1996 by Canadian novelist, poet and literary critic Margaret Atwood (b. 1939, Ottawa). Thanks to her debut novel The Edible Woman (1969) and many other notable works— including her landmark novel The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), which earned her the first ever Arthur C. Clarke award, a Booker Prize and numerous other accolades—Atwood is regarded as one of the most eminent contemporary writers. Atwood frequently addresses themes of feminism, identity and social issues in her works. Her ninth novel, and one of her most acclaimed, Alias Grace is based on the real-life case of Grace Marks, a servant convicted of murder in 1843. In 2017, the novel was adapted into a television miniseries, co-directed by Mary Harron and Sarah Polley, further expanding its impact and reach.

Set in mid-19th-century Canada, Alias Grace reimagines the true story of Grace Marks, a young Irish immigrant and domestic servant who was convicted of murdering her employer, Thomas Kinnear, and his housekeeper and mistress, Nancy Montgomery. While these historical events and names are factual, Margaret Atwood enriched them with fictional elements, such as the addition of the character of Dr. Simon Jordan, a young physician who studies Grace in an attempt to uncover the truth behind her conviction. The novel unfolds largely through a series of interviews in the penitentiary between the two main characters, using a dual narration that alternates between Grace’s first-person recollections and Dr. Simon Jordan’s third-person perspective. Although much of Grace’s story is revealed through these sessions, both narrators prove unreliable in their own ways; the former through her fragmented, ambiguous memories and the latter, through his subjective, often biased interpretations. This interplay of uncertain voices deepens the novel’s psychological complexity and invites the reader to question the very nature of the truth. Margaret Atwood structures the narrative like a quilt, with each section named after a traditional quilting pattern, stitched together from fragments of letters, documents and shifting viewpoints. Throughout the narrative, Grace herself frequently describes quilting, an act that metaphorically mirrors her piecing together of memory and identity from scattered pieces. Ultimately, Alias Grace transcends its historical crime narrative to become a mediation on memory, truth, self-identity and the limitations of perception within a patriarchal society.

Atwood must be praised for the masterful creation of her characters, particularly the female ones, whose complexity and psychological nuances bring the novel to life. Grace Marks, despite being an unreliable narrator from the very beginning, evokes both empathy and fascination. Through her fragmented storytelling and shifting self-perceptions, the author constructs a protagonist whose identity feels constantly in flux since it gets crafted as much by others’ assumptions as by her own evasive memory. The book’s title, Alias Grace, encapsulates this crisis of identity perfectly since, throughout the narrative, Grace is called by many names, such as servant, monster, victim, Mary Whitney or murderess, which for her “is a strong word to have attached to you. It has a smell to it, that word—musky and oppressive, like dead flowers in a vase. Sometimes at night I whisper it over to myself: Murderess, Murderess. It rustles, like a taffeta skirt across the floor” (22, original italics). Yet no one fully captures who she is.

As it can be seen in the passage, having several aliases does not negatively affect Grace because her intelligence, imagination, subtle ability to manipulate and capacity to deceive, perhaps even the reader, reveal Atwood’s extraordinary psychological insight; she turns doubt into an art form by creating a heroine who is at once self-aware and elusive. In the same way, Mary Whitney, another female character and, most probably, Grace’s favourite person, is portrayed as an energetic, witty, independent-minded woman and someone who, in life, embodied a kind of resistance to the strict social and gender norms limiting women in the 19th century. In contrast, the male characters appear somewhat monochrome: many are self-absorbed, morally compromised and comically predictable, from their excessive drinking and abusive manner to their constant preoccupation with women. Even so, despite their flaws, all of them are part of Atwood’s brilliant characterization, thus inviting the reader into the same web of uncertainty that entangles the characters within the story, leaving us unsure of where authenticity ends and performance begins.

The strengths of Alias Grace extend beyond characterization to the novel’s immersive setting and narrative style. Atwood evokes mid-19th century Canada with close attention to detail, focusing on the rigid social hierarchy, class distinctions and the domestic and physiological environment. Every part begins with passages extracted from historical documents, literature, and confessions that are smartly selected and are closely related to what the reader is going to find in the chapters belonging to the specific section. The quilted construction allows the author to manipulate pacing effectively, making contemplative sections slower, thus encouraging reflection on moral ambiguity and psychological tension, while adding suspenseful moments of revelation. Atwood’s choice to often omit quotation marks creates a deliberate blurring between spoken dialogue and internal thought. The narrative demands attention and patience as it constantly shifts between timelines and layers of memory. There are no easy resolutions nor a nearly tied ending, hence every single detail from the book invites the reader to question motivations, reliability and truth.

To sum up, Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood stands out as a brilliantly written novel, distinguished by its psychological richness and meticulously constructed characters. Its haunting ambiguity and pervasive sense of mystery make its reading an engaging experience. Every answer unfolds another question, every truth conceals a possible lie. Though the book may leave one full of doubts and a sense of uncertainty, even emptiness, it also elicits much admiration for Margaret Atwood’s craftsmanship, deeply researched historical facts and psychological depth. This is a novel that stays with the reader long after it ends, not because it provides closure but because if refuses to, thus capturing the very essence of human ambiguity.

1996. The Myth within Storytelling: The Englishman's Boy by Guy Vanderhaeghe - Nelly Villavicencio Ortega

Edition reviewed: Abacus, 2005

Guy Vanderhaeghe was born in 1951 in Esterhazy, Saskatchewan. He is one of Canada’s best-known writers thanks to his historical fiction set in the North American West. His works have challenged the traditional mythology of the West, masculinity, and national identity. The Englishman’s Boy (1996), perhaps his most celebrated novel, won the Governor General’s Award for Fiction. This historical fiction novel combines the Western with the metafictional narrative of Hollywood’s myth-making industry. Through its dual time frames and dense prose, Vanderhaeghe examines how violence becomes legend and how storytelling shapes historical truth.

The Englishman’s Boy alternates between two periods and narratives. In the first, set in 1873, Shorty McAdoo, a teenage drifter known as the Englishman’s boy (he used to be the servant of a wealthy man migrated from England seeking adventure), joins a band of American “wolfers” travelling into the Canadian prairies. Their search for stolen horses culminates in the real-life Cypress Hills Massacre, in which Assiniboine people are slaughtered by the group after the men get drunk. The second narrative is set in 1920s Hollywood, where a young screenwriter, Harry Vincent, is hired to record and turn McAdoo’s story into a patriotic Western film. As the two stories unfold, the narrative exposes how Hollywood and popular culture reshape trauma into legend, and the notion of turning history into entertainment is confronted by the two characters. In the final chapters, Harry rejects film producer Damon Ira Chance’s attempts to manipulate history and fights to preserve the authentic version of the events, while Shorty lies dying tormented by memory. These two storylines question the cost of transforming suffering into national legend.

One of the novel’s central concerns is how mythical storytelling turns violence into sanitized moral fable. The Englishman’s boy is both witness and participant in the massacre, yet its later retelling in Hollywood is distorted beyond recognition despite his candid testimonial. This transformation illustrates how history becomes myth through narrative selection and commercial interest. The film producer, Chance, embodies this process, insisting that the massacre be rewritten as a heroic confrontation with the natives to inspire white American audiences. In contrast, Harry Vincent emerges as the moral conscience of the novel, torn between ambition to succeed as a writer in Hollywood and moral integrity. One of the characters claims that “Chance wants to make films that are the artistic equal of Leaves of Grass” (218), the poems by Walt Whitman which celebrate “the soul of America.” Nevertheless, the irony of this aspiration is subtly portrayed; while Whitman’s poetry seeks democratic inclusivity, Chance’s vision glorifies conquest and denial. This parallelism between the power that Hollywood holds in the shaping of public opinion through movies, and a prestigious work of art such as Leaves of Grass shows the fine line that exists between truth and fiction, almost in a way that it appears indistinguishable. This forces the reader to question whether Hollywood storytelling can ever escape the urge to be turned into (racist) myth and how limited the influence of literary models really is. Vanderhaeghe gradually deconstructs the image of the traditional Western hero conveying independence, and honour. Shorty is no hero, but a terrified young man involved in a massacre of the native American population, in which he also participates. Harry, who struggles to resist the blinding ideology promoted by the Hollywood film business, ultimately realizes that this myth is internalized not only by the industry but also within (white) American society itself. The novel’s intertwined structure challenges readers to navigate the overlap between the truth and the fiction, altering their own perception on how history is told and spread.

The narrative of The Englishman’s Boy is meticulous, filled with long, elaborate descriptions of landscape and character psychology, which fits the cinematic portrayal of some of the scenes, such as the ones in the prairies. However, this richness can also become a burden. The novel is at times extremely challenging to follow because of the everlasting descriptions and its non-linear structure. The frequent temporal jumps and lack of clear settings (in the chronology and plot frame) required close attention and previous familiarity with Western and film history to fully grasp the references. This difficulty, however, seems integral to the plot and its message, in a way that the novel, and perhaps the author, forces the reader to reflect on how confusing history and the past really are. The slowness of the pacing might reflect the moral heaviness of remembering, maybe due to the harshness of the events portraying traumatic occurrences, developed into an extended version of the facts. Nevertheless, despite being witty and insightful, in Vanderhaeghe’s novel the process of going through the pages becomes monotonous and almost wearisome. The Englishman’s Boy can always be read, though, as a source of study, introspection, and evaluation of the US film industry’s content and choices.

The Englishman’s Boy is an intellectual novel that questions the construction of myth, the Western hero, and the reality behind storytelling. While its retrospective and historical insights are notable, the dense prose, extensive descriptions, and non-linear structure may present challenges to readers who are unfamiliar with the Western genre or the film industry. This novel is best suited for readers with an interest in these contexts or those who are willing to engage with complex narrative structures. Its style may hinder basic readerly enjoyment, although its exploration of truth, and myth remains significant within contemporary fiction based on history, making The Englishman’s Boy valuable and educational.

1997. A Powerful Story Lost in Its Form: Reading Nadine Gordimer’s The House Gun – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

Edition reviewed: Picador, 2012

The House Gun is a literary psychological novel by Nadine Gordimer, published in 1998. Gordimer (1923-2014) was a major South African writer and political activist known for her moral and anti-racist insights into life under Apartheid. Awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1991, she became one of the most significant voices against racial injustice. Her novels, including Burger’s Daughter and July’s People, were even banned by the government. Deeply involved in the anti-Apartheid struggle, Gordimer joined the African National Congress when it was still illegal and even advised Nelson Mandela on the speech he delivered during his 1964 trial.

The House Gun begins when Harald and Claudia Lindgard, an upper-middle-class white couple (he’s an insurance company director and she a doctor), receive the devastating news that their only son, Duncan, has been accused of murdering a friend. Their reality suddenly collapses, and their identity becomes reduced to that of “the parents of a murderer.” The novel, divided into two parts, first follows the parents’ attempt to understand their son’s crime by speaking to him, his friends, and his lawyer, while questioning their own role as parents and wondering what moral failure might have led to the tragedy. The second part centres on Duncan’s trial, gathering the fragments of information previously revealed and exposing the moral and emotional tensions surrounding the case. Through this structure, Gordimer constructs a slow psychological dissection of guilt, justice, and moral responsibility in post-Apartheid South Africa.

The House Gun stands out for its moral and social complexity. The novel examines themes such as homosexuality, the death penalty, and racism, using the Lindgards’ ordeal to explore the shifting codes of a newly democratic South Africa. Gordimer portrays how privilege and liberal ideals are challenged when violence enters a supposedly civilised, educated family. The couple’s reaction exposes deep contradictions in their values: while they once opposed the death penalty in theory, they become desperate to save their son from it in practice. The novel also reflects the anxiety of white South Africans facing a new social order, particularly since their son’s defence lawyer, Hamilton Motsamai, is a black man. The initial discomfort about being represented by him reveals their unconscious racism and the fragility of their liberal convictions. As Gordimer writes, “The Lindgards were not racist, if racists means having revulsion against skin of a different colour, believing or wanting to believe that anyone who is not your own colour or religion or nationality is intellectually and morally inferior (…). Yet neither had joined movements, protested, marched in open display, spoken out in defence of these convictions” (97). This passage exposes the limits of their moral engagement, revealing how passive liberalism can mask complicity and fear. Gordimer uses these tensions to reflect the confusion of a society going through change. By focusing on her characters’ inner thoughts, she shows how quickly certainty and stability can fall apart, and how violence can enter even the most ordinary, secure homes. The house becomes a symbol of privilege and denial, broken by the gun that exposes the moral weakness behind it.

Stylistically, The House Gun is challenging. Gordimer’s prose is dense, often lacking quotation marks and clear speaker tags, which blurs the line between dialogue and inner monologue. This technique makes it easy to lose track of who is speaking, forcing the reader to re-read passages for clarity, but it also reflects the confusion and fragmentation of the characters’ thoughts. The first part of the novel moves slowly, filled with introspection and long inner reflections. It can be difficult to empathise with Harald and Claudia because their emotions are often filtered through abstract moral reasoning rather than raw feeling. Their conversations sometimes seem detached, revealing how estranged they become not only from their son but from each other.

Duncan, an architect by profession, remains distant throughout the story. His emotional reserve invites the reader to judge him as the jury does, learning gradually what led him to kill his gay lover and housemate, Carl, when he found him having sex with his girlfriend Claudia. As he reflects, “In the ‘human relationship’—love-making and all the rest—Carl acted, I suffered him, I acted, Natalie suffered me, and that night on the sofa they acted, and I suffered them both. We belong to each other” (303). This confession exposes the tangled web of guilt, intimacy, and jealousy behind the crime, showing how love and violence coexist in disturbing ways. The parents’ discovery of both Duncan’s homosexuality and his relationship with Natalie underscores how little they truly knew him. Yet, this emotional distance is deliberate: Gordimer refuses to offer comforting explanations, instead forcing the reader to confront the ambiguity of human motives. While the first part is meditative and demanding, the courtroom scenes in the second half provide a sharper rhythm and stronger dramatic tension, making the novel’s moral questions more immediate and compelling.

Although The House Gun can be difficult to follow due to its fragmented style and slow pace, it offers a profound reflection on guilt, responsibility, and the limits of moral certainty. Gordimer’s complex narrative rewards patient readers, inviting them to question how easily one’s principles can collapse when faced with tragedy.

1997. American Pastoral by Philip Roth: The Collapse of the American Dream as Postmodern Nihilism - Roger Vallès Fitó

Edition reviewed: Jonathan Cape, 1997

American Pastoral (1997) is a novel by Philip Roth (1933, Newark, New Jersey–2018, New York), an author broadly regarded as one of the most significant American novelists of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. His work—marked by sharp psychological perception, explorations of Jewish-American identity, and reflections on national life—earned Roth numerous honours, including the PEN/Faulkner Award (three times) and the National Book Award. American Pastoral occupies a central place in Roth’s literary production, having earned him the 1998 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, as a major work in American literature. American Pastoral initiates Roth’s so-called American Trilogy—along with I Married a Communist (1998) and The Human Stain (2000)—through which he analyses the converging personal and historical narratives that shape postwar America. Interestingly, Ewan McGregor both directed and starred in a 2016 feature film adaptation of the novel, reflecting its enduring relevance in contemporary American culture.

American Pastoral tells the story of Seymour “Swede” Levov, a Jewish-American man from Newark (Roth’s own home city) whose blond good looks and athletic qualities—earning him the nickname “Swede”—make him a local celebrity in the post-World War II era. His aura transcends the sports world, granting him the ability to become a quintessential figure of the American Dream, to the point of being locally regarded as one of the myths of contemporary America. As Nathan Zuckerman succinctly summarizes: “I thought, But of course. He is our Kennedy” (83). Young Seymour marries Dawn Dwyer, a gentile and a former Miss New Jersey, inherits his father’s glove-manufacturing business, and settles in the idyllic suburb of Old Rimrock, proving to be a model of virtue and prosperity as a third-generation descendant of Jewish immigrants. This comfortable picture of American success is shattered in 1968 when Merry, his teenage daughter, commits an act of political terrorism, bombing a local post office in protest against the Vietnam War. Merry's transformation from a stuttering child to a radicalized teenager serves not only as a plot device but also as a reflection on Swede's illusions and as a counterpoint to his complacency.

The novel is structured in three parts—Paradise Remembered, The Fall, Paradise Lost—a classical frame that alludes to the epic dimensions of Milton’s masterpiece. The narrative explores the disintegration of Swede’s certainties: his family life, his business, and his identity as the ideal American. The story is narrated by Nathan Zuckerman—a recurring Roth alter ego—a writer and former classmate of Swede’s brother Jerry, who reconstructs the Levov saga moving backwards through facts, personal testimony, and his own reflections. This concentric narrative—a narrator within the narration who recreates the narration—is masterfully deployed by Roth to provide a suitable patina of unreliability and mystification that helps shape legends. It is precisely that amalgam of facts, myths, and imagination that builds the imaginary collective that forges the zeitgeist, that is, the spirit of the age. Newark's post-World War II story chronicles the decline of a community built on material values intertwined with class discrimination and racism that led to the riots of the 1960s and, ultimately, the dismantling of a model based on fierce capitalism and social injustice. The eruption of violence and chaos that occurred in New Jersey after World War II was an echo of a broader phenomenon, namely, the collapse of modernity that gave rise to the postmodern world.

Roth enriches his narrative style by intersecting historical context with personal characterization, but while the former functions narratively as the common thread, the latter are the brushstrokes that imprint the real meaning of the story. To this aim the narrator introduces around the ‘messianic’ figure of Swede a myriad corrosive characters whose neuroses and conditions are the genuine metaphor to depict a world that is falling apart irremissibly. Thus, Dawn Dwyer's facial cosmetic surgery is just a vain attempt to relieve mental illness and vital emptiness. Merry’s stuttering is conditioned both by her frustration at being overshadowed by a beauty queen mother, and by her repressed affection disorderly channelled toward his father—a situation that Rita Cohen takes advantage of, in order to ruthlessly pick at the Swede's wound by challenging him—”‘Come to fuck Rita Cohen, have you?’ (…) ‘Let’s f-f-f-fuck, D-d-d-dad’” (143)—reminding him of the episode when Merry asked to be kissed like her mother. Finally, Jessie Orcutt’s seemingly random act of violence against Swede's father, symbolizes the collapse of social norms and reflects the feelings of instability and uncertainty that shape the American ethos at this pivotal point in history. Only Jewish writer Nathan Zuckerman provides the necessary degree of objectivity, avoiding melodrama, to witness how Seymour Levov bears the burden of the community, except this time there will be no redemption for any of them, no matter how willing Swede is to play the heroic sacrificial role.

In conclusion, American Pastoral tells with unflinching insight the story of a saga that witnesses firsthand the disintegration of the American Dream and, with it, the disappearance of success culture, moral principles, a sense of identity, and the pursuit of happiness. Philip Roth invites us on an intellectually stimulating and emotionally moving journey to the confines of a nation's soul. From the local to the global, the upheaval of Newark anticipates the end of existentialist modernity and the advent of the era of nihilistic postmodernity that irreversibly changed the idiosyncrasy of the United States and beyond.

1998. The Mysterious, Compelling and Erotic Aftertaste of Good Wine: Elizabeth Knox’s The Vintner’s Luck – Leire Olariaga Miera

Edition reviewed: Victoria University Press, 1999

The Vintner’s Luck is one of the best-known works of New Zealander writer Elizabeth Knox (b. 1959, Wellington). This novel has won several prestigious awards including the Deutz Medal for Fiction and the inaugural Tasmania Pacific Region Prize for best novel; it has been translated into 13 languages and in 2009 was adapted into a film, under the direction of Niki Caro. However, Knox was disappointed at the direction the movie took as she felt Caro “took out what the book was actually about,” referring to the romantic relationship between Sobran and Xas, which is a core aspect of the novel. Highly acclaimed, Elizabeth Knox became an Arts Foundation Laureate and was made an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit in 2002.

Knox’s novel follows the story of Sobran Jodeau, a young vintner (or wine-maker) from Burgundy who, one summer evening in 1808, stumbles through his family's vineyard, filled with wine and love sorrows. As Sobran sways in a drunken state, an angel appears out of nowhere to catch him. Once he gets over his shock, Sobran decides that Xas, the male angel, is his guardian sent to counsel him on everything from marriage to wine production. That night, they make a promise to each other: they will meet on the same summer evening every year. However, Xas turns out to be far more mysterious than angelic and their relationship grows increasingly complex as the story unfolds. Alongside this central bond, the narrative also explores the relationship of Jodeau with his brother León, his wife Celeste, his children, and his friend Aurora, as well as everything that happens in the village. A darker thread emerges through a series of mysterious murders that haunt the community. The Vintner’s Luck is a decidedly unorthodox love story, one that presents angels as fierce and beautiful as Milton’s, and a vision of Heaven, Hell, and the vineyards in between.

The Vintner’s Luck stands out as a novel with a truly original and fascinating plot. From the beginning the reader is dragged into this fantastic but very real story, where the fantasy element, the angel, is introduced in a way that feels truly natural. Knox introduces the reader into a deeply atmospheric novel that blends history, spirituality, and sensuality with remarkable grace. Each chapter title bears the year and the name of a different stage in the wine-making process. The first chapter is titled “1808 Vin Bourru (new wine)”, the second chapter, “1809 Vin de coucher (nuptial wine),” and the final chapter “1863 Vinifie (to turn into wine).” The deep knowledge of winemaking that the author accrued to write this novel should be praised, as this knowledge gives the story an earthy authenticity; the reader can feel how the vineyard breathes and ripens alongside its characters. The prose is rich and tactile, transforming each detail into a meditation on creation and decay.

What makes the novel truly striking is its ambiguity. Knox never overexplains, instead, she lets the relationship between Sobran and the angel Xas unfold in mystery. Through them, she explores questions of faith, temptation, and redemption, creating a story that is both human and divine. “The angel’s hands,” Knox writes, “were against his face and the neck and he was being kissed, and it wasn’t a kiss of trouble, of crossed swords, but the kiss of a coupled harness—the present suddenly hitched to the past” (121). Overall, the novel feels like a beautiful and mysterious lucid dream, something that makes perfect sense considering Knox began writing it after a fever dream while ill with pneumonia, in which an angel began to tell her “the story of the most important relationship in his life, which was the story of his friendship with a French winemaker last century.”

Still, the novel’s beauty comes with its own challenges. Its nineteenth-century tone and technical wine vocabulary can feel dense, readers can be left out of the beautiful atmosphere as they may feel that they can’t fully grasp the narrative. Furthermore, the structure (one evening revisited each year) can make the plot feel fragmented and the emotional continuity undermined. This happens especially at the beginning, when really short chapters introduce new characters and subplots with a complex vocabulary; readers can get lost in the plot and have difficulties engaging with the novel. Nevertheless, these difficulties do not diminish the book’s power, they are part of its striking complexity.

In the end, The Vintner’s Luck is a story that challenges the divine. Knox weaves the earthly and the divine into a single, intoxicating tapestry, where love, friendship, and faith ferment slowly, revealing their depth with every passing year. Although its complex language and structure may challenge the reader, they also reflect the novel’s ambition and emotional depth. This is a story that stays with you, like wine on the tongue: bittersweet, full-bodied, and impossible to forget.

1998. Life as a Film Set: Life: The Movie - How Entertainment Conquered Reality by Neal Gabler - Daria Malashenkova

Edition reviewed: Alfred A. Knopf, 1999

Neal Gabler (b. 1950, Chicago) is an American journalist, cultural historian, media commentator, and film critic and one of America’s most accomplished biographers. Having won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for his two works, An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood and Walt Disney: The Triumph of the American Imagination, Gabler has established himself as one of America’s most important public intellectuals. His 1998 non-fiction work Life: The Movie – How Entertainment Conquered Reality is cultural criticism in which the author explores how entertainment and the hunger for it has shaped American identity, penetrating into every aspect of everyday life and transforming everything—from politics to religion—into a form of show business; also, how individuals are artists on a stage, performing their own dramas.

In Life: The Movie – How Entertainment Conquered Reality, Gabler argues that entertainment has exceeded its role, becoming the leading force of American society. As a consequence and, in tune with the title of the book, an individual’s life resembles a movie, in which people are performing as if on a shooting set. By examining societal evolution from the early nineteenth century to the late twentieth, the popularity of dime novels and the rise of Hollywood cinema, Gabler reflects on distinct aspects of American life: the way politics has become special business; how journalism has deviated from factual narrative to dramatic report; and how private life has become a stage for performance, with people presenting themselves according to social and cultural expectations. Gabler argues that people live now in the “post-reality” era: an individual has become so engaged with entertainment and emotions that the boundaries of reality for people are nearly dissolved and “the result is that Homo sapiens is rapidly becoming Homo scaenicus—man the entertainer” (8).

One of the most compelling features of Life: The Movie, is Gabler’s treatment of this topic in his volume, which serves readers as an encyclopedia for understanding the evolution of the American entertainment culture, shedding light on pivotal figures and important names in the cultural history—from P.T. Barnum to Elizabeth Taylor—and analysing key cultural moments from the O.J. Simpson trial to the political drama of President Clinton versus prosecutor Kenneth Starr during his impeachment. Written in 1998, Gabler’s prophecy about “post-reality” culture is remarkable and relatable to current readers, as it broadens the reader’s perspective on the effect of the media and its role in everyday life, acknowledging that life itself has become entertainment.

Another strong feature is Neal Gabler’s mastery of argumentation, which aligns with the book’s structure. Gabler organizes Life: The Movie in a macro-to-micro framework, exploring how culture, media and society shape individual identity and influence everyday life. Opening with an introduction, the book is divided into five different chapters, each segmented into subchapters, all chronologically organized, which captures reader’s attention and provides a progressive narrative. Starting historically from the 19th century, the narrative moves to late 20th century sociocultural phenomenon. By portraying distinct aspects of American culture and presenting pivotal cultural events and facts—from the public mourning of Princess Diana to the political stagecraft of Ronald Reagan—Gabler offers readers persuasive and trustworthy cultural evidence, making the reading both instructional and entertaining.

The narrative begins with “The Republic of Entertainment,” exploring the rise of dime novels and Hollywood cinema, and moves towards “The Two-Dimensional Society,” analysing politics and journalism. In the following chapters “The Secondary Effect” and “The Human Entertainment,” Gabler changes the perspective from the culture to the Self. At this stage, the narrative exhibits substantial psychological depth, illustrating how by obsessing with celebrities, individuals have distanced themselves from the Self to become closely involved but outside figures, as “audiences need some point of identification if the show is really to engross them. For the movies the solution was stars. For the life movie it is celebrity” (7). Finally, in “The Mediated Self,” Neal Gabler claims that people have become performers playing on a stage of their own show rather than living their lives.

The pace of the narrative is steady and engaging. Furthermore, Gabler’s use of metaphors throughout the narrative, in which the author presents life as a “movie,” a “show,” or a “stage,” and people as “performers” acting out, reinforces the central idea of the book—How Entertainment Conquered Reality— about how individuals have become so absorbed by the media that people are constantly playing roles. Nonetheless, some readers may find fault with some weaknesses of the narrative. One of these is the limitations of Gabler’s view. Although the portrayal of the American reality presented in the book is penetratingly realistic and vividly described, it may convey a sombre view of contemporary culture in that the author offers no solution for this phenomenon. However, even the lack of potential solution is explicable: individuals are so hungry for entertainment that seeking a remedy for it would be a fantasy, since people do not imagine life without it, which also serves a role of a cultural prediction—the present-day society.

Overall, Life: The Movie – How Entertainment Conquered Reality is a brilliant cultural critique, in which Gabler illustrates how entertainment has come to dominate the national consciousness and has shaped the individual’s perspective. The fact that Gabler offers no solution for the phenomenon makes the narrative especially interesting. I would highly recommend this book as a foundation for understanding cultural history and its influence in contemporary life not only to students of media and popular culture but to any reader.

1998. The Hours by Michael Cunningham: Virginia Woolf’s Long Shadow – Núria Pedrós Peró

Edition reviewed: Harper Perennial, 2006

The Hours (1998) is an open celebration of feminist, Modernist English author Virginia Woolf and her acclaimed novel Mrs. Dalloway. Michael Cunningham (b. 1952, Ohio), established himself as an emerging force in American contemporary literature through this fine literary novel, winning both the Pulitzer Prize and the Faulkner Award for Fiction in 1999. His novel was the object of a successful film adaptation directed by Stephen Daldry, which earned Nicole Kidman an Oscar for her performance as Virginia Woolf.

Through a non-linear narrative across decades following the lives of three women related to Woolf, Cunningham explores the ephemerality of life, the constraint of societal roles and the insatiable search for meaning in the ordinary. In 1923, Virginia Woolf suffers from writer’s block when writing her fourth novel, Mrs. Dalloway, clouded by her mental health issues and her uncontrollable wish to return to the bustle of London. In 1949, Laura Brown, a young American suburban wife, reads Woolf’s novel Mrs Dalloway, yearning to escape from baking a cake for her husband’s birthday. In 1999, Clarissa Vaughan, nicknamed Mrs. Dalloway, strolls through New York planning a party to celebrate her lifelong friend Richard, who is dying of AIDS. Three different stories, three different women, three different parties, shed a new light on Woolf’s classic, paralleling the original telling and causing the characters of these intertwining worlds to sharply refocus everything they have come to know in the course of one single day. The lives of these individuals unfold through a series of short chapters which interweave and expand our knowledge of their inner thoughts and insecurities through stream-of-consciousness, a technique which Woolf herself pioneered together with other Modernist authors.

Nevertheless, The Hours, grapples with the lives of not only these three women but also of Richard, the award-winning poet who perceives himself as a failure, or Richie Brown, Laura’s infant son, who anxiously fears losing his mother. Cunningham’s prose successfully allows for unannounced shifts of consciousness while accurately depicting the myriad shifts in mood over the course of an ordinary day: from the void into which any person descends when overcome with self-loathing to the illuminating moments where life is regarded as a gift which should be accepted with gratitude. Cunningham’s effortless depiction of these seemingly ordinary feelings, one of the novel’s greatest strengths, should not obscure the difficulty of achieving such depth without ever becoming pretentious and while maintaining compactness in his short narrative. For instance, moments after Laura realises she cannot continue performing as a wife, Cunningham encapsulates her inner struggle through the split of her persona: “It’s almost as if she is accompanied by an invisible sister, a perverse woman full of rage and recriminations, a woman humiliated by herself, and it is this unfortunate sister, and not Laura, who needs comfort and silence. Laura could be a nurse, ministering to the pain of another” (149). This technique is used consistently in all the characters in the novel who struggle with the role they have been socially assigned, which successfully creates a stronger link between the three storylines: Virginia wants Clarissa Dalloway to capture her “second self, a purer self” (34), and Richard represents “the deranged poet, the visionary” (211) ultimately set to die, unable to embrace a life of ordinary pleasures.

Queerness is also a looming theme in Cunningham’s work, with unacknowledged desire working along with the expectation of death that bends social norms. However, neither the author’s treatment of unexplored sexuality nor the structure of his novel fall into obvious binary categories but rather slip away without much assertion to highlight the inadequacy of the lives the characters have chosen. The most obvious strain are the spontaneous kisses between Virginia and her sister Vanessa, Clarissa and Richard, or Laura and her neighbour Kitty; these two women “are both afflicted and blessed, full of shared secrets, striving every moment. They are impersonating someone. They are weary and beleaguered; they have taken on such enormous work. Kitty lifts her face, and their lips touch” (110). Cunningham seems to use queerness as a disruption of the characters’ tempo, drawing Clarissa back to her past, causing Laura to reconsider if her fate is already sealed, and hastening Virginia’s wish to move to London: the kisses, the queerness, become a breath of possibility for these characters, who are ultimately meant to escape the mental cage in which they have been trapped, even if it leads to death.

However, Cunningham, in an ambitious attempt to bring all three strands of the novel together in a big emotional finale, disrupts the meticulously crafted atmosphere in which the independent plots intertwine without ever actually coming into contact. After deciding to break free from a battle he has accepted he cannot win, Richard takes a decision that astonishes Clarissa and leads her to contact his mother, the muse of his pain, the woman who left him stranded when she abandoned their home. This plot twist, if it can be called a plot twist given the clues in the novel, defeats the present yet ostensibly airy connections between plotlines. The magic of Cunningham’s narrative lies in the timelessness of these women’s struggles, how all it takes might be an ordinary morning in June to realise there is an agency that belongs to them, an agency that can break the inevitability of “far darker and more difficult” (225) hours to come and that solely belongs to the individual. Ironically, bringing Laura into Clarissa’s narration causes her to become once more the same motherly figure she desperately and successfully escapes in her own chronology: “So Laura Brown, the woman who tried to die and failed at it, the woman who fled her family, is alive when all the others, all those who struggled to survive in her wake, have passed away” (222).

What remains to be addressed is the question that ultimately begs to be answered before reading this novel: whether having read Mrs. Dalloway is crucial for understanding and enjoying Cunningham’s work, especially since Clarissa is evidently an alternate, modern version of Woolf’s original Mrs. Dalloway. Clarissa’s first words are “There are still the flowers to buy” (9) which mirrors the first words in the novel by Woolf: “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.” Nonetheless, Cunningham refuses to gatekeep his work from those readers who have relegated Woolf to their list of pending books. A scattering of numerous references are present in his Pulitzer-winning novel, and a more enriching experience will result for those avid lovers of comparative literature if the source of inspiration is read beforehand; however, this stand-alone work can be perfectly indulged on its own.

In conclusion, Michael Cunningham’s novel The Hours rewards admirers of Virginia Woolf and newcomers alike. Through its lyrical prose and intermixed structure, The Hours reimagines Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway for a modern audience and explores the fleeting joys and crises of ordinary life, standing as a powerful and poignant meditation on identity and the volatility of human condition.

1998. History, Trauma, and Responsibility: Reading Sindiwe Magona’s Mother to Mother – Irene González García

Edition reviewed: Picador Africa, 1998

Sindiwe Magona’s Mother to Mother, first published in 1998, is one of the most significant novels dealing with the final years of Apartheid and the uneasy transition that followed. Magona, born in 1943 in the Eastern Cape and later an employee of the United Nations, is known for her commitment to portraying the everyday realities of Black South African women. Her writing frequently incorporates autobiographical elements and examines the relationships between individual experiences and larger societal structures. She solidified her status as one of the most influential writers in South African letters with this novels, especially thanks to her portrait of the lives of women during the Apartheid era.

The story takes its starting point from a real event: the 1993 killing of Amy Biehl, a white American student, by a group of young Black men in Guguletu. Magona chooses not to reproduce the crime directly, but instead approaches it through an intimate fictional device: a long, reflective letter written by Mandisa, the mother of one of the boys involved, to the victim’s mother. Through her voice, the novel circles back to Mandisa’s childhood, her forced removal from Blouvlei, her early pregnancy, and her attempts to raise her son Mxolisi in an environment marked by poverty, overcrowding, and the constant pressure of Apartheid. The novel is built on Mandisa’s attempt to explain how such a tragedy could happen, even though she knows that no explanation can offer true consolation.

A distinctive feature of Mother to Mother is Magona’s indirect method of characterization. Mxolisi is not shown through direct interaction or long scenes but through stories, memories, and gestures that have stayed with Mandisa. This method enables the book to highlight the fact that he is not a lone individual, or an isolated case, but is instead influenced by the social and economic violence in his environment. Through Mandisa's memory, other characters—including her mother, her husband China, friends, and neighbours—appear in a similar manner. This subjective viewpoint lends the story a strong psychological focus and supports the notion that understanding Apartheid's effects demands taking into account how it negatively impacted individuals emotionally.

The structure of the novel shifts between the past and the present, smoothly navigating from Mandisa's early life to her immediate response to the murder. This non-linear pattern reflects the way trauma works: memories reappear unexpectedly, and the past and present continually encroach upon one another. Emotion and setting are closely related to Magona's work. For instance, the destruction of Blouvlei is explained more in terms of how it affected Mandisa's sense of belonging than in terms of specific physical details. The family eventually lands in Guguletu, which stands for frustration and confinement. The importance of place lies not in extensive description but in its connection to the characters’ psychological lives.

Stylistically, Magona’s prose is controlled and intimate. Mandisa’s voice carries a tension between guilt and self-defence, between explanation and accusation. Because the novel relies entirely on this voice, the tone remains consistent throughout: calm at times, then suddenly urgent, depending on which memory Mandisa is facing. Magona's use of an epistolary form works exceptionally well for reconciling the political and the personal since it creates a space where an overall historical narrative meets personal suffering. It also conveys the difficulty of addressing a mother whose suffering mirrors, in a different way, Mandisa’s own.

The novel’s limitations stem from the same device that gives it strength. Other viewpoints, particularly those of Mxolisi or the community, are kept at a distance because Mandisa is the sole narrator. They are only available to readers via Mandisa's interpretation. Given that the larger social context is occasionally broken down into brief explanations rather than fully developed scenes, the aforementioned technique can lead to a certain narrowness. Similarly, settings are primarily conveyed through their emotional resonance, and several significant moments might have benefited from more specific details. Plot-wise, the novel is propelled by introspection rather than actual events. Apart from the recollections of earlier episodes and the aftermath of the crime, the action is minimal. The focus is clearly on understanding and memory rather than dramatic development.

In conclusion, Mother to Mother established Sindiwe Magona as an essential voice in post-Apartheid literature. Her exploration of motherhood, guilt, inherited trauma, and the long-term effects of systemic violence are both courageous and necessary. Magona reminds us that tragedies don’t happen in a vacuum by bringing together a personal tale with the larger atmosphere of Apartheid. Readers who want to engage with these themes from a deep human perspective should definitely read her novel, which is still very relevant for anyone interested in the emotional and social repercussions of racial injustice.

1999. The Charm and Claustrophobia of Small-Town Life in Elizabeth and After by Matt Cohen: A Beautifully Melancholic but Flawed Novel – Dafne Iglesias Solà

Edition reviewed: Picador, 2001

Elizabeth and After (1999) is a literary fiction novel by Canadian writer Matt Cohen (1942, Montreal–1999, Toronto), a novelist and author of children's literature (under the pseudonym of Teddy Jam). A few weeks before his death, Elizabeth and After was awarded the Governor General’s Award for English-language fiction, becoming his most critically acclaimed and celebrated work. This is a novel set in a small Canadian town that explores loss and loneliness by getting immersed in the villagers’ lives, mainly the characters of Carl, William, and Adam, all of them affected by Elizabeth’s death in some way or another.

Although many characters are introduced in the novel, Cohen mainly focuses on Carl’s story. He is a thirty-year-old man who returns to live in the village of West Gull, where he grew up, to try to become a better father for his daughter. Entrapped by his solitude and his obsessive thoughts, Carl struggles to adapt to his new life, trying to control his self-destructive habits. However, there is an event from his past that haunts him to this day and that becomes louder when he goes back to the place where it happened: his mother, Elizabeth, died in a car accident while he was drunk driving after a New Year’s Eve party.

The novel is set, as noted, in a small village with views of Gull Lake. There are many passages dedicated to descriptions of the environment; not only natural scenery but also more mundane spaces, such as parking lots or a video rental shop. Cohen truly succeeds in immersing the reader in this familiar yet depressing place. Not only are the physical spaces easy to imagine, but also the atmosphere is perfectly set: lonely roads, cold weather, known faces in every corner. One of the highlights of the novel is how it portrays the charm and the claustrophobia of living in a small village where everybody knows everybody. Its melancholic tone is cohesively maintained through every page and the reader cannot help but feel deep inside the loneliness and isolation the characters experience.

There are instances in which Cohen’s writing feels precise and poetic. Even some of his more unconventional choices surprisingly work out at some points, such as when Carl reflects on his place in society using Star Wars as a metaphor: “The other night he’d brought Star Wars home from the shop and watched it with Lizzie. Played with the idea that he, Lizzie and a few others scattered across the face of the planet were the rebel army” (333). This is a bit tacky, but it combines with Carl’s almost childish sense of inadequacy. However, there are other instances in which the author’s comparisons can sound a bit too forced and even tasteless. For example, considering that Elizabeth is supposed to be a literate adult woman, it sounds a bit juvenile for her to reflect on her alcoholic husband through Pride and Prejudice’s Mr. Darcy: “Mr. Darcy would never have married a girl whose Galician-Jewish father had named her after a princess” (162). These kinds of extravagant comments do not fit the novel’s tone and may cause the reader to lose their focus. A bit more subtlety would be more effective to move the reader.

There is an extensive cast of characters introduced throughout the novel. Some of them are pretty charming, such as Carl or McKelvey, as problematic as they also are. Others, unfortunately, feel too underdeveloped. Ironically, Elizabeth is the one who feels more insubstantial. The other characters insist on how there was something special about her, but the novel fails to show what made her stand out, how she made an impact on the village. Aside from some gratuitous quirky qualities described, such as her habit of starting and ending conversations abruptly, nothing gives the reader a clue of what made her so remarkable. If the author had turned her into a complete mystery, she could at least have remained mythically unknown; unfortunately, he gives enough information about her to prevent Elizabeth from becoming mythical, but not enough to make her complex and compelling. Another flaw in the novel’s characterization is that, unlike how easy it is to imagine the landscape, the characters are not described clearly enough to make them jump off the page. The main issue is how the age gaps between characters are not firmly established from the beginning, which can cause many confusions as the story progresses.

Elizabeth and After offers an immersive experience into the village of West Gull, but it is not without its flaws. While it certainly achieves some really beautiful and painfully melancholic passages, other aspects in the novel undermine its overall impression. Some of the extravagant stylistic choices and the poor characterization of the characters may take a toll on readers in what would otherwise be a mostly enjoyable and recommendable experience.

1999. Misfortune And Survival: Questioning Authority in The Bad Beginning by Lemony Snicket and Brett Helquist (illustrator) – Samya El Kasmy

Edition reviewed: Harper Collins, 2007 (e-book)

The Bad Beginning (1999) is the first novel in A Series of Unfortunate Events, a serial written by American author Daniel Handler (b. 1970, San Francisco) under the alias Lemony Snicket. Handler is mostly known for this children’s book series and for another popular series, All the Wrong Questions, both published under the same pen name. Though the novel itself did not receive any major literary awards, the series has been widely acclaimed, being turned into a feature film in 2004, as well as a Netflix television series that aired from 2017 to 2019. The novel belongs to the genre of children’s gothic fiction, mixing tragedy, humour, and parody.

The narrative follows the three Baudelaire siblings, children whose lives undergo a great change after their parents die in a mysterious fire. The first born is fourteen-year-old Violet, then comes Klaus, who is twelve and next Sunny, who is just a baby. After they receive the tragic news at Briny Beach, delivered by the banker Mr. Poe, the children are assigned to the guardianship of Count Olaf, a distant relative they have never heard of before. Olaf is quickly revealed to be an unfit guardian as he has a volatile temperament and lives in a filthy house. Additionally, it soon becomes evident that his interest in the Baudelaires lies in their considerable inheritance. The children are forced to perform a significant number of chores and subjected to neglect, not finding protection from the adults meant to help them. Throughout the novel, the siblings rely on their intelligence and cooperation to survive a series of threatening situations, while the adults around them repeatedly underestimate both the danger they face and the children’s ability to recognize it.

One of the novel’s most distinctive features is its narrative style. Lemony Snicket becomes an intrusive and self-conscious narrator who repeatedly interrupts the plot to define vocabulary, warn readers of unpleasant developments, or pessimistically comment on the events of the story, creating a sense of irony and distance. The first sentence on chapter 1 famously cautions the reader stating, “If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book” (1), a warning which immediately establishes a refusal to conform to traditional expectations. This strategy creates a layered reading experience that blends humour and at the same time augurs the children’s future misfortunes that will further unravel throughout the plot.

Even though each of the siblings is associated with a specific skill, rather than just presenting them as simple stereotypes they are emotionally responsive and work cooperatively: Violet is a gifted inventor with talent to solve problems, Klaus is an avid reader who relies on his knowledge, and Sunny has four sharp teeth that prove to be useful sometimes. In contrast to their intelligence and solidarity, the adults around them can be described as incompetent, passive and morally blind. On the other hand, Count Olaf, although exaggerated and theatrical, is an effective villain precisely because his cruelty is so explicit and unjustified. The novel’s pacing, supported by short chapters and clear yet precise prose makes reading it both entertaining and playful, particularly for the younger audiences it targets.

The setting and worldbuilding in The Bad Beginning contribute significantly to the novel’s gothic, unsettling atmosphere. Although the locations themselves are relatively ordinary (such as private homes, a courthouse, and a beach), their exaggerated, and often grim descriptions transform them into spaces of danger and absurdity. Particularly, Count Olaf’s house is described as grimy and oppressive, reflecting the moral decay and danger that define his person and the children’s new reality. The novel’s message that life is frequently unfair, unpredictable and sometimes illogical is supported by this awful version of the familiar world the children are in. Rather than being a comforting environment, the setting strengthens the sense of vulnerability experienced by the characters.

Another important aspect of the novel is its thematic consistency. Instead of resolving conflicts in a neat or comforting way, the story focuses on perseverance and awareness in the face of injustice, encouraging authority to be questioned rather than accepted blindly. The dialogue, while not very frequent, is used effectively to expose the absurdity and incompetence of adult figures who repeatedly dismiss the Baudelaires’ concerns due to their rigid trust in rules and appearances. Although the depth of the characters is limited, which is understandable given the nature of the novel and its target readership, emotions such as grief, fear, anger, and frustration are still clearly conveyed. The repeated failure of adults may feel frustrating at times, but it works as a deliberate narrative strategy that reinforces the novel’s cynical tone and its critique of unquestioned authority.

In conclusion, The Bad Beginning is an original and engaging novel that challenges traditional storytelling for young readers. Even though the plot remains simple, it stays engaging by consistently going against expectations. Its dark humour, narrative style and strong themes make it highly recommendable.

2000. A Light-hearted Mystery Novel with Charming African Characters: Tears of the Giraffe by Alexander McCall Smith - Lluna Heredia González

Reviewed edition: Anchor Books, 2002

Alexander McCall Smith, the author of Tears of the Giraffe, was born in Zimbabwe in 1948 but moved to Scotland at the age of eighteen. Before he became an author of fiction, McCall spent many years working as a professor of Medical Law. He became a household name in 1998 when he published The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, the first in the series of this title (extending currently to twenty-six novels). Tears of the Giraffe, originally published in 2000, is the second book in the series with detective Mma Ramotswe, who still continues in 2025 solving mysteries in Botswana. The first novels originated a well-received BBC-HBO co-produced TV series (2008-2009), the winner of a Peabody Award.

Overall, Tears of the Giraffe is a mystery novel that combines the themes of African community, justice, love and loss. McCall’s novel is set in Botswana’s capital, Gaborone, and blends the multiple mysteries with the personal life of Mma Ramotswe, a widow newly engaged to the mechanic shop owner Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Both characters embody the traditional Botswanan values and customs of integrity and compassion in an old-fashioned manner. Early in the novel, Mma Ramostwe takes on the case of Mrs. Curtin, who seeks closure over the mysterious disappearance of her son Michael in an attempt to find out what happened ten years before. Alongside this, she has to address the activities of her fiancé’s untrustworthy maid; later, she promotes her secretary, Mma Makutsi, to assistant detective to investigate the case of the unexplainable wealth of Mr. Badule wife’s. In the meantime, Matekoni finds himself unexpectedly adopting two young orphans, which Mma Romotswe accepts understandingly, acknowledging the kind-hearted man she is to marry and her new family of four.

On the plus side, Alexander McCall Smith offers a highly effective portrayal of Botswana, depicting its people, landscapes, and everyday life with loving care. The author’s realistic worldbuilding creates an immersive setting which feels real and is truly inviting. His writing style is simple, making the novel an appropriate book for a wide range of ages, particularly since it contains moral reflections valid for all. On the minus side, the author's portrayal could raise controversial questions about his authorship. The author is not a Botswana native even though he lived, taught, and helped establish a law school in the country. Furthermore, as a white male author, his writing not only from an African perspective but also from the point of view of a woman adds another layer of controversy. Yet, McCall’s narrative is remarkably sensitive, and grounded in empathy rather than appropriative. Although I do not know much about Botswana, I believe his narration honours the country’s traditions and values, inviting readers from all over the world the chance to appreciate the country’s humour and customs.

Additionally, Tears of the Giraffe offers a strong, positive representation of women defying traditional gender expectations from all around the word, and especially African traditions, and incorporating female characters that embody independence, intelligence, and moral strength. Mma Ramotswe, the country’s first lady detective, exemplifies all of the above. Her success is impressive and admirable to her fiancé, who represents men and their limited understanding of what women can achieve in the professional world: “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni felt a surge of pride as she spoke. This was the woman he admired” (37). Mma Ramotswe's accomplishment is rather remarkable because she does well in a field traditionally dominated by men, challenging social beliefs, and teaching moral lessons to never overestimate a woman's goals. Similarly, Motholeli, the young orphan girl Matekoni adopts, is also a clear cut example of McCall’s challenging gender norms through her fascination with mechanics. Despite her physical disability, which requires her to use a wheelchair, she demonstrates curiosity and skills in an area typically reserved for men, which is why her adoptive father at first tries to bond over this activity with her brother rather than her. Her perseverance not only impresses Matekoni—“He had never before seen it in a girl, but it was there. And why not?” (120)—but also symbolizes the potential for the new generation of women in Botswana to pursue unconventional paths.

Tears of the Giraffe is a mystery novel that stands out because of its setting. Alexander McCall Smith did an outstanding job at creating gentle descriptions of everyday African life which subtly added authenticity to the narrative. I would recommend this very accessible novel to young readers, although it is suitable for anyone who enjoys light-hearted mysteries. While the cases themselves are relatively simple, the complexity of the characters’ personal lives gives the story emotional depth.

2000. Memory, Identity, and Resilience in Amitav Ghosh’s The Glass Palace – Marina Alsina Ferrando

Edition reviewed: Harper Collins Publishers, 2001

Amitav Ghosh was born on 11th July 1956 in Calcutta and grew up in India, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka. He first came to the attention of the literary world when he refused the Commonwealth Foundation's Best Book Prize (2001), as he resented being categorised as a Commonwealth writer. Ghosh's historical novel The Glass Palace, published in 2000, deals with themes such as love, war, and family. The novel won the Grand Prize for Fiction in 2001 and the Myanmar National Literature Award in 2012 for its Burmese translation. In 2018, Ghosh won the 54th Jnanpith Award, which is India's highest literary honour.

Set in Burma, India, and Malaya, The Glass Palace tells the story of a Burmese orphan boy named Rajkumar Raha and his family over three generations. This story begins in Mandalay at the end of the 19th century when the British dethroned the Burmese King Thebaw and exiled him and his family to India. On the eve of the royal family's departure into exile, Raha sees Dolly, the queen's ten-year-old orphan handmaid, in the Glass Palace and falls in love with her. Almost twenty years later, having made his fortune in the timber trade, Raha looks for Dolly, who is in exile in Ratnagiri to marry her. The story of Dolly, Rajkumar, and their family and friends, takes readers through diverse historical events in East Asia, such as the Industrial Age, World War II, India’s struggle for independence, and Burma’s transition into Myanmar.

An impressive aspect of The Glass Palace is the depth to which it explores the intertwined themes of colonialism, war, and migration. The novel is thoroughly descriptive, paying special attention to historical details such as military movements, the teak and rubber trades, or food and clothing, in order to fully immerse the readers in the story. Ghosh’s ability to transport readers into the homes and social lives of the characters during wartime, allowing us to witness their private lives, emotions, and struggles, is fascinating. Intimate scenes such as when Dinu notes: “To me this is the most terrible indignity of our condition—not just in Burma, but in many other places too… that politics has invaded everything (…) it has taken everything… there is no escape from it” (542), allow readers to comprehend the brutality of the situation and acknowledge the diverse effects of colonial domination. Ghosh presents a harsh critique of British colonialism, highlighting how it altered the course of Burma’s history. The wars, especially World War II, bring immense suffering to the characters, especially during the Long March from Burma to India, in which readers can experience the refugees' struggles alongside the chaos of history itself. Through his photographic prose and comprehensive vision, Ghosh captures indeed the fragility of human life and the brutality of war.

Although the use of the Burmese language and other local words in The Glass Palace may occasionally disrupt the narrative flow, it ultimately adds remarkable authenticity and depth to the novel, reinforcing its cultural and historical richness. By incorporating Burmese linguistic elements, Ghosh captures the natural rhythm and tone of everyday speech in colonial Burma and India, while also preserving the characters' distinct identities, as it can be seen in this first scene when Burma has been bombed: “When the first bombs reached the stall there was a silence, followed by a flurry of questions and whispered answers. People looked around in bewilderment: What is it? Ba le? What can it be? And then Rajkumar’s sharp, excited voice cut through the buzz of speculations ‘English cannon’, he said in his fluent but heavenly accented Burmese” (3). Words such as nakhoda, baya-gyaw, and kalaa place the reader in a multilingual world where cultural exchange and colonial tension are constantly present. The lack of a glossary forces readers to deduce or interpret the meaning from the context. Ghosh’s decision to prioritise authenticity over accessibility reflects his desire to portray the complex identity of a world shaped by displacement, war, and migration. The Glass Palace’s precise and historically set storytelling is enriched by the appearance of real speech and culture. This makes the linguistic combination a subtle yet powerful defence of identity, while reminding readers that the history of a country is most truthfully told through its people's voices and languages.

In conclusion, Amitav Ghosh’s The Glass Palace is an intimate family saga with a deep historical exploration, portraying how ordinary lives are shaped by empires and wars. Ghosh presents the events set in Burma, India, and Malaya through vivid detail and historical depth, while his multilingual narrative enhances the novel's authenticity and cultural richness. The Glass Palace is not only a historical novel, but also a reflection on memory, identity, and resilience. It is a highly recommend this novel for readers who enjoy historical fiction, South Asian literature, and especially to readers who are looking for a different reading challenge.

2000. Revisiting the Essex Tragedy: Thoroughness and Authenticity in Nathaniel Philbrick's In the Heart of the Sea – Clàudia Puelma Jové

Edition reviewed: Harper Collins, 2001

In the Heart of the Sea: The Epic True Story that Inspired Moby Dick is a non-fiction book published in 2000 by American writer Nathaniel Philbrick. Born in 1956, in Boston, Massachusetts, Philbrick is a history author. He is the winner of the 2000 National Book Award for non-fiction for In the Heart of the Sea, as well as of multiple other accolades, and a finalist of the Pulitzer Price. Philbrick has been living in Nantucket since 1986 and has been involved in the investigation of the island’s maritime history ever since: he is the founding director of Nantucket’s Egan Maritime Institute and a researcher at the Nantucket Historical Association. In the Heart of the Sea is a retelling of the sinking of the Essex whaleship in 1820, the true events which inspired the climax of Herman Melville’s 1851 novel Moby Dick. The book got adapted into a movie of the same title in 2015, with Chris Hemsworth as the protagonist.

In the Heart of the Sea starts with a preface, which summarizes and introduces the premise of the story. It includes a brief contextualization of how the whaling industry operated in the early 19th century, especially on the island of Nantucket, known as the world’s whaling capital. Next, Philbrick lists the Essex survivors’ narratives—mainly Owen Chase’s and Thomas Nickerson’s—as well as some secondary ones, that he consulted in order to get the full scope of what actually happened to the ship and its shipmen. He finishes the preface by stating his reasons for investigating and writing about the Essex’s tragic voyage. The events of In the Heart of the Sea are told from the beginning, when the Essex sailed from Nantucket, through the sperm whale attack on the ship and its subsequent sinking and the men’s fight for survival, as the twenty crewmen waited for rescue after months lost in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. In the last chapter and the epilogue, we get a brief look at the consequences of the sinking of the Essex and how the survivors proceeded with their lives.

In the Heart of the Sea is a remarkable work of non-fiction which excels in many aspects. One of these exceptionally positive characteristics is that it is thoroughly researched: Philbrick's dedication to presenting the events in the most accurate, precise and all-encompassing way is both unmistakable and compelling. By contextualizing each narrative element in the story and going beyond merely stating the straightforward facts, he provides the full picture of the real experience. The book contains multiple paragraphs commenting on further research, or as the author puts it in the preface, “anything that might help me better understand what these men experienced on the wide and unforgiving Pacific Ocean” (xv), in an effort to completely understand the events. Philbrick mentions numerous studies which reflect and complement the experiences of the Essex men, spanning over several topics including “cannibalism, survival at sea, the psychology and physiology of starvation, navigation, oceanography, the behavior of sperm whales, the construction of ships” (xv). Even though there seems to be an oversaturation of information and references, the story and its prose flow easily, almost resembling that of fictional works. Philbrick avoids interrupting readers' immersion in the narrative by adding all the referenced sources in the final notes section, which also provides more detailed explanations of how each study contributed to the shaping of the story. Additionally, the two highly illustrative maps included in the book further enhance the perception of the journey. The first one shows the voyage of the Essex from Nantucket until the whale destroyed the ship, and the second one depicts the seamen's trajectories from the moment they were shipwrecked, until their rescue months later.

Besides Philbrick’s commitment to contextualization, another characteristic worth mentioning is that since the book is historical non-fiction, its characters should be expected to be written from an objective perspective. Philbrick successfully portrays all of the seamen’s facets, both their positive and negative traits, and establishes a careful balance between empathy and the acknowledgment that they were flawed and highly prejudiced individuals who occasionally made serious and inexcusable mistakes. As he states in the epilogue, “the Essex disaster is not a tale of adventure” but “a tragedy that happens to be one of the greatest true stories ever told” (236). If it had been an adventure tale, the men would have willingly put themselves in danger; instead, they were “attempting to make a living when disaster struck in the form of an eighty-five-foot whale” (236). In depicting their ordeals in a historically faithful manner, Philbrick ensures that the Essex men are not represented as heroes but simply as human beings who suffered from extremely traumatic events. Furthermore, it should be noted that because of Philbrick’s precise and usually undiluted writing, the book includes a significant number of passages containing graphic content, notably animal death and cruelty, and cannibalism, which could offend certain audiences. Beyond this, the author’s decision to include every detail enhances the portrayal of the hardships the Essex men had to endure.

In conclusion, In the Heart of the Sea is an excellently crafted tale that recounts the true experiences of an extremely tragic event in a way that is both captivating and informative. Philbrick does an excellent job at portraying with remarkable accuracy the events the crewmen of the Essex whaleship had to go through. He achieves this by narrating the story through an objective and unfiltered lens, contextualizing every aspect and ultimately leaving no question unanswered.

2000. How Life Shapes a Writer: Stephen King’s Honest Writing Guide On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft – Clara Escriche Jimenez

Reviewed edition: Hodder & Stoughton, 2024

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft (2000) is a non-fiction text by the extremely prolific writer Stephen King. Born in Portland, Maine, in 1947, King is highly acclaimed for his bestselling contributions to the horror and science fiction genres, which include recognizable titles such as Carrie and The Shining, among many others. Throughout his career, he has been honoured with multiple awards, which include the Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters in 2003 and the National Medal of Arts in 2014. In this book, however, King departs from the fiction genre to offer and explore an introspective insight into his writing process and the life events that have shaped and led him to become the author he is today.

The book is divided into different sections that go over the different aspects that, for King, are essential to the craft of writing, all from his own experience. The first part functions as a memoir, or as he chooses to call it, “a kind of curriculum vitae” (4), that covers his childhood, adolescence, and adult years leading up to the publication of his first novel, Carrie, in 1973. Through these reminiscences, King is able to identify the challenges and experiences that influenced him to become a writer and contributed to his creative development. Understanding these experiences is the key to the advice he provides in the following two sections: Toolbox and On Writing. In the former, he presents the essential “tools” that a proper writer should have at their disposal when facing the creation of a novel, which include vocabulary, grammar, and elements of style. In the latter, King provides guidance on the actual process of writing a novel, from the very first draft to the final published work, focusing on aspects such as characterization, dialogue, and revision.

King is always honest with the reader in every section. From the very beginning he strongly highlights how he does not believe that “writers can be made, either by circumstances or by self-will” (4, original emphasis); instead, writers have to be born with talent, which later can be refined. This brutal honesty permits the reader to trust his advice and believe that what they are about to read is authentic and trustworthy. He is still being honest when he opens up about his failures as a young writer, his moments of self-doubt, and even his struggles with addiction. This transparency demonstrates how his writing abilities not only come from his evident gift but also from his perseverance, his discipline, and his willingness to face and overcome inevitable complications. In fact, the reason why he is being so honest in this book is because he knows (and explicitly tells the reader) that “honesty is indispensable” (231, original emphasis) when it comes to storytelling. Another element that also contributes to the feeling of authenticity that the book conveys is King’s sense of humour. Even when he is addressing sensitive topics and personal struggles, he is able to keep a light-hearted tone and make witty comments that maintain the text’s easy-going flow and accessibility, making the reader understand that, despite the difficulties he has faced, King has been able to learn from them and now views them from a mature perspective, one that even allows him to joke about them.

What distinguishes this memoir from others is the focus King maintains on the language a writer specifically chooses when writing a story. He explains how, when he was presented with the idea of writing a memoir, he did not want to approach it in the conventional way, just recollecting distinct events from his life. Instead, he decided to use this opportunity to explore the relationship between language and storytelling and give an insight into the importance of choosing the correct words when crafting a novel. And he executes it extremely well. By using what he considers good and bad examples from his own stories and other remarkable novels by different authors, he proficiently explain how to create an interesting character or prevent the storyline from getting stuck. It almost feels as though the reader is attending a masterclass on how to become an excellent author, and because of his honesty and the simple yet effective way in which he presents his ideas, King’s advice feels genuine and highly valuable. What also gives this memoir a sense of uniqueness is how personal and passionate writing feels to King. Throughout his entire life, it is obvious that the writing has helped him navigate difficult situations, and he explicitly says that “writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life” (301-2), showing how deeply connected he is to his writing and how it has served as a safe space to reflect and process his emotions.

All in all, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft is much more than a simple reminiscence of King’s life or a soulless manual on how to write. Through an introspective analysis of his life journey, he offers a genuine and authentic guide for aspiring writers on how to perfect the craft of writing a story, analysing the essence of a well-written novel, and emphasizing the importance of language. At the same time, the memoir offers the readers an intimate glimpse into King’s life that perfectly encapsulates his passion and perseverance as well as his humorous and witty personality, making the reading experience extremely enjoyable.

2000. Julia Quinn’s The Duke and I: A Romantic Portrait of Power, Desire and Social Constraint - Judit García Cimas

Edition reviewed: Avon Books, 2000

Published in 2000 by American novelist Julia Quinn (b. 1970, New York), The Duke and I inaugurated the celebrated, still ongoing Bridgerton series, one of the most successful romantic franchises in modern historical fiction. The Bridgerton saga, which follows the romantic lives of eight Bridgerton siblings, achieved international acclaim after being adapted into a Netflix series produced by Shonda Rhimes in 2020. Quinn’s writing is distinguished by its wit and charm, and by the portrayal of strong female protagonists, qualities that have earned her multiple RITA Awards from the Romance Writers of America. Her novels have been translated into more than thirty languages, and she has appeared on The New York Times Best Seller nineteen times.

Set in 1813 London, The Duke and I, best defined as a Regency romance, centres on Daphne Bridgerton, the fourth of the eight siblings in an affectionate but meddling upper-class English family. Intelligent and kind, Daphne is admired by society but dismissed by suitors for, as she states, “I’m unmarried because everyone sees me as a friend. No one ever has any romantic interest in me” (87). Her fortunes change when she meets Simon Basset, the newly returned Duke of Hastings, whose estrangement from his father and a childhood stammer have left him emotionally guarded. To escape matchmaking pressures, they stage a fake courtship, a ruse that benefits them both but soon turns to genuine affection. Their relationship forces Simon to confront the scars of paternal rejection and Daphne to reconcile love with independence. Through this union of convenience turned into true romance, Quinn examines how emotional honesty and vulnerability become the real measures of nobility. The narrative balances humour and feeling, weaving romance with moral introspection against the rigid etiquette of the Regency World.

Among the many aspects that make the novel captivating is Quinn’s greatest strength: her vivid characterisation and psychological nuance. Daphne Bridgerton emerges as a heroine of charm and moral courage, intelligent yet constrained by expectations. Her observation that “I want to marry and have a family on my own. And thus far, no one acceptable has asked” (115) captures the re-imagining of feminine agency within social limits. Daphne, clearly modelled on Austen’s heroines, is neither rebellious nor passive; rather, her quiet assertiveness embodies a modern sensibility cloaked in Regency courtesy, while presenting herself as the one who takes the decisions. Simon Basset, by contrast, is also an Austenian hero defined by silence and pride. His vow “I will never marry” (83), reveals his emotional imprisonment. This vow is transformed into a metaphor for intergenerational trauma due to his father’s behaviour, adding psychological depth.

Equally striking is the dialogue, which blends wit with contemporary rhythms. The exchanges between Simon and Daphne capture their tension between desire and decorum. The Bridgerton family brings lightness and realism, with the omniscient narrator moving gracefully between communal humour and intimate reflection. This balance sustains emotional engagement while showcasing the pacing and tone desired for each of the moments among the novel. As a result, The Duke and I transcends the conventions of the romance genre, offering characters whose vulnerabilities resonate with authenticity and empathy. Furthermore, the author’s evocation of Regency England with its rigid social rituals is both the charming background and direct critique. The glittering ballrooms, the carefully choreographed dances, and the omnipresent gossip illustrate how reputation governed existence in the Regency Era. The fictional Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers which open each chapter, operate as a mirror exposing society’s hypocrisy with a satirical tone. Through this ironic beginning, Quinn reveals the fragility of female autonomy in a world that prizes courtesy over desire.

Notwithstanding, the novel’s gender politics remain contentious. The infamous bedroom scene, in which Daphne acts without Simon’s full consent, blurs moral boundaries. The main intention may be to dramatize miscommunication within marriage, yet the episode risks undermining the novel’s progressive treatment of female agency. Hence, Daphne’s subsequent remorse and Simon’s emotional openness steer the narrative toward reconciliation and emotional equality. On another level, the absence of racial awareness marks a sharp divergence between the novel and its Netflix adaptation. While the novel portrays a homogeneously white aristocracy, the series reimagines an inclusive Regency world, turning Simon into a Black character in a racially integrated nobility. This creative expansion transforms a traditional romance into a reflection on power and belonging. The novel, by contrast, remains confined to its historical whiteness, highlighting how adaptation can broaden the emotional and cultural scope of a classic romance.

In conclusion, The Duke and I is an engaging exploration of love, trauma and social expectations, distinguished by its lively prose, memorable characters, and witty dialogue. Although its handling of consent and its silence on race reveal certain limitations, Julia Quinn’s humane portrayal of vulnerability and resilience secures her novel’s lasting appeal. It can be confidently recommended as an accessible and enjoyable romance, ideal for readers seeking an emotionally rich yet easy read to relax and delight in.

2001. The River of Wounds: Pain, Secrets, and the Fragility of Lives in Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

Reviewed edition: Bantam Books, 2006

American novelist Dennis Lehane (b. Boston, 1965) is renowned for his psychological depth, moral debates, and humane portrayals of working-class Boston. He is the author of several critically acclaimed crime and mystery novels, including Gone, Baby, Gone (1998), Shutter Island (2003) and Live by Night (2012). His novel Mystic River, published in 2001, established Lehane as one of the most sophisticated voices in the contemporary American thriller. He won the 2002 Dilys Award, currently discontinued, for Mystery Title of the Year, while Mystic River was later adapted into an Academy Award-winning film in 2003, directed by Clint Eastwood. Lehane's book combines the conventions of crime fiction with the introspection and criticism of literary realism, creating an engaging narrative about remorse, trauma, and the irreversible effects of childhood tragedy on adult life.

The plot begins in the early 1970s with three childhood friends—Jimmy Marcus, Sean Devine, and Dave Boyle—whose lives are fractured when Dave is abducted and sexually abused by two men posing as police officers. Though he escapes four days later, the event leaves him permanently scarred. Twenty-five years later, their paths cross again when Jimmy's nineteen-year-old daughter, Katie, is found brutally murdered in the city's park. Sean, now a homicide detective, investigates the crime, while Jimmy—an ex-convict who runs a corner store—pursues his own idea of justice and punishment. Dave, still haunted by his trauma, becomes the prime suspect as he came home completely covered in blood the exact night of the murder. The characters' intertwined destinies echo the novel's haunting idea that “There are threads in our lives. You pull one, and everything else gets affected” (211). The story gradually exposes layers of guilt, misunderstanding, and moral ambiguity, leading to a devastating revelation.

Lehane's work operates as both a crime mystery and a thorough meditation on the enduring effects of violence and trauma. The novel's greatest strength lies in its remarkable character development. Lehane constructs a large cast of vividly drawn individuals—each shaped by personal pain, memory, and moral conflict. The three protagonists—Jimmy, Sean, and Dave—are not merely stereotypes or archetypes of crime fiction but deeply imperfect human figures whose actions arise from psychological realism rather than genre conventions. Jimmy Marcus embodies a man torn between love, grief, and vengeance; Sean represents the tensions between personal loyalty and professional duty and responsibility; and Dave is perhaps the most tragic of all—a survivor who never truly escaped his abduction and whose mind is fragmented as the “Boy Who Escaped From Wolves.” Lehane's ability to capture their inner lives and contradictions through silence, experiences and fragmented thought is truly exceptional. Furthermore, each secondary character also carries emotional weight: from Celeste and Annabeth, to even minor figures like Whitey Powers, Brendan Harris or the Savage brothers, all feel authentic and necessary to the story's moral development. What makes Mystic River exceptional is not just its plot, but the way its participants evolve alongside it. Lehane’s dialogue is bold, intelligent, and naturalistic, yet always charged with the unspoken. The Boston setting—its working-class streets, crowded pubs, and grey landscape—reflects the characters' inner troubles, turning the environment into an extension of their demeanour. The result is a narrative that feels intimate and private but grand and communal at the same time, in which every character's actions has repercussions on the development of the events in a story based upon threats.

Another strong point of Mystic River is its plot, which is equally impressive in its construction and its emotional impact. What begins as a conventional murder mystery quickly transforms into a tragic psychological study. The narrator manages excellently the novel's timeline; Lehane’s prose moves between the past, the present, and even foreshadows the future, generating perfectly developed events. The storytelling is patient, detailed, and full of unexpected turns—each revelation feels both shocking and inevitable. Lehane handles difficult themes—child abduction, molestation, depression, trauma, and murder—with rare sensitivity and clear intelligence. Instead of exploiting this subject for shock value or sensationalism, he explores how such experiences deform the human soul and how they weaken the bonds between people. Dave Boyle's trauma, in particular, is represented with cruel, painful realism: his confusion, paranoia, and suppressed rage make him simultaneously a victim and a potential threat.

The author's mastery lies in connecting these emotional wounds with the broader moral questions of justice and fate. The title Mystic River—though referring to an actual river in Boston—becomes a metaphor for the currents of guilt and memory that flow through the characters' lives. When the killers are finally revealed, the novel reaches a climax that is both horrifying, outrageous, and deeply moving. However, this revelation could also expose its main flaw: the story ends the moment the truth is uncovered. The sense of aftermath—of reckoning or reflection—feels partially incomplete. Although a sixteen-page epilogue is included, it functions more as an observation than a true conclusion. While coherent, it lacks the narrative weight to fully satisfy the emotional build-up. Nonetheless, the ending's abruptness aligns with the novel’s tragic tone, leaving the reader unsettled rather than comforted.

In conclusion, Mystic River is a masterful novel that transcends the boundaries of crime fiction. Its profound characterisation, intricate plot, and courageous treatment of trauma make it a haunting and unforgettable work. Though its ending may feel abrupt, Lehane’s novel is a highly recommendable work, not only for regular thriller readers, but for a general audience. Lehane's craftsmanship ensures that the story lingers long after the final page—dark, painful, and utterly human.

2001. The Constant Gardener by John le Carré: A Sophisticated Thriller on Western Corruption – Irina Xicota Guasch

Edition reviewed: Hodder & Stoughton, 2004

The Constant Gardener is the eighteenth novel by prolific English author John le Carré, the pen-name of David John Moore Cornwell (1931-2020). Having worked as an intelligence officer for MI5 and MI6, le Carré became well-known for his sophisticated, well-crafted spy novels, for which he drew inspiration from his work in the British security services to explore ethical and political themes, mostly set during the Cold War (1945-1989). Written during the post-Cold War era, The Constant Gardener (2001) continues le Carré’s tradition of focusing on themes of corruption and moral responsibility. He deals in this thriller with murder caused by corporate greed and the exploitation of Africa by the Western world.

The novel begins by revealing the murder of Tessa Quayle, a young, beautiful lawyer turned humanitarian activist, who resides in Kenya alongside her older husband Justin Quayle, a diplomat for the British High Commission in Nairobi. Through a multiple-perspective narration, the first chapters of the novel begin to unveil the mysterious circumstances of Tessa’s very violent death, including her disreputable relationship with fellow activist Dr. Arnold Bluhm (a black Belgian man) and their secretive involvement in research regarding a pharmaceutical conspiracy of much interest to the British High Commission and the detectives investigating her death. As Justin becomes aware of these circumstances, he decides to take over Tessa’s research in an attempt to unveil the enigma of her murder. His investigation takes him around the world as he follows the trail of Tessa’s contacts, and exposes an international web of pharmaceutical corruption and medical malpractice affecting in particular the poorest Kenyans. With Tessa’s memory always accompanying him, Justin has to face his previous obliviousness to her and her cause, and the moral implications of his position within the British side of the web of corruption, as well as the dangers that come with his new knowledge.

Le Carré manages to create a page-turner while putting much care into the writing. Despite its rather slow beginning, once Justin’s journey becomes central the element of suspense leaves the reader eager to know the entire truth of the case, while simultaneously constructing a narration which does not sacrifice detail or complexity for the sake of fast narrative pace. At the same time, the author tends to be meticulous with the characterization and scene descriptions, producing an elegantly fleshed out narration. The novel employs many flashbacks in which the narrator shifts to the first person, giving the reader an insight into the characters’ minds and showing their distinctive perspectives.

Another engaging aspect of the narrative style is the incorporation of Tessa’s ghostly memory as Justin feels her accompanying him after her death. Through their interactions, as well as through the flashbacks, the reader learns more about a love story that seemed unlikely and at times unlikable, but turns out to be beautifully written and undoubtedly truthful. However, the most admirable feature of the novel is its conscientious treatment of the topic it deals with: the Western exploitation of the African continent and its people for economic purposes. The novel is clearly well-researched and illuminates an issue that many have heard of but few know in detail, without leaning into morbidity in order to create suspense. At the same time it creates a certain distance that piques the readers’ interest, compelling them to educate themselves on how far corporations and even governments actually go to gain profit, since as Le Carré states in the author’s note, “by comparison with reality, my story was as tame as a holiday postcard” (541).

Despite his careful treatment of the theme, there are certain aspects of the novel that betray the privilege from which it has been written. The portrayal of Western corporate greed and government corruption is meticulous and critically conscious, but while displaying a problematic of abuse, Le Carré’s portrayal of Africa does not show the same carefulness. While the novel is set in Kenya and Justin’s work is strictly linked to the Kenyan government, many times both the characters and the narrator use the general terms “Africa” or “Africans”, depicting the continent as a monolithic unit without cultural or social diversity. It seems that Kenya, or Africa in general, is used as a backdrop to emphasize the faults of the Global North, but not seen as anything else than a place of poverty, illness and crime, showing little nuance in its representation. Concurrently, the agents of change in the novel are the white characters, excluding maybe Dr. Bluhm, who despite being described as a remarkable humanitarian has a fairly minor role. Instead, Tessa is portrayed as a saintly woman adored by all African women, bringing justice to the continent by rebelling against her privileged past. When Justin takes over her research after her murder, he becomes the main hero of the story, both their roles leaning into the “white saviour” trope. Alternatively, the treatment of Tessa’s character denotes certain patriarchal tendencies: while shown as a strong and nuanced character, she can fall into archetypal characterization, described as the femme fatale that uses her sexuality to obtain what she wants, or conversely, the wild young girl that needs to be protected, with le Carré reiteratively representing Justin as the “adoring father figure to a beautiful young girl” (151). In short, Le Carré appears to be more skilful in criticizing the privileged than accurately representing the underprivileged.

In conclusion, The Constant Gardener is a worthwhile read representing realistic problems that are unfortunately overlooked in the Global North. The story, full of emotion and well crafted, captures the reader’s attention from quite early on. The moving narration and the hardships it portrays will certainly cause necessary discomfort to the reader, caused by the author’s decision to bring to light the magnitude of these issues. Le Carré’s novel is an enjoyable and beautifully written text and a good introduction to a topic that the reader might want (or need) to further explore.

2001. Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser: A Call for Awareness about the US Fast Food Industry – Neus Heras Mena

Edition reviewed: Penguin Group, 2002

In 1997, Rolling Stone magazine asked US journalist and investigative writer Erich Schlosser (b. 1959, New York City) to explore the depths of the fast food industry and its impact on the American lifestyle. The result was a two-part exposé published in the magazine in 1998 under the titles of “Fast-Food Nation Part One: The True Cost of America’s Diet” and “Fast-Food Nation Part Two: Meat and Potatoes.” The exposé’s success and its achievement in drawing substantial public attention to the topic, led Schlosser to expand his investigation into a full-length book. Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal was published in 2001 and awarded the Firecracker Alternative Book Award for Non-Fiction in 2002.

Remaining loyal to the initial structure of the Rolling Stone magazine two-part exposé, Fast Food Nation, the book, was also divided into two sections: The American Way and Meat and Potatoes. The former is a historical survey of the fast food business since its origins in post-World War II North America, while the latter exposes the fast food industry’s mannerisms in relation to labour and health conditions, thus disclosing the real cost of fast food, which as Schlosser claims, expands beyond what is visible on the menu. In 2006, Schlosser’s investigation would make its way into the screens in the form of a political satire, black comedy film directed by Richard Linklater.

Fast Food Nation exposes the adverse realities of the fast food industry, thus bringing to light its social, economic and health consequences. The fast food industry has been strategically targeted to children to drive sales up, using commercials and toys to foster a sense of trust and familiarity, encouraging lifelong brand loyalty. The influence of fast food has been also extended into public schools through cafeteria menus, vending machines and advertisement posters. As Schlosser notes, “fast food is heavily marketed to children and prepared by people who are barely older than children” (9). The United States’ fast food industry’s workforce is largely composed of adolescents under the age of 20 and also of the most disadvantaged members of the American society. Rather than employing well-paid, trained staff, the industry relies on unskilled and illiterate workers who are easily exploited and manipulated into accepting low pay.

Similarly, major meatpacking corporations have gained control of local cattle market, fixing the prices of the meat and limiting the autonomy of smaller local ranchers and farmers. These have replicated the hiring practices of fast food chains, transforming meatpacking, once a skilled and well-paid occupation, into one of the most unsafe jobs in the country. This is predominantly performed by poor and vulnerable immigrants whose injuries and complaints often go unheard due to their limited or non-existent legal protection. In addition, labour unions are banned or deprived of their function, and workers are constrained by “one-on-one contractual relationships” (142) prohibiting union membership and their right to file a lawsuit against the company. In addition, Schlosser exposes the primary causes of meat contamination and the spread of deathly pathogens such as E. Coli 0157:H7: poor cattle feeding, overcrowding feedlots, insufficient sanitation at slaughterhouses, excessive line speeds, inadequate worker training and incompetent government penalties. Schlosser calls for higher sanitation, higher labour standards and for the rejection of laws which criminalize the reporting and the criticizing of the industry’s abusive practices. Most importantly, Schlosser encourages the consumer to reconsider the impact of their choices.

Fast Food Nation’s treatment of popular facts and food-related topics is noteworthy. Schlosser addresses issues often acknowledged only at the surface level with a compelling depth and tone. He issues a critical call for consumer awareness which aims to expose the obscure reality of the fast food industry in the United States and also means to highlight that consumer pressure on major fast food chains constitutes the most powerful form of influence. Fast Food Nation leaves the reader questioning if the practices reported still take place today in both the United States and in countries overseas. The final chapter of the book, called “Global Realization” starkly exposes the growing Americanization of countries all over the world. It moves away the focus of the argument from the United States reminding the reader that the impact of the fast food industry has become globalized. For instance, Schlosser exposes certain countries’ wish to assimilate to the US lifestyle, especially Japan, where it was believed that eating hamburgers and French fries would make local citizens blonder. Another instance of US influence is Germany, the most Americanized European country, where the American cowboy figure—abandoned in the United States owing to the growing marginalization of small local ranchers and farmers—is idealized. As happens, after the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989, the first buildings erected in East German cities, such as Plauen or Dresden, were fast food restaurants.

Schlosser’s writing style is compelling, detailed, accessible, in its blend of informative content with critical analysis. The argumentation is engaging and captures the attention of the reader from beginning to end. Through the intertwining of factual data with the narration of personal workforce experiences, such as the impactful story of the Monfort employee Kenny Dobbins—whose experiences at the Monfort slaughterhouse in Grand Island, Nebraska showcase the atrocious working conditions endured by many other employees like him—Schlosser’s argument generates resonance with the reader. The blend of objective fats with the occasionally ironic, conversational tone provides the book with a smooth and clear pacing. Overall, Schlosser efficiently exposes a substantial amount of information ensuring that the content is easy to follow, which is an effective method to catch attention and engage the critical thinking of the reader.

To conclude, Fast Food Nation is an essential read for both the American and the global audience, including both fast food consumers and non-consumers. The book offers insight on the aggressive marketing strategies employed by the most highly regarded fast food chains as it unveils the reality of labour conditions within the fast food industry. Schlosser explores the negative impact on health of fast food as well as the actual composition of the meals it offers, and even the decline of cattle raising and farming in the US. Most importantly, it is an even more essential read for those who might prefer to remain unaware in face of the dangerous growth of the fast food nation.

2001. Bonding Generations: Memory and Language in Amy Tan’s The Bonesetter’s Daughter – Aitana Tarango Encinas

Edition reviewed: Harper Perennial, 2004

The novel The Bonesetter’s Daughter was published in 2001 by American author Amy Tan (b. Oakland, California, 1952). The author has been primarily acclaimed for her novel The Joy Luck Club (1989), to whose later film adaptation she contributed as a co-writer. Tan’s work explores the relationships between mothers and daughters and the intricacies of being a child of Asian immigrants in the USA. In addition, her work is in part autobiographical, as she recognised in her memoir Where the Past Begins (2018). Amy Tan has written novels, memoirs and children’s books, as well as essays and short stories, which have appeared in top newspapers and magazines. Her publications have earned her nominations to the National Book Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award and the International Orange Prize. In 2023 President Biden awarded her with the National Humanities Medal.

The Bonesetter’s Daughter is a novel that delves into the complexities of the relationship between a mother and her daughter. By intersecting their separate stories, Tan allows for an exploration of intergenerational trauma, the importance of memory, identity and cultural heritage. Tan divides the story into three parts, narrated by different voices. LuLing narrates her own story, while Ruth’s is reported by a third person narrator. Mother and daughter have always had a tumultuous relationship, defined by the differences in culture, the language barrier, guilt and, at times, even shame. Yet, when Ruth’s mother begins to show symptoms of Alzheimer’s, she decides to translate her memoir. The narration discloses her childhood in China with Precious Auntie, and Ruth submerges herself into a life full of secrets and difficulties. In a world guided by superstition and pain, the daughter gains an understanding of her mother’s distressing past, and therefore, a deeper sense of LuLing herself. Through the revelation of her memories, Tan’s work emphasises the connection between generations despite the barriers of time, culture and silence, highlighting that memory is the most valuable possession that one can have.

The way the plot develops is only possible because of the stylistic choice Amy Tan takes in structuring her novel in this way. The story is a non-linear narration that moves through past and present, intertwining memories with present life, deepening the introspection of the characters’ psyche. Along the first part of the book, a third-person narrator reports Ruth’s life; the narrative shifts between her everyday life and reminiscences of her childhood, offering a glimpse of LuLing as a mother. The fact that the story moves backwards and forwards produces an atmosphere that mirrors the strained and confusing mother-daughter’s relationship. The exploration of Ruth’s memories creates a sense of sadness and disorientation that echoes the lack of communication and understanding between them. The second part of the novel is entirely set in the past, as it deals with LuLing’s childhood. This section gives meaning to the whole story, as it provides an explanation for the woman’s attitude and character while revealing the truths and secrets of her life. Tan’s ability to play with time is crucial for the novel, as it authorizes her to stress the importance of one’s heritage and the role of the past in moulding someone for, as she writes, “The past, even revised, was meaningful” (393). Moreover, connecting past and present creates a bridge that unites generations showing that both notions are inseparable, yet very different. In addition, this helps the author to progressively build empathy towards the characters, and although at the beginning of the story LuLing’s parenting choices might seem questionable, learning about her past unfolds a world of trauma that eventually makes the reader understand certain behaviours. In essence, Amy Tan successfully constructs a plot whose non-linearity enables her to convey a message that is crucial within the book.

Particularly striking is the treatment to which Amy Tan subjects language, a crucial element that shapes the dynamic between characters. For starters, we learn that Precious Auntie, the woman who raised LuLing could not talk, and communicated through “gasps and wheezers” (2). Her inability to talk, caused by a previous incident that damaged her throat and vocal cords, reflects the emotional and social trauma she experienced and that later is dismantled. Silence, though, can lead to misunderstandings, and the secrets and legacies that remained uncommunicated eventually cause strains on the relationship between mothers and daughters. Consequently, language represents both a barrier and a union when it comes to Ruth and her mother’s relationship. Ruth frequently complains about her mother inability to speak English fluently, which causes confusions. LuLing uses her as a translator or “mouthpiece” (43) on many occasions, which embarrasses Ruth. Through language, Tan conveys a strong message about cultural, emotional and generational barriers. At the same time, language is the medium that eventually reconciles Ruth and her mother. LuLing’s memories, passed on through written language, serve as a bridge between them. Thus, Tan uses the duality of language to further explore the complexities of relationships, attributing a place to those things that cannot be said out loud but must not be forgotten.

The Bonesetter’s Daughter is a book that delves with fine insight into human relationships, especially mother and daughter’s and how these relations intersect with others. Amy Tan’s storytelling is compelling, and her ability to interconnect several storylines allows her to slowly reveal secrets and forgotten memories, which makes her work engaging. The Bonesetter’s Daughter is, in short, an ode to maternal love, memory and the necessity of confronting the past to understand the present.

2001. White Teeth by Zadie Smith: The Illusion of Control – Daixing Cao

Edition reviewed: Hamish Hamilton, 2000

Zadie Smith’s White Teeth arrived as the author’s debut novel with the confidence of a social epic and the suppleness of comedy. The unfinished manuscript by Smith (b. 1975, Willesden, North London) had become the object of a bidding war and she completed the novel while still an undergraduate. Published in 2000, White Teeth was an instant success, winning the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the Betty Trask Award, among others, and receiving a television adaptation in 2002. Smith enjoys today a fully consolidated career, with other acclaimed novels such as On Beauty (2005) or NW (2012).

Set largely in North London from the late 1970s through the mid-1990s, Smith’s novel braids together the lives of Archie Jones, his Bangladeshi best friend Samad Iqbal, and their families—Clara and Irie Jones; Alsana, Millat, and Magid Iqbal—into a capacious account of migration, memory, and the stubborn afterlives of empire. It is at once exuberant in its polyphony and set pieces and disquieting in the way ordinary choices—school placements, dinner invitations, teenage crushes—become pressure points where history and ideology make themselves felt. Smith’s achievement is double. She offers a granular anatomy of multicultural London as it is lived room by room, and she advances a distinctly millennial argument about heredity, chance, and the fantasies of control entertained by both religion and science.

Formally, the novel’s narrator is omniscient and nimble. Smith favours free indirect discourse, quick focalization shifts, and comic similes that keep the prose aerated while holding a sharp diagnostic line. Temporal leaps are purposeful rather than flashy: the early scenes of Archie’s failed suicide and his improbable marriage to Clara set a tonal key—melancholy underwritten by luck—whose variations the novel continues to play. Chapters function like interlocking novellas; recurring images (teeth, hair, twins, maps) do connective labour in place of didactic signposting. Dialogue is buoyant, but Smith lets voice do more than entertain: register becomes evidence. Archie’s apologetic Englishness, Samad’s wounded classicism, Clara’s lyrical scepticism, Irie’s alert, body-conscious intelligence—each idiom maps a different relationship to belonging and time. London itself acts as a structuring presence, not merely scenery; bus routes, school catchments, and kebab shops coordinate what kinds of contact feel plausible.

Thematically, White Teeth stages contests over determinism. On one axis lies faith—Jehovah’s Witness eschatology (via Clara’s mother, Hortense) and Samad’s anxious Islam—on another, a secular scientism embodied by Marcus Chalfen and his FutureMouse project. The Chalfens’ aspirational liberalism, with its missionary zeal for “improving” other people’s children, reads as a satire of metropolitan progressivism and a study in soft power. Smith’s point is less that belief or science are villainous rather than systems designed to predict and perfect human outcomes—prophecy, eugenics, experimental genetics—carry an arrogance that cracks under the friction of lived particularity. The twin plotlines of Magid and Millat refine this contention. Dispatched to Bangladesh to preserve “tradition,” Magid returns as a hyper-rational Anglophile; Millat, raised in London, drifts into charismatic fundamentalism. Their divergence is not a tidy parable but an index of how identity forms in negotiation with institutions—schools, courts, laboratories—and with the stories families tell to manage fear.

Smith is especially deft on class as the solvent through which race, culture, and aspiration are redistributed. The Chalfens’ kitchen, where Irie and Millat become objects of anthropological enthusiasm, dramatizes the seductions and humiliations of inclusion on someone else’s terms. The scenes are funny and chilling at once: Smith lets the comedy carry the critique without resorting to thesis paragraphs. Likewise, Irie’s struggle with hair, bodies, and genealogies—her desire for a legible origin story—embodies the paradoxes of “roots” in a city where routes do the forming. The novel’s interest in biology stays at this human scale: DNA is a metaphor only insofar as it reveals the fantasy that there is a clean script beneath contingency. The culminating FutureMouse event, where protest groups and plotlines converge, literalizes the confrontation between control and unpredictability; the farce does not trivialize the stakes so much as expose the fragility of any single narrative about how life should go.

Ethically, White Teeth navigates difficult representational terrain with tact that is not timid. The novel risks caricature—no comic novel of this scope entirely avoids types—but Smith complicates her large cast through counter-rhythms and refusals. Samad’s nostalgia, for instance, is not mocked as quaint but traced to injuries of classed humiliation; Archie’s passivity is not merely English diffidence but a moral strategy that both protects and abdicates. The novel’s handling of Muslim characters has drawn divergent readings across time: some celebrate its plurality of motives and paths; others note how post-1990s anxieties can read back into the text, flattening Millat’s charisma into a symptom. Smith cannot foreclose those retroactive readings, nor does she try to. Instead she writes a field of forces—family loyalty, sexual jealousy, adolescent bravado, political theatre—in which ideology is one attractor among many.

If the novel has setbacks, they are bound to its chosen amplitude. Coincidence does heavy lifting in the last third, and a handful of digressions—on school councils, or genealogical backstories—threaten to become essays in disguise. The satire of the Chalfens can skew broad, and Marcus’s hubris is perhaps too legible too early. Yet the trade-off feels earned: the very sprawl that risks diffusion is also what permits Smith to stage simultaneity—how multiple histories, languages, and ambitions collide in a single neighbourhood on an ordinary Wednesday. The prose sustains this breadth with unusual stamina. Smith’s metaphors flash but do not preen; she grants even minor figures the dignity of a private angle of vision; and she trusts scene construction over editorializing, letting readers infer rather than be shepherded.

Reception history helps calibrate what the novel accomplished in its moment. Garnering major first-book prizes and a swift television adaptation, White Teeth functioned as both a literary event and a cultural weather report: an announcement that the British comic novel had found a new, multinational register. That status carries burdens—a debut read as a map for a generation is bound to attract competing claims—but it also testifies to the book’s legibility across audiences. Importantly, Smith resists the consolations of a “harmonious mosaic.” The ending’s orchestrated chaos, with its unresolved paternities and unsettled certainties, refuses catharsis. The effect is tonic rather than cynical: difference, the book suggests, is not an obstacle to be engineered away but the ordinary condition out of which provisional solidarities must be built.

I recommend White Teeth without reservations. Energetic yet judicious, comic yet morally serious, it documents the textures of late-twentieth-century London while interrogating the soothing stories—of blood, God, and progress—we inherit and invent. More than two decades on, it retains the rare double power to widen attention and sharpen judgment, which is precisely what a novel of this scope ought to do.

2002. A Beautiful Tangle: Denis Johnson’s Rethinking of the Frontier Myth in Train Dreams – Nora Taher Martinez

Edition reviewed: Granta, 2021

Denis Johnson (1949-2017) was a poet, author, and playwright born in Munich, Germany. He was brought up in Tokyo, Manila and Washington, where he settled down with his family and made a living as a fiction writer. He was an alcoholic for most of his early adulthood, but gave up the habit well into his 20s, starting thereon his prolific career as a novelist and writer of short stories. Johnson’s work has received critical acclaim for his prose and portrayals of ordinary lives, exploring the themes of loneliness and the search of one’s identity amidst economic advancement in the American West. He is best known for Jesus’ Son (1992) and Tree of Smoke (2007), a National Book Award for Fiction and Pulitzer Prise winner. Johnson has also been awarded a Lannan Fellowship in Fiction (1993) and the Aga Khan Prize for Fiction from The Paris Review (2002). Train Dreams was the object of a well-received film adaptation in 2025, directed by Clint Bentley.

In Train Dreams (2002), Johnson brings his poetic lyricism to the early 20th century in the Old Frontier. This text was first published in The Paris Review in the form of a short story and was eventually released in novella format in 2011. Fitting the genres of literary and historical fiction, Train Dreams is the story of one man, Robert Grainier, a day labourer in Idaho working for a railway company. He is an ordinary man who strives to do his job well and live a quiet and peaceful life in his cabin in the forest, with his wife Gladys and baby daughter Kate. However, a major personal tragedy turns his life upside down, and Grainier tries to find meaning in his existence while having to keep up with the rapidly changing backdrop of the American West.

One of the most notable aspects of this short novel is its prose. In Train Dreams, Johnson manages to tie epic narration with concise and simple sentences, filling the text with brief passages full of beauty, especially those depicting the landscapes through which Grainier travels. The land seems to become another character in the story, with as much importance as Robert Grainier himself: “beneath this wondrous sky the black valley, utterly still, the train moving through it making great noise but unable to wake this dead world” (42). The writing style is unadorned, but its simplicity lies in Johnson’s dream-like atmosphere Johnson and how it moves the story forward. Another aspect that must be foregrounded about this novella is Johnson’s treatment of the American myth of the frontier. In his reimagination, the traditional narrative of the frontier, often characterized by its progress and the triumph of civilization over the savage wild, is dismantled. In Train Dreams, Grainier is a sort of anti-hero, who, instead of easily reinventing himself in the West and acknowledging its opportunities, finds the economic progress to be too much to handle, almost as if it were a punishment.

Dreams is one of those quiet novels of which it can be said that nothing really happens. The plot can be condensed into two major plot points, that of the tragedy that befalls Robert, and the subsequent apparitions that he witnesses after this misfortune. However, the novella seems to be less a story and more a series of reflections on grief, death and the dullness of existence. As is common in current contemporary literature, this is a non-linear story. The constant jumping back and forth in time may make it difficult to follow the story in terms of point. The structure straightens out toward the end, but for a novel this short, this lack of chronological clarity hinders the end-effect of the story.

Mysticism and hallucinatory ambience are distinctive characteristics in Johnson’s works, and he showcases these supernatural tones with dreams involving wolves, trains, and his family. Wolves represent loneliness; trains, the passage of time and progress; while dreams may allude to opportunity. Nonetheless, the meaning and point of these apparitions would have been difficult to grasp, had it not been for Johnson committing the sin of telling and not showing. Grainier goes through an immense personal tragedy, but his pain is only described sideways, making it challenging to connect with him as a character and his suffering. In the same way, the reader is not shown what happens; they are merely told and are supposed to accept the circumstances just because they appear in a vision: “Gladys floated past it all (...) seeing everything in the world. (...) Gladys had seen all of this (fire), and she made it his to know. She’d lost her future to death, and lost her child to life. Kate had escaped the fire” (79).

In summary, Train Dreams is a rendition of what life was like in the 1900s in the American West, becoming a glimpse into pieces of history through the eyes of one very sad man. Grainier’s is a conventional life in extraordinary times, given the major changes in society at the time, but foremost for the personal transformation of an individual who, whether he likes it or not, must continue with his life. In a way, the language and the prose do contribute to the lyricism and mysticality of the story, though, regrettably, the attempt at doing grand things in such short space ends up tainting this text with a certain pretentiousness.

2002. Intellect and Emotion, Conceptual and Human Frontiers in Ted Chiang’s Stories of Your Life and Others – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

Edition reviewed: Tor Books, 2010

Ted Chiang (b. 1967, Port Jefferson, New York) is an American writer of short fiction, whose work explores the boundaries of fantasy and science fiction. Chiang studied Computer Science at Brown University, and worked subsequently writing handbooks in this field. He is now of the most honoured figures in contemporary speculative literature, having won four Nebula Awards, four Hugo Awards, six Locus Awards and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. His well-known collection Stories of Your Life and Others (2002) exemplifies his particular approach to the genre, in which science fiction is used as a means to examine new ideas, question assumptions and push conceptual frontiers. Chiang is not only famous for the philosophical depth and technical precision of his stories. His influence also goes beyond literature. In 2023, he was named one of Time’s 100 most influential people in the field of AI debates, highlighting the cultural relevance and visionary quality of his work.

Stories of Your Life and Others collects Ted Chiang’s first eight short stories (his only other collection is Exhalation, 2019). The stories are “Tower of Babylon,” “Understand,” “Division by Zero,” “Story of Your Life,” “Seventy-Two Letters,” “The Evolution of Human Science,” “Hell Is the Absence of God” and “Liking What You See: A Documentary.” Although they are unrelated to one another, Chiang’s stories share a common interest in exploring alternative ways of living and in engaging with elements of speculative fiction, such as aliens, superintelligence and unconventional forms of life. The collection was awarded the Locus Award for Best Collection in 2003, and it is named after one of Chiang’s most renowned stories, “Story of Your Life.” This short narrative combines the topics of language and determinism through the voice of Dr. Louise Banks, a linguist. The story, which she narrates addressing her daughter, recounts the arrival of aliens on Earth and the process of deciphering their timeless language, and also recalls some moments of her daughter’s childhood and teenage years. Another story of particular interest is “Hell Is the Absence of God.” This one is set in a world where divine beings, miracles and the afterlife are real and observable, although not necessarily beneficial. The story follows Neil Fisk, a widower whose wife ascends to Heaven after being accidentally killed during the visitation of an angel, as he struggles to feel the devotion required to reunite with her in the afterlife. Through these diverse narratives, the collection shows Chiang’s capacity to merge philosophical matters with speculative imagination.

One of the book’s most positive aspects is its remarkable intellectual depth, achieved through the combination of science-fictional elements with psychological, linguistic, philosophical and metaphysical concerns. Each story deals with a different element of speculative fiction, whether this is alien communication, divine intervention or alternative forms of consciousness, while at the same time reflecting on the human world and the social issues within it. This deeper layer is not immediately evident, but a careful reading can reveal how complicated these stories are. On the surface they work as entertaining stories about science fiction and fantasy, but underneath that pleasing tone there is a complex analysis of human cognition, society and relations. It is worth mentioning that Chiang does not write stories merely to offer intellectual notions. Instead, he uses the conventions of speculative fiction to approach the philosophical and psychological world, giving more meaning to his narratives.

Chiang’s stories are not only conceptually complex. They also have an emotional impact, often intertwining dense ideas with humane, affecting moments. Chiang does not only use speculative scenarios to deal with social issues, but also to illuminate the realities of human relationships, memories and choices. This is particularly evident in “Story of Your Life,” where the interactions between a mother and her teenage daughter reveal the fragility of familial bonds, as both quarrel: “Then the explosion: ‘You won’t do the last thing to make me happy! You don’t care about me at all!’” (115). This shocking sentence offers a look into how easily a relationship (supposedly) founded on love and support can easily turn into hurtful misunderstandings, reflecting authentic emotional and human dynamics. A similar moment appears in “Hell Is the Absence of God”: “He knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t change how he felt: he believed Sarah could be happy in either place, but he could only be happy with her” (217). Here the main character is overwhelmed by his grief and longing, and he does not mind admitting his feelings, driven by his intense emotions. These instances exemplify how Chiang’s stories, while being intellectually complex, are still based on human feelings, reinforcing the collection’s ability to move the readers while it also challenges them.

Despite the positive traits of the collection, it presents certain limitations, especially regarding character development and narrative pacing. While several stories portray genuine emotional depth, others are strongly based on more abstract ideas that are too speculative. This distinction can make some of the tales feel distant or more difficult to comprehend. As a result, the reading across the collection becomes uneven. Some stories are straightforward from the beginning, whereas others develop slowly and require a higher intellectual investment to follow their reasoning. Chiang’s writing style is based on deliberate precision, avoiding any unnecessary decoration of the story and clear prose. However, this same precision also entails that certain stories can be more challenging to grasp, especially for the readers who are unfamiliar with the scientific or philosophical matters that he deals with. This approach, in which only the essential information is provided, ensures that the stories do not feel extravagant, but it also leaves little room for elaboration or contextual information that might be helpful for the reader to be able to go through the complexity of the issues dealt with. When this concision deals with scientific and social topics that demand a higher engagement with the text, the full impact of the stories is not completely accessible, at least not initially. For some readers, being able to appreciate the depth and significance of these short stories may require several re-readings or a slower and more focused engagement.

To summarize, Stories of Your Life and Others is the perfect demonstration of Ted Chiang’s unique contribution to the world of contemporary speculative fiction. Through its combination of scientific elements, philosophical reflections and emotional depth, the collection reveals how this genre can be used as a powerful and innovative channel to explore both scientific conceptual frontiers, and the fundamental aspects of the human experience. Chiang’s narratives challenge the readers intellectually, while simultaneously invites them to reflect on relationships, choices and the fragile nature of human emotion.

2002. When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka: A New Perspective. Aray Teixidor Pérez

Edition reviewed: Anchor Books, 2002

Julie Otsuka (b. 1962, Palo Alto, California) is a Japanese American writer and former painter known for turning history into a mirror for personal and cultural identity, with novels such as The Buddha in the Attic (2011) and The Swimmers (2022). Otsuka was raised in a family deeply affected by the internment of Japanese residents in the US camps during World War II, whose stories were a great influence for her touching novels. Particularly, her grandfather was the main inspiration for her first novel, When the Emperor Was Divine (2002). This was named Best Book of the Year by The San Francisco Chronicles and Notable Book by New York Times (both in 2002), and also earned Otsuka in 2002 the Children’s Literary Association Phoenix Award.

When the Emperor Was Divine takes place in 1942 and tells the experiences of a family who lived in California but were forced to evacuate due to their Japanese ancestry to Topaz, an internment camp located in the Utah desert. Divided into five chapters, each one is told from the perspective of the different unnamed family members in the story. The first chapter starts with the woman, who after reading a sign warning about the evacuation order goes back home to pack everything she and her two pre-adolescent children may need. The second chapter changes to the perspective of the girl and follows the family’s journey to the camp. The next chapter is told through the eyes of the boy, her brother, and narrates their experiences while in the camp. Chapter four, using the first-person plural ‘we’, narrates the experiences of both the boy and the girl when they get back home to find it in disrepair. Finally, chapter five introduces a new character: the man. Written as a journal entry, he tells his story in relation to the accusations thrown at him when he was arrested. Overall, the woman, the girl and the boy stay together throughout most of their journey. The man, who is their husband and father, is known to have been taken into custody since the beginning and although he does not make an appearance until the last chapter he is a great influence on the other characters.

The variety of perspectives is a wonderful narrative choice because it provides a wider view of the story and a deeper understanding of each character; the last two chapters—written directly by them—also give a better insight into their thoughts and feelings. The fact that their names are never revealed gives a sense of anonymity, which may create a disconnection between the characters and reality, but that actually makes their story more relatable, suggesting that any Japanese family could fit this story. However, it takes a rather understanding reader to really know the characters. For instance, in the first chapter, the woman goes shopping in order to prepare for the evacuation and one of the items she gets is a shovel, an odd tool given the situation. She gets home to continue with the preparations, and “by early afternoon her handkerchief was soaked” (11). All of this raises questions about her motives and intentions, which are answered shortly. She gives food to their pet, White Dog, and after playing with him and calling him a “good dog” several times, she hits him with the shovel, which “had been the right choice. Better, she thought, than a hammer” (13), and then proceeds to bury him. This is a cruel but touching moment, which shows the woman’s strength to do something painful to her, just because she thinks it is for the best, as the dog will not survive without her care. Just like in this scene, many of the characters' actions are not explained explicitly or can be better understood later on, which asks for careful reading in order to get the whole picture.

Otsuka’s writing is simple, dealing with deep emotions in a way that seems effortless. There are not many literary devices used, no big metaphors or clever foreshadowing. Other than the implications of war and xenophobia, the story is just that, a story about a family and how they deal with the cruel situation they are forced to assume. However, simplicity does not imply poor quality; in fact, this is one of the aspects that make this novel powerful. In an interview for The Believer, Otsuka declared that “I began writing because it was something I just enjoyed doing. I never, ever thought, when I took my first writing classes, that I would end up being a professional or even a published writer. I was doing it because I liked it” (in Zoffness, 2023). That is clearly reflected in her writing. Her attention to detail and mindful storytelling show that Otsuka has crafted the novel with care, creating an emotional and realistic journey with obscure themes that are dealt with a soft touch. Furthermore, her experience as a painter and sculptor shines in her narration through the use of vivid descriptions. Chapter three starts with the boy seeing his father everywhere, although in reality he is seeing Japanese men who “all looked alike. Black hair. Slanted eyes. High cheekbones. Thick glasses. Thin lips. Bad teeth. (...) The little yellow man” (41). Instead of voicing the boy’s thoughts, the description uses irony to comment on racism and stereotypes used by others to describe people with Japanese ancestry. Altogether, Otsuka’s subtle writing and vivid descriptions make her narrative a beautiful creation, almost like a written painting.

When the Emperor Was Divine is a beautifully expressed novel. Through an accessible, visual portrayal we can find an anonymous yet personal story full of emotion. The same way the Emperor has lost its divinity—as the title hints—, the novel reminisces about a time where the people of Japan lost their national pride and freedom, bringing attention to a dark part of the US history, which seems to have dissipated with time and should be remembered.

References

Zoffness, C. (2023, July 26). “An Interview with Julie Otsuka.” The Believer. https://www.thebeliever.net/an-interview-with-julie-otsuka/

2002. Steel, Dust, and Ruins: American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center by William Langewiesche – Ivetta Portnova

Edition reviewed: North Point Press, 2002

William Langewiesche (1955-2025) was an American writer and journalist known for his precision and ability to turn non-fiction into an art form. His career began as a writer for The Atlantic, where he gained popularity for writing about complex real-world incidents. Published in 2002, American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center, was based on a series of reports he had previously published in The Atlantic, narrating his experience among the ruins of the World Trade Center, where he stayed for six months after the September 11 2001 attacks. The only journalist given unrestricted access to that dreadful location, Langewiesche documented the dismantling of the World Trade Centre site. Apart from American Ground, Langewiesche published several notable works such as Inside the Sky: A Meditation on Flight (1998) and The Outlaw Sea: A World of Freedom, Chaos and Crime (2004). He also collaborated with The New York Times Magazine from 2019 until his passing in 2025. In his works, he consistently showed a dedication to accuracy, favouring observation and analysis over emotional narrative.

American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center provides a first-person account of one of the most challenging site rehabilitations in the modern history of the United States of America. This book offers Langewiesche's characteristic perspective on the material consequences of the 9/11 attacks. Rather than focus on the human suffering or emotional outcomes of this tragedy, like in the majority of documentaries and movies based on this event, the book turns its attention to the enormous task of dismantling what was left of the World Trade Center. The tone remains factual throughout the book, as if the author is documenting a large-scale industrial operation rather than interpreting a national tragedy. The emphasis on logistics and structure often overshadows the human stories that many readers might expect from a book about 9/11.

The ruins of the towers are portrayed in terms of masses of steel, dust, and debris, with Langewiesche minimizing any emotional embellishment. He describes human remains with the same stark objectivity, as it is shown when he writes “It's a rotted banana, and it looks like every other rotted banana. People are a lot like that. Left dead, unattended in warm environments, you can't tell them apart” (138). In another raw passage, he writes that “among the recovered materials were cuts of beef and chicken, and a significant number of hot dogs. This caused hardly a comment on the pile, where the difficulty of distinguishing one kind of meat from another was accepted matter-of-factly” (136). The text values observation over empathy, offering accuracy and documentation at the expense of emotional engagement. Nevertheless, Langewiesche’s method can be seen as a deliberate attempt to redefine the way the story of 9/11 has been told. This approach contrasts with works such as The Only Plane in the Sky: An Oral History of 9/11 by Garrett M. Graff (2019) or Fall and Rise: The Story of 9/11 by Mitchell Zuckoff (2019). Rather than reproducing a narrative of mourning or heroism, Langewiesche examines the event through a lens of practical observation.

Langewiesche's work presumes a prior degree of familiarity with New York City and some engineering concepts that not all readers possess. Numerous references to specific streets, buildings and organizations, such as the Port Authority and the Fire Department, can make certain sections difficult to follow for those outside the city. He describes the precarious condition of the slurry wall separating the ruins from the Hudson River, whose collapse could have flooded Lower Manhattan and cost further loss of life. As Langewiesche explains, “a wall of water would flood the Jersey City station, and from there, via connecting rail links, would circle uncontrollably back into Manhattan, rush through the passages beneath Greenwich Village, and take out the West Side subways” (5). He also provides numerous statistics and technical details such as the speed of impact of the planes, the massive weight of debris and the hazardous materials buried beneath the site. The first plane, he writes, “weighed 137 tons. It was flying at nearly 590 mph, which was more than 150 mph above the airplane's designed limit at low altitude” (54).

In conclusion, American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center offers a scrupulously informed account of the aftermath of September 11 in its technical dimensions. This book will be particularly engaging to readers with a certain background or interest in engineering or urban infrastructure, as well as for those familiar with New York City’s geography and administrative systems. At the same time, it may appeal to readers who are less interested in emotional storytelling, pursuing instead a rigorously documented, first-person perspective on the logistical and structural realities of one of the most complex tragedies in modern history.

2003. Among Chaos: Adrian Nicole LeBlanc’s Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx – Cèlia Saltó Parramon

Edition reviewed: Scribner, 2004

Adrian Nicole LeBlanc (b. 1963, Leominster, Massachusetts) is a journalist focused on the marginalized members of society. In 2006, she received the MacArthur Fellowship, an award granted to American individuals who have shown significant accomplishments in their fields. Her non-fiction volume Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx, published in 2004, approaches topics related to youth during the 1980s and 1990s in the Bronx. Through her non-fiction, LeBlanc analyses the struggles of two young women, Jessica and Coco, diving into themes of abuse, drug use, and poverty, among others.

Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx follows, as noted, over the course of a decade, the lives of Jessica and Coco, two young Puerto Rican women who live in the Bronx, New York. LeBlanc began her research after reading in the Newsday newspaper about the trial of a major drug dealer, Boy George, Jessica’s partner. The couple had been arrested and incarcerated for heroin trafficking, and as a consequence, they were separated from their five children. Coco also faces similar difficulties and struggles to raise her own five children in a harsh and risky environment. LeBlanc distinctly portrays how hard early motherhood and survival can be in low-income, neglected communities. Within its 400 pages, the book encapsulates not only the struggles but also the willingness of the two women to break the cycle of poverty and overcome their generational difficulties to achieve a better life for their families.

It is essential to highlight the impressive research conducted by LeBlanc. For over a decade, she followed both Jessica and Coco in their lives, reporting their world first-hand. This type of immersive journalism enables readers to experience and understand with greater depth the poverty and conflicts that individuals face daily when raised in disadvantaged socio-economic settings. By documenting the challenges of young people in the Bronx, LeBlanc was able to raise awareness about the inequalities through the experiences of Jessica, Coco, and their families. Despite the strains of these two families, one of the book’s most hopeful moments is when Coco’s children spend some time at a summer camp. This part stresses the importance, especially in these areas, of the non-profit organizations for all those families who are struggling. Coco’s children attend summer camp for at-risk children. This opportunity is vital as it opens them to a new perspective of the world and a broader vision for their future, far from the violence. As one of them states, “she longed for peace—a peace she hadn’t even known was possible until she’d spent two quiet weeks with a family upstate one summer, as a camper with the Fresh Air Fund” (40). Children from these areas tend not to see how life is outside those ghettos; they only know a version of life that involves, most of the time, drugs, guns, violence, and abuse. These experiences are very important for their development as they need resources to break the seemingly non-ending cycle. Nonetheless, LeBlanc points out that these projects are mostly underfunded and understaffed, and governments should provide more resources.

Another noteworthy aspect of Random Family is LeBlanc’s approach and, indeed, her decision to narrate the stories of these two women. She is a witness showing readers their way of living: we hear their voices and not the author’s. She portrays with little intervention the course of the events; not everything happens at the same time, and sometimes the only action is the slow passage of time, as in jail. LeBlanc refrains herself from judging and does not get involved in the morality or the choices of the protagonists, leaving it out to the reader to form their own opinion about them. Still, she finds ways to be critical of society and expose problems related to gender stereotypes, class inequalities, and racism as the protagonists are Latin women from the lower class. Le Blanc writes that “Poverty is a subculture that exists within the ghetto. It goes beyond black or Hispanic, at least in my mind. Overworked teachers. Run-down schools. It looks like they designed this system to make our children fail” (340). The book, therefore, works as documentation of social realities that the reader may not be aware of, hence its value.

Adrian Nicole LeBlanc's work in constructing the narrative of Random Family is remarkable. Readers can understand the hidden struggles that come from growing up in lower-income settings. The fact that she followed Jessica’s and Coco’s lives for ten whole years results in a complex and profound analysis of their unique situations. Although the honesty may be difficult to digest, it is essential that this type of work is conducted to raise awareness about how a life shaped by poverty is complicated to redirect. LeBlanc’s contribution to social studies through the merger of literature and journalism offers, in short, a much needed perspectives on modern US urban life.

2003. Feminism and Delicacy in Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

Edition reviewed: Corgi, 2009

The Da Vinci Code, published in 2003 by Dan Brown, is the second of his Robert Langdon series, which welcomed its latest instalment just two months ago. Brown, born in 1964 in Exter, New Hampshire, is known for his engaging thrillers, filled with cryptographical, artistic, historical, and religious themes, novels even capable of raising controversy at times, especially this particular one. Despite having already published eight novels and a children’s book, Brown’s current worldwide success is mainly due to the acclaim for this novel, his fourth published work. Brown’s bestseller not only won awards such as the British Book Award in 2004, but was also adapted into a very popular film in 2006, with Tom Hanks as Langdon.

Can you imagine being a celebrated symbologist and author suddenly framed as the prime suspect in the murder of Louvre’s curator Jacques Saunière? This is what Robert Langdon wakes up to during his visit to Paris. From that moment, the hidden messages Saunière leaves for him and his granddaughter, cryptologist Sophie Neveu, lead the pair to join forces in an adventure filled with historical, artistic, and religious revelations. The most striking one unveils Saunière’s membership in a secret society devoted to protecting the truth concerning the Holy Grail and Mary Magdalene’s lineage, something that could change the course of history and challenge the foundations of Catholicism. Langdon and Sophie must also face an opposing faction with members belonging to Opus Dei and willing to do anything in their hands to avoid the secret from being revealed. Overall, The Da Vinci Code can be deemed an intellectual thriller that raises controversial questions about faith, history, and power.

One of the main strengths of this novel is the treatment of women and its call for their empowerment, a central theme present in all the mysteries that must be solved throughout The Da Vinci Code. From beginning to end, Brown centres Saunière’s brotherhood and its secret on the sacred feminine, advocating for a revision and rewriting of history and of the foundations of the Church in order to place the goddess, and women in general, in their rightful place in the world. The novel’s theories insist that history has been twisted to demonize women while reinforcing the patriarchy, a claim clearly illustrated in the following passage: “The days of the goddess were over. The pendulum had swung. Mother Earth had become a man’s world” (171, original emphasis). In other words, the narrative voice is undeniably feminist, defending equality, something which requires and deserves women’s empowerment. Ultimately, this argument culminates in the character of Sophie Neveu, not only because her intellect is essential in uncovering the great secret, but mostly because she actually embodies it, as readers will discover in the greatest mystery in this novel. Thus, the reading that may be made of this discovery is the fact that the sacred feminine is still alive, yet it is still hidden from the (patriarchal) world, never having been done justice to. This reflection is relevant nowadays because it serves as an analogy for the issues that remain unaddressed regarding feminism in the 21st century—a fight that still has many battles to be fought so that women (just like Mary Magdalene) can actually be granted a voice in society, after a lifetime of being silenced and devalued.

In line with the previous argument, another remarkable aspect of Brown’s novel is the delicate, detailed, and even cinematic descriptions, especially those related to the female protagonist, Sophie. His writing includes numerous passages characterizing her from Langdon’s point of view, very much centred on intellectual admiration and respect rather than objectifying her or placing excessive importance on her appearance. This idea is perfectly shown in this passage, with Langdon admiring Sophie but being unsure whether he should simply touch her hand: “Her eyes were closed, her lips relaxed in a contented smile. Langdon could feel his own growing heavy. Reluctantly, he squeezed her hand” (583). Neveu’s portrayals allow readers to associate her with wisdom (this is what her name means), something which definitely adds to the argument about feminism and empowerment. Since his novel criticizes the reduced space women are generally granted in the world, Brown makes sure to reserve a significant space for her in the novel that avoids superficial descriptions and allows readers to relate to her.

Finally, I must commend The Da Vinci Code for the outstanding balance that the author achieves between plot, descriptions, and heavy background information, avoiding creating a dense novel difficult to find engaging or understandable for readers unfamiliar with the prevalent topics. On the contrary, these explanations and descriptions may make readers deem the novel more accurate and aesthetically pleasing. Therefore, it can be said that even with the meticulously developed technical topics and with prevalent detailed depictions of characters and settings, The Da Vinci Code is a well-balanced work, elevating what could had been an ordinary thriller into an engaging, beautifully, and rigorously written adventure with relatable characters and key moral questions.

In conclusion, Brown has created an excellent work with this novel, one that readers cannot put down, even without previous knowledge of its technical references. Beyond the thrilling adventures Langdon and Neveu face, Brown goes a step further by addressing thought-provoking, and at times controversial, topics. Consequently, The Da Vinci Code advocates for feminism and women’s empowerment, while creating a beautiful text with detailed descriptions that are both endearing and aesthetically pleasing. The common misconception that it is merely the typical bestselling thriller, with no literary pretensions, is far from true. As this review hopefully demonstrates, The Da Vinci Code is a complex and complete work of literary quality, intertwining a myriad of topics, even controversial ones.

2003. In-Betweenness, Identity, and Memories: History and Personal Life in Colonial and Post Colonial Kenya in M. G. Vassanji's The In-Between World of Vikram Lall – Clàudia Puente Guarro

Edition reviewed: Canongate Books, 2004

The In-Between World of Vikram Lall is a historical fiction novel published in 2003 by the Canadian novelist and editor M. G. Vassanji, with which he won the Scotiabank Giller Prize. Vassanji became the first Canadian author to win the award more than once, having won it previously with The Book of Secrets (1994). Born in Kenya in 1950 to Indian immigrants and raised in Tanganyika (currently Tanzania), Vassanji is known for dealing with migration, colonial history and ethnicity among others. The reception of the novel was positive, especially among readers who understand the struggle of having two identities. Vassanji creates a narrative in which issues of race, class, identity, belonging and politics are contemplated. With this novel he paid tribute to East Africa's Indian population, in regards to their contributions to the railroads and the politics of Kenya. The In-Between World of Vikram Lall captures and depicts the essence and reality of a life in post-colonial Kenya intertwining historical accuracy with fictional characters, as well as with Vassanji’s proverbial crudity when describing impactful scenes,.

In The In-Between World of Vikram Lall, the protagonist Vic recounts his coming of age in Kenya between the 1950s and the 1980s while living in exile in Canada’s Southern Ontario. Struggling with the political upheaval and violence in his country’s struggle towards independence, the fall of the British Empire, outcoming corruption, fear and alienation, Vic relates these themes to his own personal relationships and experiences, remembrance and regrets. He inhabits an in-between world, being a native resident in Nakuru (Kenya) marked by the Indian heritage from both his parents. Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation takes place alongside the uprising of the Mau Mau–the Kenya Land and Freedom Army who fought against the European colonists–seeking to unsettlingly overturn British rule set the beginning atmosphere. The friendship between Vic and his sister Deepa with two British children and an African child, Njoroge, aims at racial harmony. With the increase of ethnic violence, these relationships abruptly cease to exist, following Lall's family departure from the town of Nakuru to Nairobi. After Kenya becomes independent, Njoroge re-enters their life, leading to a complicated, failed cross-cultural love with Deepa. Once in adulthood, Vic becomes involved in Kenya's 1970s corrupt and repressing politics, being coerced into laundering money by his Ministerial boss. Eventually becoming one of Africa's most corrupt men, he decides to self-exile to Canada. Having revisited his memories, Vic desires to embrace lawfulness and honesty returning to Kenya to confess, or at least to try.

One of the key characteristics of Vassanji’s novel is the use of historical events and references to explore issues of politics and society in both colonial and post-colonial Kenya through a complex narrative structure. Vassanji embraces historical consciousness as a means of understanding the personal. He employs a deliberately disorienting shifting narrative between past and present perspectives and memories, adding complexity by omitting inverted commas whenever a character is speaking, thus blurring the narration-dialogue distinction. Nevertheless, he highlights the connection between the personal and the political, blending a nostalgic and regretful tone with a critical analysis of historical events. For instance, the most pivotal event in the novel is the Mau Mau uprising, portrayed through a haunting narrative accounting for the brutality, the deaths and the outcoming trauma, along with family divisions caused by politics. As decades pass, the perception of this radical group shifts, as Vic himself reflects: “The years of the Mau Mau disturbances were long over; what were once termed terrorists were now called freedom fighters (…)” (14).

Another significant feature is the emphasis on the ‘in-betweenness’ and Vassanji's examination of how it shapes Vic's sense of belonging and identity. The novel puts the focus on the exploration of the dual identity experience, since his family are East African Indians. Although born in Kenya, Vic does not consider himself fully native to the land, nor is he close in that sense to his British friends. Here he refers to Njoroge: “I was also aware that he was more from Africa than I was. He was African, I was Asian. (…) my skin annoyingly ‘medium’, as I described it then, neither one (white) nor the other (black)” (27). Vassanji shows the realistic and complex identity crises and stigmas that East African Indians endure when trying to establish themselves in a place between the native Africans and the British colonisers, as Vic acknowledges: “To the African I would always be the Asian, the Shylock; I would never escape that suspicion, that stigma” (311). He is not considered African enough, yet he cannot return to his ethnic home again (Peshawar, India) as it became part of Pakistan in 1948. Only in Canada, can Vic revisit his past memories, in a safe ‘in-between’ placement which paradoxically permits him to enjoy detachment and neutrality.

The In-Between World of Vikram Lall is a novel that weaves historical truth and engaging fiction in a Kenya shifting from colonialism to independence from the perspective of an African-Indian. Among themes of ethnicity, identity and alienation, Vassanji brilliantly explores the conjunction between politics and the personal through the voice of a narrator who is able to reminisce his past memories. It is a crude and bittersweet novel which leaves the reader questioning the sense of belonging and its implications.

2004. Identity, Empire and Belonging: A Compassionate Portrayal of Post-Colonial Britain in Andrea Levy’s Small Island – Samya El Kasmy

Edition reviewed: Tinder Press, 2022

Andrea Levy’s Small Island (2004) is one of the most remarkable contributions to early 21st-century British fiction. Drawing from her heritage, the English author, born in 1956 to Jamaican parents, offers a window onto the aftermath of World War II and the dissolution of the British Empire. Levy’s writing about the consequences of war, empire, migration and racism in Small Island made her the winner of the Orange Prize for Fiction and the Whitbread Book of the Year, establishing Levy as a leading voice in contemporary British literature. Levy passed away in 2019.

Set between Jamaica and post-war London, Small Island follows four narrators, Hortense, Gilbert, Queenie and Bernard, two couples whose destiny is intertwined and offers an insight into mundane life in 1940s Britain. The novel is structured around a dual timeline: “Before” traces the characters’ pre-war lives and their wartime experiences, particularly in the case of Bernard, while “1948” marks the uneasy period in post-war Britain when immigration started to redefine national identity. The story narrates how Hortense and Gilbert, a Jamaican couple who decide to leave their island and search for new job opportunities in the ‘Mother Country’, face casual racism, rejection and indifference by both American and English people. Their idealization of Britain quickly crumbles when Gilbert’s optimism owing to his service as a driver for the RAF and Hortense’s pride in her refined education as a teacher become futile in their new harsh reality. Queenie and Bernard are an English couple who get caught in their own emotions and struggles. Queenie’s open-mindedness towards Jamaicans makes her become Gilbert and Hortense’s landlord after her husband is deployed to India, which contrasts with Bernard’s narrow and prejudiced worldview, especially after returning home.

One of the strongest features of Small Island lies in its polyphonic narrative and characterisation. Levy captures the personal and ideological background of the time period by giving voice to four different narrators: Hortense's meticulous diction reflects her desire to be perceived as someone brilliant but also useful; Gilbert’s humour and defiance serve to mitigate all the humiliation he faces; Queenie’s honesty exposes both her compassion and ignorance; and Bernard’s bitter tone reveals his mental instability after the war and his inability to see beyond his bias. The characters, like any human being, are flawed, and while they may not be likable, they reflect 1940s Britain. In addition, Levy's touches of humour in dark situations allow for moments when laughter pierces through scenes full of misunderstandings and embarrassment. For instance, when Hortense is rejected for a teacher's position despite her studies and recommendation letter she ends up walking into a cupboard. At the same time, the way conversations unfold from a colloquial, often ironic dialogue, illustrates how racial and class tensions arise in ordinary exchanges between the characters. Through these voices, Levy addresses cultural misunderstandings between two different ethnic groups, black Jamaicans and white Britons, shedding light on divisions of race, gender, and class within each group. The story’s pacing, alternating between introspection and the current reality, deepens the reader’s empathy for the characters and their harsh living conditions. Levy creates a rich psychological portrait of a nation in transition, where the characters need to confront their own expectations and history.

Another of Levy’s greatest strengths is the compelling description of setting and atmosphere. Her depiction of 1940s bomb-scarred, grey London feels disturbingly real, showing the characters’ desperation and anguish and using vivid imagery of destruction, for instance when the rubble is described as “the displaced intestines of buildings spewing everywhere” (281). London became unrecognizable and the white characters no longer felt they were home. What was once a powerful imperial symbol of growth and prosperity is now shrinking and struggling to defend itself from loss. In contrast, Jamaica’s portrayal is bathed in warm colours and tinged with nostalgia; however, neither Gilbert nor Hortense ever romanticise it and even reject the idea of going back. The recollection of Hortense’s memories in a colonial schooling system reveals how hierarchies of race and class were already shaping not only her worldview but every Jamaican under the empire’s rule. Although Jamaica is perceived as small and Britain is idealized, this contrast becomes ironic since both places are not only “small” geographically speaking, but also morally. Thus, the title Small Island refers to the personal isolation of those individuals who find themselves between the two worlds. Furthermore, Levy’s prose is full of emotional restraint, which can be seen in how she handles war trauma, depicting post-traumatic stress disorder as a muted ailment. Bernard's inward suffering serves not as a justification for his behaviour but as a layer to understand the psychological scars of war that alter one's perceptions.

In conclusion, Levy’s Small Island is a compassionate novel that gives voice to an overlooked chapter of British history through the voices of four flawed characters, navigating the transition from an imperial power to a multicultural society. The blend of humour and empathy in an emotional narration allows for a deeper understanding of migration, displacement and belonging to a post-colonial national identity.

2004. My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult: A Constellation of Voices Under a Single Grief – Anan Ye

Edition reviewed: Atria Books, 2005

American novelist Jodi Picoult (b. 1966, Nesconset, New York), made her literary debut with Songs of the Humpback Whale (1992) and has since then become one of the most widely read contemporary authors in the United States. Her novels often appear on bestseller lists and the author is celebrated for her audacious engagement with morally complex and socially controversial issues. In her works, Picoult explores themes of justice, ethics and the fragility of family dynamics, subjects that have sparked intense public debate and invited diverse interpretations among readers and critics alike.

Picoult’s novel My Sister’s Keeper (2004) is perhaps her most widely recognized work, celebrated for its provocative exploration of medical ethics and family dynamics. The novel achieved both huge critical and commercial success, securing Jodi Picoult’s reputation as a bold and emotionally perceptive storyteller. My Sister’s Keeper follows thirteen-year-old Anna Fitzgerald, who sues her parents for medical emancipation after a lifetime of being a donor for her older sister Kate, who suffers from leukaemia. In 2009, the novel was adapted into a major film starring Cameron Diaz, which reignited discussion due to its altered ending that diverged significantly from the original conclusion.

My Sister’s Keeper tells the story of the Fitzgerald family, whose lives have long revolved around Kate, a sixteen-year-old who was diagnosed at the age of two with acute promyelocytic leukaemia. In an act of desperate love, her parents conceive another child, Anna, who is genetically engineered to be a perfect donor match. Along thirteen years, Anna undergoes countless medical procedures to try to keep her sister alive. When she decides to sue her parents for medical emancipation, her choice fractures the family’s moral and emotional foundation. The ensuing trial exposes the tensions that have long simmered beneath the surface: Sara’s relentless determination to save her daughter Kate at any cost, Brian’s quiet struggle to remain morally grounded and the self-destructive rebellion of Jesse, the oldest son, born out of frustration with his invisibility in the family. Interwoven with these conflicts is the story of Campbell, Anna’s lawyer, whose concealed illness and rekindled relationship with Julia, Anna’s court-appointed guardian, provide a parallel reflection on vulnerability and truth. The novel ends in a devastating twist that forces readers to confront the limits of control, sacrifice and love. The ending has divided readers’ opinions: while some liked it, others view it as unnecessarily abrupt and a choice that undermines the moral balance so carefully built throughout the story.

One of the novel’s most remarkable features is its narrative structure, which alternates between multiple first-person perspectives. This polyphonic narrative enables the author to present the ethical dilemma from contrasting emotional and moral angles, enriching the story’s complexity and accessibility. The inclusion of flashbacks proves particularly effective, offering glimpses into the family’s past and illuminating the depth of the mother’s devotion and fear. Although Sara may at times appear to be hysterical and overbearing, these moments of retrospection invite empathy, thus allowing readers to see her not as a villain but as a mother terrified of losing her child. As she recalls one day shopping with her daughters: “we walk through the mall holding hands, a trio of bald girls. We stay for hours. Everywhere we go, heads turn and voices whisper. We are beautiful, times three” (240). This image of fragile unity between a mother and her two daughters captures both the tenderness and the tragedy of her love. However, not every narrative thread achieves the same impact. The romantic subplot between Campbell and Julia, though adding a layer of personal history and warmth, feels somewhat detached from the central narrative, momentarily interrupting the emotional intensity of Anna’s story. Nonetheless, the general structural multiplicity of voices gives the narrative its rhythm and emotional immediacy, transforming a morally complex issue into a deeply felt human story.

Jodi Picoult’s powers of characterization are another strength that the novel possesses. Anna, short for Andromeda, embodies both innocence and courage, with her rebellion challenging the ethics of parental love. Sara is the embodiment of blind devotion, frustrating yet tragically believable. Brian stands out as the novel’s moral compass, being a man of restraint, compassion and integrity, whose calm counterbalances Sara’s emotional extremity. Jesse’s destructive behaviour conceals an aching need to be seen, thus adding psychological depth to the family dynamic. Through these characters, Picoult explores the limits of love, autonomy and sacrifice. Her prose is accessible yet emotionally resonant, filled with memorable reflections. At one point, Sara notes that “in the English language there are orphans and widows, but there is no word for the parent who loses a child” (416). This observation encapsulates the novel’s central preoccupation with the unspeakable dimensions of grief. Interestingly, a few years after the publication of the novel, Professor Karla Holloway of Duke University proposed the Sanskrit-derived term vilomah to describe a parent who has lost a child. Despite its poignancy, the term has yet to be widely adopted, thus highlighting the enduring inadequacy of language to name the deepest forms of human suffering.

To sum up, My Sister’s Keeper is a deeply moving, thought-provoking novel that combines emotional intensity with moral inquiry. Jodi Picoult’s skill lies in her ability to weave ethical questions into accessible storytelling, drawing readers into a debate that is as personal as it is philosophical. The novel’s originality, its shifting perspectives and its interestingly diverse characters make it a memorable exploration of what it means to love, to lose and to let go. The novel captures the contradictions of human compassion, proving that even flawed stories can reveal profound truths about the fragile beauty of family and the devastating cost of love.

2004. Aestheticism, Desire, Privilege, and Decay: A Portrait of Thatcher’s Britain in Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty – Aina Matamala Tuset

Edition reviewed: Picador Collection, 2022

The Line of Beauty is a historical fiction novel first published in 2004 by the renowned British writer Alan Hollinghurst. Born in Stroud, England, in 1954, he is a novelist, poet, short story writer, and translator. Hollinghurst has been honoured with many accolades, including the Somerset Maugham award in 1989, the James Tait Black Memorial prize in 1994, and the Booker Prize in 2004 precisely for The Line of Beauty. He is most celebrated for this novel and for The Stranger's Child, which was included in the Booker Prize longlist in 2011. Since 1988, Hollinghurst has been credited with having helped gay-themed fiction break into the literary mainstream through his novels. Via introspection, social commentary, humour and satire, The Line of Beauty serves as a profound social critique that examines and occasionally reveals the sophistication and hypocrisy of British society in the 1980s.

In The Line of Beauty, Hollinghurst leads readers into the dazzling yet perilous realm of 1980s London, where political power, privilege, social aspiration, artistic sophistication, and longing were very much present. The story follows Nick Guest, an Oxford graduate and observant young man from a humble background, who becomes entwined with the wealthy family of the Feddens after moving into their opulent home in Notting Hill. Captivated by aesthetic allure and unexpressed desire, Nick traverses a world of extravagant gatherings, art, and influence while covertly pursuing his own romantic and sexual revelations as a gay man amid increasing societal fears surrounding AIDS. Nick’s delight in aestheticism is often present. Catherine Fedder, one of his hosts, “was puzzled by his love of (…) pompous spaces, and mocked his knowledgeable attachment to the paintings and furniture. ‘You’re such a snob,’ she said, with a provoking laugh; (…) ‘I’m not really,’ said Nick, as if a small admission was the best kind of denial, ‘I just love beautiful things’”(7). Navigating the roles of both insider and outsider, Nick meticulously notes the contradictions, vanities, and ethical shortcomings of the elite that cause scandal. Hollinghurst’s depiction of the time merges closeness and criticism, reflecting both the charm and the danger of a culture characterized by appearances.

One of the most compelling traits of The Line of Beauty is the stylistic virtuosity with which Hollinghurst constructs the narrative. The author’s prose is consistently vibrant, exact, thorough, and finely attuned to the societal rhythms of Britain during the Thatcher years. The novel makes use of a narrative voice that feels both refined and emotionally impactful, elevating even mundane moments into experiences that are sharply observed and charged of aestheticism. “The feel of his warm hard body under the silky shirt” Hollinghurst writes, “was almost worryingly beautiful, a promise too lavish to believe in” (37). The third person voice blends satire with lyrical finesse, enabling the reader to sense both the luxury and the fragility of the world into which Nick Guest steps.

The characters Nick encounters within the Fedden household—from urbane partygoers to aloof politicians—are rendered with subtle yet telling detail; their speech, gestures, and tastes collectively illuminate the novel’s preoccupation with beauty, taste, and the mechanisms of social belonging. Through these exchanges, the novel’s investigation of beauty and aesthetics intensifies: art, architecture, and the “line of beauty” influence not only Nick’s yearnings but also the emotional depth of the narrative. The structure of the novel, subdivided into the parts “The Love Chord,” “To Whom Do You Belong?,” “The End of the Street,” is meaningful as it creates a narrative symmetry that describes Nick’s rise to privilege and, ultimately, his rejection from the elite society he idolized. This framework reinforces the tragic inevitability of the character’s journey through satire and emotional depth. A further captivating aspect is that Hollinghurst’s evocation of time and place, with detailed portrayals of London’s domestic interiors, political gatherings, and social rituals, creates an immersive socio-cultural landscape both attractive and isolating.

Even with its significant artistic and stylistic successes, The Line of Beauty reveals some flaws. The opening section discloses much of the novel’s main trajectory, highlighting essential occurrences and connections prior to their development. This early revelation diminishes narrative suspense and lessens the reader’s expectancy, thus undermining the novel’s dramatic development. Furthermore, Hollinghurst’s treatment of sexual scenes reveals an unevenness in tone and register: at moments, the language is strikingly explicit, while at others it retreats into vagueness or euphemism. This fluctuation not only threatens to alienate readers unaccustomed to such straightforwardness but also generates instances of ambiguity that may confuse or disturb even those who engage with the text critically. Consequently, these stylistic discrepancies somewhat interfere with the cohesion of an otherwise carefully crafted narrative. The novel’s luxurious and immersive detail can feel leisurely or static slowing the plot considerably, especially in sections focused on social scenes or interior observation. “The communal gardens’ the narrator comments, were “big as the central park of some old European city, but private, and densely hedged on three sides with holly and shrubbery behind high Victorian railings” (15). As a protagonist, Nick’s passivity, along with his absorption in beauty and social acceptance, limits the dynamism of the narrative. This problem might lay in the novel's narrative method, created to set up puzzles for the readers with key omissions. These ellipses in the narrative enact Nick's own suppression of feelings and are, in a sense, an aspect of his self-consciousness.

The Line of Beauty is a sophisticated and incisive novel that offers both a vivid depiction of 1980s Britain and a nuanced exploration of desire, privilege, and social ambition. Alan Hollinghurst delivers an elegant and meticulously crafted narrative that engages the reader with its refined prose, sharp social observation, and complex characterization. At the same time, the novel invites readers to read critically and attentively, appreciating subtle satire, aesthetic symbolism, and intricate social hierarchies. Hollinghurst’s ornate style, dense sentences, and culturally specific references may prove challenging. Yet these may also serve as an exemplary instance of contemporary British literature, leaving readers with an appreciation for Hollinghurst’s stylistic mastery and the thematic depth of his engagement with beauty, privilege, and cultural change.

2005. Searching for Control in Tom McCarthy’s Remainder – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

Edition reviewed: Vintage Books, 2007

Remainder (2005), the debut novel of British writer Tom McCarthy (b. 1969, London), falls within the genre of experimental/modern literary fiction. McCarthy has been awarded a Believer Book Award for Remainder in 2008, the Windham-Campbell Literature Prize in 2013, and has been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize twice. Published initially in 2005 by Metronome Press and later republished more widely by Vintage Books, Remainder has become a sort of a cult work of British fiction.

McCarthy’s novel follows an unnamed narrator who has received an 8.5 million pounds settlement after a mysterious accident that is never fully explained. Physically, he seems fine, but he feels detached from reality, as if everything around him were second-hand. One day, while he is in the bathroom of a friend’s house, he sees a crack on the wall and starts having a déjà vu or vision in which he sees a familiar building. He decides then to use his compensation money to reconstruct not only the building but also to hire actors that act as residents, and repeat small gestures from his memory: walking upstairs, cooking liver or playing the same song on a piano. As the project escalates, the reconstructions become increasingly violent, more abstract, less tethered to literal memory, and the distinction between life and its simulation begins to blur.

One of the strongest aspects of Remainder is how McCarthy captures the psychological effects of trauma without ever naming them directly. The narrator’s obsession with repetition clearly comes from post-traumatic stress disorder. After his accident, he no longer feels safe or in control, so he tries to create a world where everything happens exactly as he decides. He becomes both the director and the actor of his own life. As he reflects about his hired re-enactors, “They’d all had the same goal, their only goal: to allow me to be fluent, natural, to merge with actions and with objects until there was nothing separating us—and nothing separating me from the experience that I was having (…) I’d gone to these extraordinary lengths in order to be real” (254). McCarthy’s style matches this idea: his writing is detailed, clinical, and often repetitive. The same scenes (gestures, smells, colours) appear again and again, forcing the reader to feel the narrator’s monotony and fixation. This can be frustrating at times since the descriptions are long and often about the same things. Yet that is also the point, as it reflects how trauma traps people in endless repetition, unable to move forward. The setting supports this feeling, too. The city of London feels both real and artificial, especially once the narrator transforms an ordinary building into a kind of private stage. The language is simple and unemotional, which makes the disturbing atmosphere even stronger. Despite the slow rhythm, McCarthy builds tension through small details and the growing sense that something is about to collapse.

At the same time, Remainder makes readers question power, freedom, and authenticity. Why does everyone obey the narrator’s strange requests? Is it only because he pays them? McCarthy seems to suggest that money can buy not only obedience, but also the illusion of control. The narrator builds a perfectly safe world with no surprises, where accidents cannot happen again, but this safety is false, as he is not living, only imitating life. Furthermore, he briefly admits that none of the re-enactments are fulfilling a purpose: “And yet to the simple question When had I felt least unreal? The answer was not any of these times. It was, it slowly dawned on me, another time: a moment that had come about not through an orchestrated re-enactment, but by chance” (256), so this makes the reader question whether there is any coherent logic behind the narrator’s actions. As the re-enactments become more complex, the protagonist loses contact with the real world. His friends, who appear at the beginning, disappear completely, and people from outside his fake world cease to exist for the narrator and are simply ignored. Nothing is explained, and that is one of the book’s most frustrating aspects because we expect answers that never come. However, this lack of closure makes sense in a story about trauma, in which memories are fragmented, and reality cannot be put back together. The dialogue, in contrast to the heavy descriptions, is short and direct, and offers some relief after pages of exhaustive detail. The pacing also mirrors the narrator’s mind, being slow and repetitive at first, then faster and more chaotic towards the end. Remainder is not an easy novel to enjoy; it demands patience and attention. But it is an original exploration of how far someone might go to feel ‘real’ again, and how obsession with control can destroy that very feeling.

Overall, Remainder is an unsettling novel about trauma and the illusion of control. It is slow and repetitive, but purposefully so, perfect for a reader who enjoys psychological fiction and does not mind ambiguity. I would recommend it to anyone interested in the limits of realism and identity.

2005. The Secret River by Kate Grenville: Echoes of Colonial Legacy in Early Australia – Roger Vallès Fitó

Edition reviewed: Canongate Books, 2018

The Secret River (2005) is a historical novel by Kate Grenville (b. 1950, Sydney), widely recognized as one of the most significant contemporary Australian authors. Renowned for her meticulous prose and for her engagement with questions of identity, history, and colonial legacy, Grenville has earned numerous literary distinctions, including the 2001 Orange Prize for Fiction (now the Women’s Prize for Fiction), the 2006 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and a place on the short list of Man Booker Prize nominees with The Secret River (2005), which stands out as a landmark work in her oeuvre and in twenty-first-century Australian literature. The novel inaugurates Grenville’s Colonial Trilogy—followed by The Lieutenant (2008) and Sarah Thornhill (2011)—through which she explores Australia’s foundational myths and the moral complexities of settlement.

Grenville's novel employs a third-person limited narrative that closely follows the consciousness of William Thornhill, the novel’s protagonist. The story reconstructs a pivotal moment and place in Australian colonial history—the early 19th-century British enclave along the Hawkesbury River—and uses it to scrutinize how personal ambition, displacement, and survival intersect with imperial expansion and indigenous dispossession. Furthermore, by situating individual experiences within a broader historical context, the narrative acquires a timely patina of authenticity that imbues characters with a genuine spirit, fostering readers’ empathy towards events that have helped shape contemporary history. The story starts in a Dickensian London, where Thornhill is a bargeman who is eventually convicted and transported to New South Wales, where he is determined to secure land and social standing for his growing family, beginning with his sons, Willie and Dick. Both Thornhill and his wife, Sal, are eager to return to London, but circumstances always seem to conspire against the idea. In that sense, a crucial moment of epiphany for William Thornhill occurs when he confronts the enduring mark of his past. Captain Suckling—the very man who once transported him as a convict to New South Wales—reminds him of his indelible stigma: “‘I never forget a felon’s face,’ he said. ‘William Thornhill, Alexander transport’” (179). At this point, Thornhill becomes aware that society will never trust his honesty, and his children will inherit the same inescapable curse. This establishes one of the novel’s central truths: that no individual can fully escape the constraints of history or the inexorable designs of destiny.

Grenville adroitly traces Thornhill’s gradual acquisition of property along the Hawkesbury River, showing the complex interplay between ambition and ethical compromise. The depiction of the tensions between settlers and Native Australians is neither simplistic nor sentimental; instead, it emphasizes the moral and human costs of colonization, showing how both the colonizers and the colonized are entangled in a web of fear, misunderstanding, and violence. Besides, this clash of civilizations juxtaposes two ethical approaches to domestic life, which inspires a reflection on the narrow-minded colonizers but also on the corruptions of civilization. The local inhabitants use the land—without appropriating it—to feed themselves with very little effort, establishing a balanced relationship with nature. Their communal approach to labour as a means of subsistence fosters a more egalitarian society, one in which there are neither masters nor servants. Conversely, the disruptive colonizers bring both the exploitation of nature, and the emergence of a new paradigm called capitalism, which is based on social class and oppression. It is no coincidence that the story is set during the Industrial Revolution. In that regard, it reveals Thornhill's reflection on Aboriginal idiosyncrasy: “In the world of these naked savages, it seemed everyone was gentry” (238).

What is more, the novel challenges the myth of peaceful settlement that long dominated Australian historiography. The events expose how colonial progress was inseparable from brutality, displacement, and obliteration, portraying the massacre at Blackwood’s place as a symbolic recreation of this national trauma. By blending fiction with meticulously researched historical detail, the author transforms personal narrative into collective memory, urging readers to confront the moral legacy of colonization. In essence, The Secret River makes history both the subject and the moral conscience of the novel, turning the past into a mirror through which modern Australia must view itself. Underlying racial prejudices are also exposed in a forceful episode where Thornhill makes a Native woman bleed; he perceives that her blood has the same colour as his own: “‘It is like mine,’ he surprised himself thinking. ‘Just the same colour as my own’” (292). On the brink of the bloodbath with the Natives, Thornhill grievously realizes that only through violence can he regain agency over his destiny, which is a personal but also a collective moral failure. Now he has a choice, something he didn't have when he waited for the executioner at Newgate.

Since the dawn of time, an ineffable drive has infatuated high-spirited settlers to venture into the unknown, risking their lives for new domains and fates. Encompassed by the burden of history, The Secret River stands as a persuasive meditation on the ethical and historical implications of colonial settlement that will transport the reader to experience the lights and shadows of the human soul. Eventually, Thornhill realizes that he is no longer interested in the idea of going back to their former life in London: “But nothing would console him for the loss of that point of land the shape of his thumb. (...) For knowing he was a king, as he would only ever be king in that place” (308). In the wake of harm, remorse, and guilt, history contemplates this emancipated Australian settler gaining insight into how the banks of the Hawkesbury River became everlasting home at a high personal cost.

2005. Arthur & George by Julian Barnes: The Power of Narrative – Nelly Villavicencio Ortega

Edition reviewed: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006

The writing by Julian Barnes (b. 1946, Leicester, England) is marked by precision and irony, often exploring the boundaries between truth, memory, and narrative. Arthur & George (2005), which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, is an example of his fine writing. This novel reconstructs a real case that took place in the early 20th century. George Edalji, an English-Parsee solicitor, was wrongly accused of causing animal mutilations in a rural village in Staffordshire, Great Wyrley, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the famous creator of Sherlock Holmes, eventually advocated for George’s innocence. Through this novel, Barnes masterfully transforms historical reality into an exploration of justice, identity, and storytelling itself.

Set between the 1870s and the 1910s, the novel follows two distinct, yet converging lives. Arthur Conan Doyle grows up in Scotland, becomes a doctor, achieves literary fame, and later experiences personal loss—with the death of his wife—and moral disillusionment regarding the sense of life. Meanwhile, George Edalji, the son of a vicar of Indian origin and an English mother, faces a life of discipline, mere contentment and social isolation in rural Staffordshire. Their paths cross when George, wrongly imprisoned for a series of animal killings in 1903, appeals for help by posting his own case on several newspapers. Intrigued by the injustice, Doyle undertakes his own investigation, similarly to his fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, and campaigns for George’s vindication. By blending historical facts with creative storytelling, Barnes transforms an overlooked legal case into a powerful, humane exploration of prejudice, bias, and the pursuit for justice.

Barnes divides his novel into three parts; Arthur, George, and Arthur & George. This structure mirrors the gradual union of their separate, different worlds. By switching between chapters focused on each character, the novel enables readers to experience the perspectives of both men, highlighting the contrast in their ethics, emotional responses, and societal roles. The first part, told from Arthur’s perspective, is full of energy and ambition, capturing the optimism of late-Victorian progress. The second, seen through George’s eyes, is quiet and meticulous, reflecting his constrained life, based on social rules and religion. When the two narratives merge, Barnes shows outstanding skill to balance reality and fiction, which causes the reader to become both witness and participant in the reconstruction of truth and facts.

The novel’s historical realism is accomplished with meticulous research. Barnes refers directly to court records, letters, and media coverage, which adds credibility and value to the plot of the novel. As a result, Arthur & George feels both authentic and imaginative, in a very creative style. The reader is presented with the idea that storytelling itself can become an act of justice, by reshaping the memory of real events through empathy and narrative order. Barnes invites the reader to consider whether fiction can sometimes convey the truth in a more accurate manner than historiography does. In addition, the novel also explores in depth two themes that are strongly interconnected: justice and prejudice. The idea that stories can both destroy and redeem reputations is shown through George’s example as he is framed and accused of several crimes he did not commit. George’s wrongful conviction exposes how easily institutional bias can appear as logical decision-making. Although the police’s motives remain unknown, Barnes makes the causes evident: racial prejudice, class discrimination, and the tendency to value instinct over evidence. These ideas awaken the reader’s moral awareness and highlight the importance of following rational arguments or evidence, and fairness. Thus, the novel functions as both a historical reconstruction and a classic lesson in morality.

Arthur’s involvement adds a deeper factor to the story. Encountering a real-life mastermind like Conan Doyle, the very creator of Sherlock Holmes, engaged in an actual criminal investigation is especially absorbing. It feels as if the detective’s fictional reasoning has seeped into reality. However, Barnes’s portrayal of Arthur goes beyond admiration: he emerges as a man torn between logic and faith, between scientific investigation and spiritual urge. Arthur’s growing desire to find meaning beyond pure logic contrasts with George’s commitment to rational thought, which reveals that both belief and reason have limitations when confronting the moral challenges of human injustice. In the end, the novel highlights the contemplation on truth, how it is formed, manipulated, and defended through storytelling. By presenting the perspectives of both men, Barnes keeps their shared humanity at the centre of the narrative.

All in all, Arthur & George stands as a very compelling work owing to its blend of history, morality, and fiction. Its rich characterisation and ethical depth make it an essential read for those interested in how literature can reveal the truth, challenge prejudice, and reaffirm the everlasting power of justice through storytelling.

2006. I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman by Nora Ephron: Femininity Is Complicated – Laia Rodríguez Roca

Edition reviewed: Penguin UK, 2020

I Feel Bad About my Neck and Other Thoughts on Being A Woman is an essay collection published by Nora Ephron in 2006. Ephron (1941-2012) was a celebrated American journalist, novelist, filmmaker and screenwriter, known for her sharp and insightful portrayals of womanhood. She rose to international fame through her screenplays for When Harry Met Sally and Silkwood, as well as her direction of iconic films such as Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail. Nora Ephron also published several essay collections, blending humour and reflection. I Feel Bad About My Neck follows the author's characteristic concerns with everyday life, anxiety, womanhood’s contradictions, ageing, beauty and the passage of time, exemplifying Ephron’s talent for transforming ordinary moments into reflective insights.

Ephron’s memoir is composed of a series of essays in which the author reflects on various stages of her life: from her early struggles as a young writer in New York to her later experiences navigating middle age. Each essay is thematically diverse yet the overall book is stylistically cohesive. The essays explore issues ranging from the trouble with beauty routines and the disappointments of romantic relationships to the emotional meaning of domestic spaces. The book forms a mosaic of observations that collectively portray the complexity of womanhood in late twentieth and early twenty-first century USA. Ephron’s reflections invite readers to consider some questions about gender expectations, mortality, and the meaning of personal fulfilment. The edition consulted for this review includes an introduction by Dolly Alderton, whose brief commentary situates Ephron’s work within a contemporary landscape of memoir writing and female-centred nonfiction and reinforces Ephron’s intention to produce a reflective, accessible meditation on aging. While the more superficial essays dwell on trivial routines or domestic inconveniences, others reach moments of genuine insight, revealing an author acutely aware of the impermanence of relationships, youth, and selfhood.

One of the most compelling essays is “Moving On,” in which Ephron reflects on the emotional consequences of a failed relationship. She captures with ability her personal despair into a recognizable sentiment. Here, Ephron acknowledges that endings are natural to life, and that renewal (however delayed) remains possible. In such moments, the collection transcends its surface-level humour and reveals a deeper philosophical layer. Despite having been published almost twenty years ago, the book feels fresh in its reflections on womanhood, ageing, and vulnerability. Its conversational tone and short chapters contribute to an easy reading experience, and although the first half of the book can feel uneven or overly focused on superficial complaints, the closing essays offer a more cohesive, satisfying emotional resonance. It is only as the narrative draws to its conclusion that the overall impression becomes rewarding, when the author turns her attention away from shopping and cosmetic frustrations, her voice acquires clarity and wisdom.

Nevertheless, the memoir’s simplicity, both in its ideas and in its language, limits its impact. Ephron often relies on statements that can be memorable but lack rhetorical depth. For example: “Death is a sniper. It strikes people you love, people you like, people you know, it’s everywhere. You could be next. But then you turn out not to be. But then again you could be” (192). The metaphor is accessible and effective, yet its simplicity borders on the reductive. The accessibility of her prose and her own fame may explain the book’s popularity, but it also contributes to a sense of superficiality. Moreover, there are some aspects of the text that can be perceived as tone-deaf or uncomfortably privileged. Ephron writes openly from the perspective of a wealthy white woman living in New York, and she never interrogates the implications of this position. In one essay, she sees a homeless woman on the street and then proceeds to complain about the costs of her hair and manicure appointments. For a genre typically grounded in vulnerability and self-exposure, these moments feel insulated, making the memoir difficult to relate to for readers outside Ephron’s socio-economic sphere.

Beyond content, Ephron’s stylistic choices occasionally interrupt the reading experience. Her prose is irregular, and she sometimes relies on sudden shifts in tone or, for example, writes full capitalized sentences in the middle of a paragraph (122–123), which gives a childish tone in passages intended as serious reflections. Likewise, the chapter “What I Wish I’d Known” (179) consists of a list of ideas and lessons presented without elaboration or context. These range from domestic advice: “Don’t cover a couch with anything that isn’t more or less beige”, to observations on body image: “This saggy roll just above your waist will be especially visible from the back and will force you to reevaluate half the clothes in your closet, especially white shirts” (182). This last example is particularly dissonant: it evokes a form of prescriptive experience that feels dated, uncritical, and surprisingly conservative, especially coming from a writer often celebrated as a feminist voice. Other statements, such as “You can’t be friends with people who call after 11 pm. Block everyone on your instant mail” (182), feel more like personal quirks than meaningful insights, contributing to the perception that parts of the text lack depth or coherence. At times, the reader can struggle to engage fully with the book. Although marketed as humorous, the memoir’s humour sometimes relies on complaints about the “mandatory maintenance” of women’s ageing bodies, presented almost as unavoidable obligations rather than social constructs worth challenging.

Despite the occasional flashes of critical thinking, the book often feels dull and seems an attempt to collect wisdom but it ends delivering some observations that are bland and undeveloped. In conclusion, I Feel Bad About My Neck offers moments of genuine charm and insight, yet its tone, lack of depth, and its privileged perspective undermines its effectiveness as a memoir. While there are chapters that achieve a compelling blend of humour and vulnerability, others feel trivial which diminishes the overall cohesion of the collection.

2006. Of Islands and Literary Classics: Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones – Núria Pedrós Peró

Edition reviewed: John Murray, 2006

Mister Pip (2006) stands out as the most revered work of New Zealander author Lloyd Jones (b. 1955, Lower Hutt) to date. Winner of the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for best book in Southeast Asia and shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, this poignant literary work embraces Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations through the eyes of Matilda, a Bougainvillean girl whose island is ravaged by civil war. Jones’s historical fiction novel offers a redemptive tale of survival, where storytelling becomes an instrument of resilience and transformation against the ravages of warfare. His novel was the object in 2012 of a film adaptation with Hugh Lurie in the title role.

Set in the early stages of the brutal Bougainville civil war (1988–1998) in Papua New Guinea between islanders and armed soldiers, referred to as “redskins”, Matilda’s small community strives to survive as the men are leaving to fight along the rebels. Mr. Watts, known locally as Pop Eye, the only white man on the island, takes over as the children’s schoolteacher, reading them Great Expectations by Charles Dickens and with it, introducing faith in the interconnectedness of human beings. Matilda becomes fascinated by the discovery of a vast new world, resulting in a parasocial relationship with its protagonist, Pip, who takes on the status of “real people” before Matilda’s eyes, along with the other novel’s characters. Conflict arises when her mother Dolores, disapproving of Mr. Watts’s methods, tries to impose her Christian beliefs, sparking an unspoken rivalry with the boy named Pirrip, whom she assumes to be real. However, when the villagers cannot account for a “Pip” before the redskins, Dickens’ character becomes a symbol of rebellion before the controlling will of the armed forces, and a person made flesh. Amidst violence and harsh surveillance, Matilda’s hope of reuniting with her father in Australia, alongside her imagined companionship with Pip, becomes the key to her rewriting her own story.

Jones’ idea for this novel was to reflect on how disparate communities with diverse cultural backgrounds can find commonality through literature. Matilda and her classmates are constantly baffled when presented with concepts such as a compass or a forge, and are not even close to picturing an accurate image of a subway, which underscores the cultural gulf between their island and Watts’s England. Nevertheless, universal concepts such as orphanhood, guilt and most importantly, redemption, aid Matilda to gain a new-found sense of optimism that “things could change, because they had for Pip” (210). Jones seems to celebrate storytelling as a communal and restorative act that can lead to prosperity and ultimately survival, as when the students help to reconstruct Dickens’ story after their teacher’s copy is burnt in a fire. This collaborative art of retelling is compared to communal fishing by Matilda: “we had done this sort of thing before. In the past, when we still had our nets and lines, we would divide up the catch on the beach” (109), a juxtaposition that clearly relates literature with support and sustenance. Matilda’s evolving relationship with Pip mirrors her journey towards self-definition. By the novel’s end, Matilda finds herself in England, facing the reality that the country is in no way similar to what she had conjured during her early years as Dickens’s reader. However, she no longer surrenders to a foreign narrative but is instead determined to rewrite her own, for survival depends not only on endurance but on reclaiming one’s story.

Yet, no matter how endearing Matilda’s relationship with Mr. Watts is, and how much agency she demonstrates by the end of the novel, it is inevitable not to think of the “white saviour syndrome” when reading Jones’s work. Bougainville, a province in the island, is predominantly inhabited by black people, but the two main figures of the novel, Mr. Watts and Dickens, are white and are indirectly presented as holding superior knowledge over indigenous culture. Matilda tries to anticipate this response in the reader by appealing to her mother’s sharp judgement on Mr. Watts: “She could not see what us kids had come to see: a kind man. She only saw a white man. And white men had stolen her husband and my father” (41), yet this only reinforces the notion that her mother’s intellect is too limited to understand Dickens’s grandeur or Mr. Watts’s secular worldview. The continuous martyrdom Tom Watts suffers, as the representative of an imbalanced power structure which the villagers are fully aware of, is continuously extolled by Matilda, therefore displacing the black narrative. Incongruously, the author assumes that the white man’s perspective transcends racial barriers in a formerly colonised island, and can be presented as universal, thus glossing over Watts’s mistakes under the pretext that he tried to do the best.

Following the same confused train of thought, Matilda’s characterization veers between the adult and the childish and lacks a clear justification for her protagonism. Matilda is singled out to be Mr. Watts’s chosen successor, even though Great Expectations has positively impacted other students beside her. When she acts as Mr. Watts’s translator before the redskins, her sudden command of the English language contradicts her previous faulty usage. Even though the reader is made aware that Matilda is already an educated twenty-year-old by the time the story is narrated, given the multiple references to her future, at times we find traces of her teenage voice. This leads to a naïve overview of the horrors of war that oversimplifies the situation in Bougainville and leads to the perception that the author simply could not decide on the novel’s tone. Ultimately, Matilda’s wavering voice dilutes the emotional weight of the war narrative and exposes the author’s struggle to reconcile childlike innocence with the narrative of atrocity.

In conclusion, Mister Pip invites valuable reflection on the universality of narrative and the capacity of stories to reclaim meaning in a world impacted by war. Nonetheless, the novel cannot fully escape the imprint of the white saviour trope, using Mr. Watts and Dickens as framing figures of white benevolence and vehicles for native enlightenment, thus risking to reinscribe the hierarchies it aims to transcend.

2007. A White Man’s Fantasy: The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill - Mery López Díez

Edition reviewed: Black Swan, 2010

The Book of Negroes is a historical novel by Canadian novelist, essayist, and memoirist Lawrence Hill (b. 1957, Newmarket). It takes its name from the largest single document about Black people in North America up until the end of the eighteenth century. This contains the names and details of two thousand men, women, and children who, after serving in the British lines during the American Revolutionary War, sailed from New York to different British colonies seeking freedom. Despite its historical relevance, the title was not accepted in countries such as the USA, Australia, and New Zealand, in which the book was published as Someone Knows My Name.

Hill’s novel tells the story of Aminata Diallo. This opens in 1802 London, where she narrates her life at the behest of the abolitionist party. She was once a child from the village of Bayo (nowadays in the area of Mali) who was kidnapped at age 11 by African slave traders and brought to South Carolina to be enslaved. The novel spans roughly from 1745 to the early 1790s, tracing her lifelong journey across West Africa to the Americas and then back to Africa. We first meet a young girl whose coming-of-age story unfolds in the worst possible circumstances. At the same time, reading about Aminata in her mid-seventies, we see a strong and wise woman who has survived, offering a glimpse of hope in the narrative. As the book’s title suggests, the American Revolutionary War and the Canadian ledger with the Black persons’ names also play prominent roles in the story, situating Aminata’s personal journey within broader historical forces familiar to the reader.

One of the strongest features in The Book of Negroes is Hill’s ability to write complex, rich, and nuanced characters. Aminata stands out as a strong, enduring, and brilliant character. What is more, her sharp intellect encourages the reader to engage in debate about the injustices she faces, even in her village. Aminata reflects thus on her early observations of social roles: “I remember wondering, within a year or two of taking my first steps, why only men sat to drink tea and converse, and why women were always busy. I reasoned that men were weak and needed rest” (42). There are several well-written, well-rounded, and equally vivid characters. Chekura, the boy she meets during the horrors of the Middle Passage, first works with the traders but then becomes a symbol of loyalty, resilience, and emotional support. Other characters, such as Solomon Lindo, offer a morally intricate compass, portraying the complexity of human behaviour and the ability to subdue the self and evolve; they are all drawn with moral ambiguity and emotional realism, avoiding the trap of idealized heroes or flat villains.

During her lifelong journey, Aminata crosses paths with many endearing characters whom she then loses, reinforcing the novel’s quiet, persistent grief. She claims that they were “like phantom limbs, lost but still attached to me, gone but still painful” (416). Aminata’s psychological endurance constantly resonates with questions of identity, memory, and survival, and many of the topics Hill treats are echoes of the current history of Black communities. The journey itself is written with great accuracy. Bayo, the plantation, the chaos of revolutionary New York, the bleakness and impoverishment of Nova Scotia, and the fragility of the Sierra Leone settlement are all described with enormous detail and historical accuracy. This attention to place connects the novel to today’s efforts to recover and honour African diasporic histories, highlighting their importance in current conversations about migration, belonging, and cultural resilience. “This ‘map of Africa’,” Aminata complains, “was not my homeland, it was a white man’s fantasy” (240).

Another notable strength of the novel lies in Hill’s control of the narrative structure. By exploring the duality between Aminata’s childhood experiences and her reflections as an elderly woman recounting her life, the text creates a complex back-and-forth perspective. By establishing that she survives into old age, Hill offers a sense of control and hope that shows how memory reshapes trauma. The plot remains engaging, even as it spans many tough decades, while the historical setting is of great importance in unexpected ways; the American Revolutionary War, for instance, is not presented solely through its famous battles but also in the context of the Black Loyalists negotiating freedom and identity. Dialogue is another strong element; a range of diverse registers of English, from African dialects and plantation speech to Loyalist rhetoric and abolitionist discourse, are employed, providing linguistic texture and cultural specificity without falling into caricature. Although fictional, the novel challenges dominant narratives of slavery and the American Revolution by giving voice to historical figures who weren’t as prominent in historical records (like the abolitionist and British reformer Thomas Clarkson). This, along with writing passages of the real The Book of Negroes, strengthens the text’s credibility and impact and shows how meticulously Hill prepared to tell such a compelling story.

To conclude, Hill’s The Book of Negroes is a powerful, rough, and beautifully written novel that combines historical depth with emotional intensity. Its compelling characters, vivid settings, and thoughtful structure produce a moving and informative story. I highly recommend it to readers interested in historical fiction who intend to learn a bit more about slavery and the recent history of African Americans; however, it is important to mention that depictions of rape, abuse, and violence are described in detail and might trigger certain readers. Despite its crude themes, the novel ultimately offers a message of resilience, hope, and the enduring strength of the human spirit, leaving an impression long after the final page.

2007. Gut-Wrenching Love: André Aciman’s Call Me by Your Name – Noèlia Rodriguez Villanueva

Edition reviewed: Atlantic Books, 2019

Call Me by Your Name is a coming-of-age novel published in 2007 by Italian American author André Aciman (b. 1951, Alexandria, Egypt), also a professor at the Graduate Centre of the City University of New York. In 2008, the novel became the recipient of a Lambda Literary Award for Fiction, the awards honouring queer and LGBTQ+ literature. The success of the novel was further boosted after the acclaimed film adaptation by Luca Guadagnino of 2017, starring Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer. In 2023, however, Call Me by Your Name was found controversial for its explicit sexual content and banned in school districts on Florida and Alaska. Aciman published the sequel novel Find Me in 2019. Other works by the author are Eight White Nights (2010) and the memoir Out of Egypt (1994).

The Italian Riviera during the mid-1980s, the frantic rattle of the cicadas, the sun pouring down rays like gold. Every summer, Elio’s parents welcome young academics to their villa to help them amend their manuscripts in exchange for organising the paperwork of his father, an archaeology professor. The guests also get to live a bit of a contemplative life during the vacation, engaging in the summer activities of the village: sunbathing, reading, swimming, or dancing in La Piazzetta. On his seventeenth summer, Elio lends his bedroom to a tall, handsome, American student named Oliver, a 24-year-old graduate expert on Heraclitus, while he settles in the smaller room next door. During Oliver’s brief stay, Elio experiences the flourishing emotions of a first-time love, infatuated not only by the appearance of the young scholar, but also by his accent, manners, and mind. The protagonist endures an emotional turmoil shaped by a sharp self-awareness intertwined with the delusional traits of a naïve, unexperienced teenager becoming an adult.

Aciman achieves a beautifully written lyrical evocation of intense passion and erotic desire, exploring the psychological effects that Elio undergoes when falling in love during budding youth. With its first-person narration, the novel focuses on unravelling Elio’s consciousness instead of recounting the events, depicting with precision the process of reconciliation with his emerging overpowering feelings. Desire collides with secrecy and shame, as much as with fear of not knowing if Oliver feels the same. Elio’s tangled mind illustrates the instability of attempting to settle the power dynamics of a secret homosexual relationship, shifting from abatement to tension, to servitude and need to please to an excessive yearning. The romance is complicated by the age gap between the protagonists, a notion of which Elio remains acutely aware by acknowledging how Oliver wields profound influence on him, and consequently, on their dynamics. There is a notorious contrast in maturity, remarked by Oliver’s confidence, yet hesitation and caution, and Elio’s vulnerability and withdrawal. However, the author addresses the ethical implications without restraint, as the atmosphere in the villa is liberal and so are Elio’s emotionally supportive parents. The age difference becomes a tool for the formative experience of Elio, although it should be deemed controversial.

Aciman creates in Elio a brilliant teenager, cultured in music, language, literature, and art, which allows the narration to soar above other more basic similar stories. For instance, Elio echoes the visions prior to death of the poet Percy Shelley—who drowned near the Italian coast—as a metaphor for his sleepless nights: “sleep would not come, but two troubling thoughts, like paired specters materializing out of the fog of sleep, stood watch over me: desire and shame” (107). However, brilliant as he is, Elio is deluded by his daydreaming habits anticipating Oliver’s thoughts and their future together. His self-awareness and capacity for deep introspection also condemn him to overanalyse the subtleties of gestures, changes of tone, and to second-guess the words used, keeping his mind spinning. Elio feels with his whole body the consequences of longing for love. “Is it better to speak or to die?” (63), he wonders. Aciman resolves to merge the internal fantasy with reality in the lovers’ dialogues, when Elio’s thoughts are materialised into words and break the unspoken understanding with Oliver, to reveal a connection, a shared, spoken plea. The poignant reflective final chapters give the novel an excruciating, gut-wrenching sense of pain, plunging the readers deeper into Elio’s consciousness, as the novel ponders on the universal topics of time, memory, and loss. Elio’s reminiscence of the events of that summer are lived as immediately present, shedding light on the vivid image left in his head by that one love he experienced. Certain relationships shape us long after they end. Certain memories remain lingering in places, in smells, in the colours of summer.

In conclusion, Call Me by Your Name is a novel widely recommended for its perfect articulation of passion and confusion felt in the tender age, the handling of nostalgia and the bittersweet passage of time. In this intense love treaty, the queer community is granted a voice to expose the complexities of homosexual love relationships, though this is a novel for all (unprejudiced) readers.

2008. Authenticity, Ambiguity, and Intimacy: Exploring Love, Hope, and Political Oppression in John Berger’s From A to X – Clàudia Puelma Jové

Edition reviewed: Verso Books, 2025

From A to X: A Story in Letters, published in 2008, is a novel written by English author John Berger, who was born in London on 5 November 1926, and died in France on 2 January 2017 at the age of ninety. Besides being a talented experimental novelist, Berger was also an acclaimed art critic, painter, and poet. He is the author of highly influential works, especially within the field of art, such as the 1972 television series and its complementary collection of essays, Ways of Seeing. Berger was the winner of the 1972 Booker Prize for his novel G. whereas From A to X was long-listed for the same prestigious award.

From A to X: A Story in Letters, as the title suggests, is essentially a story about lovers A’ida and Xavier written entirely in epistolary form: the novel is composed of A’ida’s letters to Xavier, who has been “accused of being a founder member of a terrorist network, and (is) serving two life sentences” (1). In her letters, A’ida writes about daily life and the ordinary experiences of the inhabitants of the fictional town of Suse, set in an unnamed country under military and economic oppression. Through the collection of A’ida’s letters and what Xavier occasionally writes at their back, Berger depicts a community struggling to survive and find hope amid political oppression, while simultaneously offering a critical vision of the political forces that constrain their lives.

Conventional plotting is practically inexistent in From A to X. Instead, the content of the novel prioritises more abstract concepts and non-chronological elements: A’ida’s thoughts, her shared memories with Xavier, narrations of daily life in their town, her personal experiences and stories, alongside those of friends and neighbours, and essentially everything that A’ida decides to share in her letters. Through the use of scattered, non-chronologically arranged letters, Berger not only succeeds in redirecting the focus from action to reflection and retrospection but also fills this brief novel, told in equally brief letters, with immense meaning and emotional density. Furthermore, the prevailing themes in From A to X make it feel both relatable and universal, as well as authentic. The novel explores how humanity perseveres in the midst of darkness and despair: hope and resistance coexist with hopelessness, misery, and political repression, which can always be felt in the background even if they are barely mentioned by A’ida, who instead tries to stay positive at all times (except for a couple of letters, especially the unsent ones, in which her anger and pain are explicit). Another technique that makes From A to X feel more realistic, almost as if it were non-fiction, is Berger’s own inclusion within the narrative, which consequently disrupts the boundary between fiction and reality. Right at the beginning of the novel, there is a section where the author, or at least someone with the same name, slightly misguides the reader by claiming to be the one who retrieved A’ida’s letters to Xavier from his prison cell. Therefore, the story is introduced as if the characters were real people who experienced real events.

Berger adopts names and expressions from different languages, ranging from English to Spanish and Arabic, as seen in A’ida’s variable use of terms of endearment including “Mi Guapo, Mi Soplete, my Kanadim, Ya Nour” (21). By refusing to locate the story in a specific country with a specific language, the author is suggesting that the events that take place in the story are not unique and could happen anywhere, providing a sense of universality. Therefore, vagueness and ambiguity become central techniques which dominate the story and further contribute to its authenticity. Berger deliberately omits contextual information regarding A’ida and Xavier and instead sublimates what is actually happening through vague language and metaphors that allude to unspoken activities, cherishing secrecy, a choice continuously reflected in A’ida’s own words that “so much happens in silence” (51) and that “secretiveness is a virtue, often indispensable” (83). This includes potentially illuminating details such as the real reasons behind Xavier’s imprisonment, and what A’ida is really doing besides trying to live a normal life, which are implied, though never confirmed, by Berger himself in the introductory section. However, while partly withholding information encourages reflection and personal interpretation, this evident lack of context creates limitations to fully understand the story and getting to know its protagonists, sometimes making it a challenging read.

In conclusion, From A to X: A Story in Letters is an exceptionally accomplished experimental novel that explores love, humanity, and hope and resistance against political oppression. Furthermore, because of his decision to employ an unconventional way of storytelling through A’ida’s one-sided letters to Xavier, Berger both favours intimacy and emotional depth as well as authenticity and ambiguity. Ultimately, although the excess of vagueness can occasionally feel disorienting, Berger invites readers to reflect on the novel’s extremely profound themes.

2008. Rediscovering Self and Happiness in Sophie Kinsella’s Remember Me? – Marina Alsina Ferrando

Edition reviewed: Black Swan, 2008

Madeleine Sophie Wickham, better known by her pen name Sophie Kinsella, was born on December 12, 1969, in Wandsworth, England. She wrote her first novel, The Tennis Party, under her real name while working as a financial journalist. Kinsella first appeared on the UK bestseller lists in September 2000 with The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic, her debut novel in her highly popular Shopaholic series. The novel was later adapted for the big screen in 2009 as Disney’s movie Confessions of a Shopaholic. Remember Me?, published on February 14, 2008, is a well-known chick-lit fiction novel that explores a romantic relationship from the perspective of a thirty-year-old female main character. It became a New York Times Bestseller in late 2008, ranking at number two on the Hardcover Fiction list and number 1 on the Wall Street Journal Hardcover Fiction Bestseller list. Although it was not awarded any major literary prizes, Kinsella’s novel turned out to be a significant commercial success.

While exploring themes of identity, change, and romance, Remember Me? follows the story of Lexi Smart, who suffers a car accident that leaves her unable to recall the last three years of her life. She has amnesia, and the last thing she remembers is a night out with her friends. Yet when she wakes up in the hospital, she quickly discovers that everything has changed. She is no longer a twenty-five-year-old junior assistant manager. Instead, she now runs her former department, has new friends and a personal assistant, sticks to a carb-free diet, and is married to a millionaire. The novel centres on Lexi’s journey to piece together her life and try to understand how it has changed so dramatically in just three years.

One of the strongest features of Remember Me? is its ability to immerse readers in the story through its entertaining, fast-paced, and engaging narrative. Kinsella’s ability to highlight the complex challenges of recovering from a serious condition such as amnesia, while incorporating humour and romantic scenes, is admirable. This is portrayed from the moment Lexi wakes up in the hospital and struggles to connect with a life she no longer remembers. The narrative captures her disorientation and uncertainty, as when she comments after her family’s visit that “They continue bickering, but I don’t hear them any more. I’m staring at the newspaper print, until it jumps about in front of my eyes. That’s why nothing made sense. It’s not Mum who’s confused—it’s me” (40). The fact that the novel is narrated by Lexi enables readers to empathise with her confusion, surprise, and frustration at the same time she learns new information about her life and tries to understand the decisions she made during those years. She fails to grasp why she has become so career-centred, or why her marriage is not as good as she believed it to be, or why she lost her lifelong best friend. Furthermore, the emotional impact extends beyond Lexi, allowing readers to sympathise with those around her, especially her husband, Eric. He has carefully created a detailed manual explaining their two-year marriage, and he experiences both hope and disappointment when his efforts to help Lexi recover her memory fail.

The narrative also explores the idea that having money does not inherently guarantee happiness, emphasizing that what we believe we want in life is not always what will truly fulfil us. The novel challenges this assumption through Lexi, who comes from a humble background and finds herself married to a millionaire. After waking up in the hospital and discovering her luxurious life, Lexi assumes that she has the life she has always dreamed of. However, as the novel progresses, she slowly notices that she does not love Eric, nor does he love her. Their seemingly glamorous marriage is emotionally empty, and being the boss turns out to be less exciting than she thought. This can be seen during Lexi’s conversations with Jon, her secret lover and a friend of Eric’s, who reminds her that she was far from happy during those years: “‘You once said to me, if you could go back in time and do everything differently, you would. (…) “With everything. Yourself… your job… Eric… Everything looks different when the gloss is gone’” (378). It is remarkable that Lexi has forgotten precisely the three years in which she felt less happy. Deep down, Lexi understands that this posh, successful version of herself is not aligned with who she truly is. As she pieces together her past, she learns to value authenticity, meaningful relationships, and emotional fulfilment over wealth, luxury, and professional status.

In conclusion, Sophie Kinsella’s Remember Me? is a thoughtful and emotionally engaging novel. Through Lexi’s journey of relearning her own life, Kinsella not only delivers an entertaining narrative but also offers a captivating exploration of identity, the true meaning of happiness, and the challenges associated with amnesia. I highly recommend this novel not only to readers who enjoy contemporary romance but also to those who appreciate stories that explore real-life struggles and personal growth.

2008. Here Comes Everybody by Clay Shirky: A Landmark Analysis of Digital Collective Action – Judit García Cimas

Edition reviewed: The Penguin Press, 2008

Here Comes Everybody: The Power of Organizing Without Organizations by Clay Shirky presents readers with an analysis of how digital technologies reshape group formation and collective action. Shirky (b. New York, 1964) is widely known for talking about the social implications of the internet, having taught at New York University and contributed to debates on digital culture and online communities. While the book has not received major literary awards, it is considered a crucial work in discussions about the changes brought about when creating a social organization nowadays. This non-fiction book combines elements of analytical reportage, sociology, and media theory, considering the organisational possibilities created by platforms such as blogs, wikis, and social networks. Ultimately, Shirky presents a compelling exploration of how technological shifts restructure human cooperation in ways that challenge long-established institutional models.

The book is an essay which develops a sustained argument supported by case studies. Shirky’s central claim is that digital tools have dramatically reduced the cost of coordination, allowing groups to form without traditional hierarchical structures. The opening anecdote, which is about the recovery of a lost phone through online mobilisation, exemplifies this. From there, Shirky moves through a range of examples such as Wikipedia’s collaborative infrastructure, Flickr’s user-generated content, open-source software communities, and civic action during political crisis. His tripartite model of a “promise, tool, and bargain” (261) establishes a framework to explain why certain online collectives succeed. The promise attracts participants, the tool facilitates action, and the bargain establishes shared expectations. The book reflects on darker uses of the same mechanisms, reminding the reader that these technologies are neutral with respect to morality. Whereas not predicting every current digital phenomenon, Shirky anticipates many dynamics of the 2010s, including decentralised activism and the erosion of institutionalisation of digital processes.

One of the book’s clearest strengths lies in its ability to render abstract concepts both intelligible and compelling. Shirky’s argument about the reversal of traditional group logic, shifting from “gather, then share” into “share, then gather” (35), is a persuasive reinterpretation of online behaviour. He demonstrates that the spontaneous emergence of communities around shared content is not an accident, but a phenomenon enabled by digital platforms. This reconfiguration of the sequence has implications; for instance, groups can be formed rapidly, fluidly, and without institutional sponsorship. His explanation of Wikipedia’s editorial norms illustrates how decentralised systems are capable of achieving remarkably stability; as the author writes: “The process is more like creating a coral reef, the sum of millions of actions, than creating a car” (122), where people contribute individually; to this date, after 25 years, Wikipedia remains active as a viable internet source. Another strength is Shirky’s use of concrete, well-chosen narratives. His detailed story of the anti-Mugabe protests in Zimbabwe and others in Belarus shows how social networks, even in repressive contexts, can facilitate coordination that would previously have been impossible. These anecdotes are not just illustrative, rather, they work as histories of digital culture. Additionally, Shirky writes with clarity and precision, avoiding jargon while maintaining formality and sticking to the facts of the stories. His narrative is accessible yet intellectually engaging, making the book valuable for both specialists and a broader readership.

However, the same strengths point to a further issue that lies in the book’s limited engagement with structural inequality. Shirky frequently implies that “everybody” or “anybody” now has access to organizational power, offering little examination of the socioeconomic, educational or geographical inequalities that shape digital participation. His assertion that “anyone in the developed world can publish anything anytime” (71) does not address the fact that the access to technology, digital literacy, and stable connectivity is far from universal as there are still inequalities. Groups most in need of organizational power may lack the resources to benefit from these tools, while already privileged communities can use them more effectively. Despite this shortcoming stated above, Here Comes Everybody: The Power of Organizing Without Organizations remains a highly influential book for thinking about collective action in today’s digital age. Its focus falls especially on the idea that lowered coordination costs unlock inaccessible forms of social organisation, but continues to inform debates across media and humanity studies. Whereas it should not be treated as exhaustive or predictive, the volume reframes fundamental questions such as who participates in these groups and how these groups are governed. Shirky’s work invites such questions, even when it does not fully address them explicitly.

In conclusion, Here Comes Everybody: The Power of Organizing Without Organizations is an engaging exploration of a society in transition. It should be read critically but appreciatively, as a work that articulates a meaningful conceptual shift while leaving space for more nuanced and theoretical analyses. For readers interested in digital culture, collective behaviour, or the evolution of public participation in today’s digital era, the book remains recommended as a rich, useful and rewarding resource.

2008. The Accumulation of Testimony: Memory, Power, and Mercy in Sebastian Barry’s The Secret Scripture – Daixing Cao

Edition reviewed: Faber and Faber, 2008

Sebastian Barry’s 2008 The Secret Scripture arrived with the quiet authority of a writer who had been tending one imaginative territory for decades. Set in the west of Ireland and written in alternating first-person strands, The Secret Scripture revisits Barry’s long preoccupation with the private costs of public history: who gets believed, who is filed away, and how a life is edited by church, state, and rumour. The book won the Costa Book of the Year and was shortlisted for the Man Booker, but its true distinction is tonal—a lyric steadiness that refuses both bitterness and easy consolation.

The architecture of The Secret Scripture is elegantly simple and morally tricky: two manuscripts grow toward each other. In a soon-to-close psychiatric hospital, centenarian Roseanne McNulty keeps a clandestine memoir, addressed to no one and everyone; in parallel, her clinician, Dr. William Grene, compiles professional notes that begin to swell into a private inquiry. Roseanne writes to rescue the texture of her days from official language; Grene writes to see whether official language can bear the weight of a person’s whole life. The counterpoint—memory against archive, self-story against case file—creates a chamber where statements echo with doubt. The novel’s procedural surface (interviews, searches, parish registers) is not detective fiction so much as a study in how a testimony ripens, curdles, and sometimes vindicates itself.

Barry prefers thresholds: doorways, quaysides, rain-varnished roads. A priest’s visit that will not end; a young couple walking the town’s edge with the caution of hunted creatures; a hospital corridor where daylight makes every scuff look deliberate. Roseanne’s pages hold the poise of someone who has learned that a certain kind of calm makes survival possible. She records how power masquerades as care: a cleric who speaks of decency while narrowing her future to a single, punitive path; neighbours whose kindness comes with a ledger. Grene’s sections are built from small courtesies—the kettle, the drive, the patience of a notebook—but under them runs a grief he has not diagnosed in himself. As he moves between interviews and church attics, he begins to hear the institutional music of the last century: the sentence pronounced as “treatment,” the exile renamed “protection.” The novel’s velocity is moral rather than plotty; pages turn because a reader wants to know whether language, handled carefully enough, can restore a person to herself.

At its strongest, the book shows how “madness” can be socially manufactured when a woman’s place becomes administratively more convenient than humanly complicated. Barry won’t caricature villains—priests and doctors here act within a logic that once looked like virtue to them—but he is clear-eyed about what that logic ruins. Memory, for Roseanne, is both refuge and risk: to write is to break the seal on injuries that have kept her alive by being half-forgotten. For Grene, the archive is a mirror; his case notes slowly admit their own part in a system that confuses record-keeping with justice. The doubleness is beautifully handled. Roseanne’s prose has a sea-light shimmer, often lifting ordinary things—bread, weather, a streetlamp—into sacrament; Grene’s voice is drier, a prose of stairs and files, yet when it warms, the warmth means something. The novel understands, too, how shame survives institutions: even after laws change, a community’s posture can remain policed by the memory of being policed. What remains is whether such careful attention can bear the shock of the novel’s final turn.

Readers split on the late reveal that stitches Roseanne and Grene together. For some it is an earned mercy; for others, a pattern pressed onto unruly lives. Either way, Barry leads us there with unshowy craft: steady tempo, lucid sentences, and a refusal to belittle anyone on the page. Reviewers at the time praised that clarity and fairness—even toward those who fail others. The real risk is scope: one woman’s file is asked to carry a century’s weight. Barry softens that by keeping faith with rooms, ledgers, and voices—the grain of living—so the world feels witnessed rather than argued.

This is, finally, a novel about who holds the story of a life, and how that story might be given back. It neither prosecutes the past nor excuses it. Instead it offers something plainer and harder: patient attention, accurate naming, and kindness that does not smudge the facts. The closing pages extend mercy without sugarcoating and tell the truth without spectacle. On those terms, The Secret Scripture is easy to recommend.

2008. Laughing Through the Chaos: Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher – Lluna Heredia González

Edition reviewed: Pocket Books, 2009

Published in 2008 Wishful Drinking is a resiliently funny memoir by the iconic Carrie Fisher (1956-2016). Born in Beverly Hills, California, Fisher is best known for her iconic role as Princess Leia in the worldwide renowned Star Wars franchise; However she also established a powerful legacy as a sharp-witted author. This text was adapted from her acclaimed one-woman stage show, creating a genre bending narrative that blends stand-up comedy with autobiography. The audio edition of this book earned a Grammy Award nomination for Best Spoken Word Album in 2009, proving literally the importance of the author’s voice.

Carrie Fisher’s memoir Wishful Drinking offers a sarcastic yet compelling account of celebrity culture framed through the chaotic circumstances of her own life. Rather than following a conventional autobiographical narrative, Fisher assembles key episodes from her Hollywood upbringing, from being the daughter of Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher to her abrupt ascent to global fame as Princess Leia, to examine how public identity can distort private experience. She recounts the sensationalized dissolution of her parents’ marriage when her father left her mother to marry Elizabeth Taylor, the complexities of living within a blended family, and the pressures that accompanied early stardom. Fisher also addresses her struggles with addiction and bipolar disorder, approaching the subjects with characteristic wit while refusing to diminish their seriousness. The book is an overall map of how she negotiated her fame, illness, and personal loss, all while offering a self-aware reflection on survival and the absurdity of a life lived under constant public scrutiny.

The main merit of Wishful Drinking lies in Fisher’s ability to reclaim agency over a life that was largely public property. The text is effective, not merely as a memoir but as a sociological deconstruction of celebrity culture, where she positions herself as both the specimen and the scientist. She addresses her “nepo baby” status with stinging clarity, describing her existence as the inevitable result of “Hollywood inbreeding” where the blurred lines between reality and performance made a normal childhood impossible. Fisher confronts the abnormalities of her life, particularly her dual diagnosis of bipolar disorder and drug addiction, with a refusal to elicit pity. She articulates the chaos of her mental state and the subsequent public judgment noting the surreal nature of her fame. “I’m a PEZ dispenser and I’m in the abnormal Psychology textbook,” Fisher writes, “Who says you can’t have it all?” (114). This rhetorical question underscores the absurdity of living under constant social scrutiny, where her likeness was commercialized while her personal struggles were tabloid fodder. Ultimately, the memoir’s main strength lies in its demonstration of humour as a vital coping mechanism. Fisher argues that comedy is the only way to neutralize trauma, famously asserting “If my life wasn’t funny it would just be true, and that is unacceptable” (17). By transforming her pain into punchlines, she does not diminish the tragedy, instead she survives it. Carrie Fisher offers a narrative that celebrates resilience through wit and the grounding force of love.

One of the most striking aspects of the book is how effortlessly relatable it is, despite the heavy subject matters it confronts. Fisher’s pacing is sharp and lively, making the memoir feel intimate, as though she is speaking directly to the reader. The inclusion of images, family trees, and playful diagrams not only enhances the humour but also helps the audience follow the unbelievably tangled dynamics of her life. These visuals give shape to her chaos, allowing readers to grasp instantly what words alone might complicate. What makes the book so affecting is its ability to make you laugh out loud in moments that objectively are tragic; yet by the end, it becomes clear that is Fisher’s survival mechanism, and laughing with her feels almost like an act of solidarity. Although Fisher writes about not feeling normal, the memoir makes her deeply relatable. Her experience with addiction, her candid discussion of electroconvulsive therapy and the resulting memory loss, and her life as a single mother with an absent father pull her out of the realm of the untouchable Princess Leia and ground her firmly in human vulnerability. She does not linger excessively on details, which works in the book’s favour, whether because of her fragmented memory or her belief that we do not need every piece of information to understand her pain. What Carrie Fisher offers is enough. Ultimately, the bravery with which she exposes her tragedies, refusing to mask or glamorize them, is what makes this memoir not only engaging but genuinely admirable.

In conclusion, Wishful Drinking is a candid, witty, and unexpectedly moving memoir that showcases Carrie Fisher’s resilience and brilliant narrative voice. I would strongly recommend it to anyone interested in celebrity culture, mental health, or simply a powerful personal story. Its honest words make it an unforgettable read.

2009. A Story We Thought We Knew: Teen Depression, Media Spectacle, and the Lessons Unlearned in Dave Cullen's Columbine – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

Edition reviewed: Twelve, 2024 (e-book)

American journalist and non-fiction author Dave Cullen (b. Chicago, 1961), known for his investigative reporting on school shootings in the United States, published Columbine in 2009 after nearly a decade of research. The book quickly became a milestone in contemporary non-fiction, earning the prestigious Edgar Award for Best Fact Crime Book and later inspiring a stage play adaptation: a one-act play entitled The Library, a testament to the work's narrative power and cultural impact. This 25th anniversary Memorial Edition expands the original with a new preface, updated material, educational guides, and a deeply moving afterword, reframing the tragedy for readers almost three decades later. The author's goal is not merely to recount the events, but to dismantle the mythology surrounding the shooting. Originally titled The Other Columbine, he explains, “there are two versions of the attack: what actually happened on April 20, and the story we all accepted in 1999” (n.p.). This distinction sets the foundation for a work that is as rigorous as it is disturbing, revealing how a community—and a nation—misunderstood one of its most defining tragedies.

Structurally, Columbine is ambitious. Instead of following a strict chronological order, Cullen alternates between the timeline of the shooting and the years leading up to it, while later chapters follow the aftermath and consequences for the victims and the community. The plot revolves around the reconstruction of the events of April 20, 1999, when Eric Harris, eighteen, and Dylan Klebold, seventeen, entered Columbine High School armed with guns and homemade explosives. Their original plan—a large-scale bombing intended to kill hundreds—failed when the explosives did not detonate. What followed was a horrifying, improvised shooting spree that lasted less than an hour but resulted in thirteen deaths and more than twenty injured casualties, ending with the perpetrators’ suicides in the school library. By combining this chronology with its psychological background, institutional failures, and several testimonies, Cullen offers not just an intricate retelling of the massacre but a comprehensive portrait of how it developed, why it happened, and how a community was permanently changed by it. The book is supported by an extraordinary amount of documentation: reports from the FBI and the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, journals and videos belonging to the perpetrators, testimonies from survivors as well as interviews conducted over a decade. The appendices, notes, and extensive bibliography provide academic weight to the work and demonstrate Cullen's commitment to transparency and rigor. Furthermore, the inclusion of a “Teacher's Guide” and “Reading Group Guide” reflects how widely the book is used in American high schools and universities, consolidating its cultural and educational significance.

One of the greatest strengths, if not the best, of Columbine is the clarity with which Cullen strips the misinformation that dominated public discourse in 1999. The book is a forensic dismantling of the media spectacle that surrounded the shooting. At one point, Cullen writes: “Spectacle murder is all about TV” (379), a line that captures the sensationalist rush that generated erroneous narratives—stories of bullying, “Trench Coat Mafia” conspiracies, revenge fantasies, and satanic cults. Cullen systematically demonstrates how these myths and fake stories eclipsed the truth and shaped public opinion for years. This bold critique of journalism is one of the most powerful elements of the book, exposing how trauma and tragedy can be distorted when treated through the appetite for spectacle. Yet Columbine is not merely a correction of media errors; it is also a thorough psychological study. Chapter 40, “Psychopath”, stands out as the focal point of the book. Based upon significant scholarly research, Cullen explains the “dyad phenomenon”, a pattern in which mass-murder pairs are driven by an asymmetric dynamic: “an angry, erratic depressive and a sadistic psychopath (that) make a combustible pair” (244). This distinction between Eric Harris, whom experts identify as a true psychopath, and Dylan Klebold, a severely depressed and suicidal teenager, is crucial to understanding the attack. Cullen's analysis rejects the assumption that the two boys were equally responsible or that they shared identical motivations.

Another remarkable strength of the book is its empathetic portrayal of the victims, who are neither romanticized nor reduced to symbolic figures. Cullen avoids sentimentalism, offering instead a respectful approach that conveys the lasting impact of grief, trauma, and recovery. The narratives of survivors, families, teachers, police officers, and community members form a variety of voices, experiences and perspectives that elevates the book beyond simple reportage or retelling. In its later sections, the “Afterword” of the 2010 Paperback Edition, included in the 25th Memorial Edition, Cullen traces the lives of those affected in the years following the tragedy and provides one of the most powerful emotional conclusions. Among its most memorable moments is the story of a mother of a victim who eventually forgave the families of the perpetrators—a gesture of humanity and reconciliation that combines reflection, sorrow, and introspection in a way that feels both honest and profound. The “Preface” to the 25th Memorial Edition also adds historical context by updating the legacy of Columbine through 2024. Cullen reflects on how the shooting's impact has been baptized as the “Columbine effect”, influencing a generation of shooter copycats who saw Columbine as an inspiration, and becoming a reference point in debates about mental health and gun violence. Another central contribution of this book is found in the “Epilogue: Apocalyptic Dreams”, with its insistence on reframing the national conversation around prevention. Cullen writes: “The burning question used to be ‘why?’ It has evolved to 'what can we do?'” (386) This shift demonstrates Columbine's larger purpose: moving the discussion from speculation to action. More importantly, Cullen positions teen depression as the most important—and most neglected—lesson of the tragedy. In a particularly compelling passage, he argues teen depression is “the great unlearned lesson of Columbine” (387). Thus, the book becomes, by its conclusion, a call for early intervention, mental-health education, and systemic change within schools.

Despite its many strengths, the book is not without weaknesses. Certain chapters dedicated to the involvement of local churches can feel slower and less engaging compared to the psychological or investigative sections. The structural fragmentation, though effective, occasionally breaks narrative flow, especially when shifting abruptly between timelines or testimonies. Additionally, while Cullen talks briefly about gun control—stating “we have obviously failed on guns” (387)—some readers may find the discussion too restrained or limiting, calling for a more explicit rather than implicit critique of the topic. Cullen justifies this through his role as a messenger rather than a polemicist, yet the brevity of his treatment may leave an impression of incompleteness. Finally, the emotional and narrative focus on the Klebold family is noticeably fuller than that on the Harris family, creating a slight imbalance in characterization. Nevertheless, these limitations do not diminish the book's overall achievement. Columbine remains a turning point in contemporary non-fiction—a rigorous reconstruction of one of the most misunderstood events in recent American history. It succeeds not only in correcting myths but in offering a thoughtful reflection on trauma, grief, psychology, media coverage, and institutional failure. Cullen's decade-long commitment, which he admits caused him several episodes of depression during the research process, reinforces the intensity and authenticity of the work.

In conclusion, Columbine is an exemplary piece of investigative non-fiction: raw, haunting, and necessary. Its narrative combination of psychological insight and documentary precision makes it one of the definitive depictions of the tragedy. The 25th Memorial Edition enriches the original text with new perspectives, offering both updated context and deeply human reflections on forgiveness and resilience. Cullen's work stands as a reminder not only of what happened on April 20, 1999, but of the questions we must keep asking—and the lessons we have yet to fully learn.

2009. The Enthralling Folklore of Michael Crummey’s Galore – Irina Xicota Guasch

Edition reviewed: Doubleday Canada, 2009

Galore is Canadian writer Michael Crummey’s third novel. Born in 1965 in Buchans (in Newfoundland and Labrador), his work often draws inspiration from the landscapes and history of this Canadian province. Crummey’s work ranges from poetry to historical prose and has earned him several awards, such as the RBC Bronwen Wallace Award for Emerging Writers and the Dublin Literary Award. In Galore, the author explores his recurring themes related to his native land in a family saga spanning two centuries. This novel, both historical fiction and magical realism, has been awarded the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Book, Caribbean & Canada as well as the Canadian Authors Association Literary Award.

Galore is set in the fictional towns of Paradise Deep and the Gut, on the island of Newfoundland. The novel begins with the arrival of Judah, an ageless mute man found inside the belly of a whale stranded on the shore of Paradise Deep. After the matriarch of the Devine family, Devine’s Widow, cuts the man free from his prison, he is adopted by the Devines. This unusual event sets the tone for a bewildering narrative in which the lives of the citizens of Paradise Deep and the Gut are explored across time, with a focus on the intertwined lives of the Devines and the Sellers, two families whose destinies seem to be inextricable. Throughout the non-linear narration, the reader gets to know six different generations of these families, as well as other characters from the villages, the circumstances that dictate their fates and the ways in which they make sense of their reality through religion, politics and most importantly, folklore.

Crummey’s writing manages to capture the reader from the outset through his poetic prose and his fantastic yet realistic worldbuilding, in which the harshness of life in such a remote location is delightfully mixed with otherworldly events that become seamlessly incorporated in a narration that never ceases to appear true to life. In Galore, it matters little whether the storyline is believable, since the novel is concerned with the folk tales that shape a community and how these persist throughout the emergence and faltering of other convictions. The novel explores how the towns change throughout the years as different branches of Christianity gain power, industrialization begins to grow or prosperity fluctuates depending on the diverse natural and economic contexts. However, their folklore never ceases to be central in the way in which they understand themselves and operate their lives. The different generations of Devines and Sellers learn to navigate their own individuality while never being free of the cyclical connections that weave each generation of the families together. The Irish Catholic Devines are a working family from the Gut, while the English Protestant Sellers constitute the main proprietors of Paradise Deep. Despite their differences, their fates perpetually interconnect through familial, professional and emotional bonds, sometimes antagonistic, sometimes romantic, and sometimes elusively obscure. As the reader becomes aware of the different connections that unite the two, the families become even more entangled as their livelihoods depend on one another. They assist or betray each other according to generational feuds that they are unable to escape, and the secrets that they share are both ineffable and silently acknowledged by the community.

The novel is divided into two parts. The first one explores the earlier generations of the families, beginning with Judah’s appearance and centring on the timeline of Devine Widow’s granddaughter, Mary Tryphena, while exploring the lives of her parents and grandparents through flashbacks which help create this whirling yet enthralling history. Despite the miscellaneous portrayal of characters and stories, each individual is uniquely characterized and explored, all contributing to painting a detailed picture of life in this isolated community. This singularity is not equally achieved in the second part of the novel, in which Mary Tryphena’s generation is the oldest and the lives of the next three generations are explored. Due to the great number of characters that become pivotal in this section, some of them appear to be less developed and at times the plot can become somewhat challenging to follow. Nonetheless, the story continues to be captivating and the central characters, skilfully crafted. Concurrently, this kaleidoscopic perspective aids in conveying that in the novel’s arc “the present twine(s) with the past to mean soon, a bit later, some unspecified point in the future. As if it was all the same finally, as if time was a single moment endlessly circling on itself” (376). Ultimately, each generation’s particular storyline helps create a circular exploration of themes and relationships which show how one’s family and context shapes one’s reality.

In conclusion, Galore is an ambitious, masterfully crafted novel, in which the history of an Eastern Canadian community is explored through a wide array of enchanting characters and their mythical yet truthful lives. The beautiful prose and the absorbing storyline are definitely commendable to readers who enjoy a complex narration, while the depth of the historical and religious allusions will even make it worth a reread for those most interested in these themes.

2009. The Spirit Level by Richard G. Wilkinson and Kate E. Pickett: From Data to Hope – Maria Sánchez Arjona

Edition reviewed: Penguin Books, 2009

Written by British researchers Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett, The Spirit Level: Why More Equal Societies Almost Always Do Better has become a landmark in sociology research. Both authors are known for their influential contributions to inequality research, with Wilkinson receiving the BMJ Lifetime Achievement Award for his work. The book belongs to the genre of non-fictional social science and its main aim is to illustrate how income inequality is a main cause for social and health issues. Since its publication, it has been thoroughly cited in debates and discussions about social justice, contributing to its status as a key text about structure and future of modern societies.

The key idea in Wilkinson and Pickett’s research is to demonstrate how income inequality is a major cause for shaping the social and health outcomes of wealthy societies. It draws data from comparing wealthy OECD nations with US states. The study claims that rich societies with greater inequality often experience worse indicators in a variety of domains: from mental health to crime and education. The mechanism that is described is status anxiety, meaning that wider income gaps increase insecurity which then turns into a range of social problems. Ultimately, the book argues that equal societies are healthier, safer and therefore more cohesive benefiting individuals across the world: “further improvements in the quality of life no longer depend on further economic growth: the issue is now community and how we relate to each other” (48).

With the simple but powerful thesis, Wilkinson and Pickett’s research examines a series of problems and finds the same pattern repeated, which is that more equal countries lead to a higher life expectancy and better health without necessarily being the richest. A major theme is the psychology behind that inequality. The text demonstrates that it increases social anxiety and insecurity by drawing on stress research as well as public health studies. A crucial point the authors argue is that inequality harms not only the poorest, but the entire society. In the final chapters the book explores actual solutions which include progressive taxation and public services that reduce status competition. The emphasis is put on the fact that reducing inequality is achievable and that it would foster widespread societal benefits such as more sustainable economies and overall and improved quality of life. There are, however, several weaknesses that have been discussed in relation to Wilkinson and Pickett’s book. The authors often use a restricted set of rich OECD countries while leaving out Eastern European and developing countries as well as emerging economies. Including more countries might weaken or remove many of the correlations. The results rely heavily on a small number of countries and that raises the question of how universally applicable the findings really are. These limitations do not weaken the central thesis entirely but they do complicate the narrative the authors want to present.

Regardless, the book presents many strengths. To begin with, its clarity and how accessible its argumentation is. The authors turn a large compilation of data into a narrative which readers can follow without the need for expertise. The use of graphs and comparisons is effective in offering visual evidence to the readers, which leads to the second main strength: the interdisciplinary approach. Rather than approaching the issue as purely economic, inequality is linked to psychology, public health and social cohesion. This allows for a wider picture of how individual behaviour is shaped by social environments. The idea is clearly illustrated since the chapters are structured by themes, building on arguments while reinforcing the central claim. These aspects provide psychological depth to what could have been a mere statistical discussion. The authors give the book real-world relevance by being compelling and especially with the balance of data and accessible explanations. This is what makes the book succeed as a work that interests both the general public and academics. The variety of topics ensures that readers can engage with new angles from which inequality affects daily life. The structure and pacing of the book is also effective and provides certainty with examples of historical cross-cultural comparisons such as the Scandinavian countries, and how they have maintained high social cohesion without unequal income distribution. The ideas invite the reader to look forward, which gives the book lasting contemporary relevance and encourages readers to think about how social improvement might be possible. That is why the text stands out for its ambition and clarity.

Overall, The Spirit Level is a powerful work that combines clear writing with a wide-range of evidence. The interdisciplinary approach and accessibility make it both informative and engaging. It is strongly recommended to anyone interested in having an insight on how different societies work and to readers who feel hopeful and actively want to see changes in the world. It is refreshing to see a rather hopeful non-fiction work in today’s times with the sense of possibility the text offers.

2009. Much To Pity: Barbara Demick’s Raw Portrayal of Not So Ordinary Lives in Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea – Nora Taher Martinez

Edition reviewed: Random House, 2022

Barbara Demick (b. 1959) is an American journalist and author born in New Jersey. She graduated from Yale University with a bachelor’s degree in economic history and pursued a career in journalism, which allowed her to bring to the eyes of many the gruelling lives of the Middle East and East Asia. Demick reported from Eastern Europe as a correspondent for The Philadelphia Inquirer between 1997 and 2001. That same year, Demick became the Los Angeles Times’ first bureau chief in China and Korea. She was stationed in Seoul, and over the span of 2001 and 2006, she published a series of articles focusing on the lives of Chinese and North Korean defectors. Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea was published in 2010, growing out of those original articles. Her publications have led Demick to receive numerous journalism awards, such as the George Polk Award (1994) and the Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award (1994). Nothing to Envy was awarded the Samuel Johnson Prize for Non-fiction (2010) (now the Baillie Gifford Prize) and was also a finalist for the National Book Award (2011).

Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea is a non-fiction book detailing the daily life of ordinary people living in North Korea under the Kim dynasty. Falling within the genres of narrative journalism and oral history, Demick offers insight into the intricacies of one of the most secretive and hermetic countries in the world and its totalitarian regime. The author follows the lives of six different defectors after the Korean War and during the 1990s famine, managing to bring their oral stories outside the border of North Korea. One thread of this book is Mi-ran and Jun-sang’s love story. Mi-ran is a girl with poor prospects given that her family is South Korean in origin. In contrast, Jun-sang’s wealthy background allows him to dream of university and pursue a career in science. For the next ten years, they dance a courtship that is both heart-warming and wrenching. Another thread is the story of Dr. Kim Ji-eun. She is a lively woman and a true believer in the system that has allowed her to become a doctor. However, in time, she becomes disheartened with her admired country, learning that her work is in vain, earning her no money in a hospital with no electricity and children dying of starvation.

Nothing to Envy demonstrates the wide range and diversity that the non-fiction genre can offer. Despite its title and description, which may suggest a tedious historical read, this book has a powerful storytelling component that keeps the pace moving forward. Focusing on six different people, Demick has room to fully portray a more complex picture of the North Korean lifestyle and produce an engaging read that is both informative and narratively compelling. She explores the experiences and struggles of North Korean citizens, but also into their aspirations, making their stories come alive under layers of propaganda and leader worship. Her use of language in some of the descriptions renders the text with passages that read like fiction, while keeping her style concise and effective: “The country had seen better days. But, the imperfections were not so glaring at night. The hotsprings pool, murky and choked with weeds, was luminous with the reflection of the sky above” (6).

Another aspect that must be considered is how well-researched Demick’s volume is. She becomes acquainted with her subjects in depth and exhibits both their good and bad traits, avoiding the fatiguing compassionate narrative that is so common in survival stories. Their lives are woven in through facts and details on North Korean history, its education system, food or lack thereof, the job market. The author offers a brief background on the split of South Korea and North Korea, the Japanese occupation, and the Soviet Union’s and the US’s involvement. Nonetheless, it is the personal narratives and recollections of growing up and living through that time that make this text stand out. While her work is focused on social changes in North Korea and demonstrates a thorough understanding of the country’s politics and history, in Nothing to Envy she keeps sight of the individual stories and produces what has been relatively scarce in its field: bringing in an as real as possible account of what it is like to live there.

The book, however, has its limitations. The personal stories lack a clear chronology and delineation, so their link to the historical timeline is confusing at some points. Rather than building upon themselves, their narratives become scattered and unsteady. There is some repetition of facts and phrases in close proximity that are difficult to disregard, such as white rice being mentioned as the staple food in North Korean diet. However, this may stem from the book’s origin as a compilation of standalone articles, and it does not detract significantly from the overall impact. Another point that needs to be considered is that we learn the stories of these people through Demick’s words, not from the defectors themselves. The author does include an author’s note at the beginning where she specifically mentions how these are oral stories, but that she tried her best to uphold the stories she was told and to link them with reported events. Nonetheless, it should be borne in mind that she had a severely controlled and manipulated view of North Korea and the places she was able to see in person in the country.

In summary, Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea reminds us of something that is important: underneath this Orwellian regime and its deified leader, there are more than 25 million people trying to live their lives in the face of calamity. It is striking how similar and utterly different their lives and ours are. Demick masterfully manages to peel back the curtain that encloses North Korea to stress that “in the middle of this black hole, in this bleak, dark country where millions have died of starvation, there is also love” (7). Indeed the ordinary lives alluded to in the subtitle, are shown in an extraordinary way.

2010. Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad: An Exploration of Time, Identity, and Reinvention – Clara Escriche Jimenez

Edition reviewed: Corsair, 2023

A Visit from the Goon Squad is a psychological novel published by US writer Jennifer Egan. Born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1962, Egan is well-known and highly praised for her groundbreaking stories and her unique, experimental narrative style. For these innovative approaches to writing, which are vividly displayed in Goon Squad, she has been critically acclaimed, ultimately winning both the 2011 Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award. In this novel, Egan explores the lives of her two protagonists and the events that have shaped their identity and influenced their way of navigating life, relationships, and careers through time.

The novel explores the lives of Sasha, a young woman living in New York City who is struggling with her compulsive urge to steal, and Bennie, a record executive and ex-member of a punk band who is having issues in both his career and personal life and who also happens to be Sasha’s employer. As the novel progresses, the reader gains insight into the protagonists’ origins through the eyes of various characters who are or have been closely connected to them and consequently have had an influence on their lives and their choices and have also been present during their mistakes and disappointments. Through a nonlinear temporal structure, Goon Squad explores how decisions, time, and relationships shape a person’s identity while exploring themes of ambition, failure, and eventually redemption and reinvention, with a constant presence of music that surrounds and accompanies them throughout their journeys.

One aspect that makes the novel unique is the way in which it is structured, which is extremely singular. The novel is divided into thirteen chapters, each exploring a separate yet interconnected story through the eyes of a different character every time. The first two chapters are centred around Sasha and Bennie, in that order, and are narrated in the third person and set at around the same time period. After this introduction, the following chapters jump through different periods in time and explore Bennie’s adolescence and eventually his first marriage and his career’s success. However, his life is not directly narrated by the other characters, and he is not the central figure of their story. Instead, each chapter explores a memory or an instance that was significant for the character to focus on at the time; whether Bennie is present or not, the reader can perceive how the events will affect his life. The same happens with Sasha’s story and the chapters narrated by people who are connected to her, although in her case, some of the events also take place in the future (in relation to the first chapter). Egan’s ability to portray thirteen different stories narrated by very compelling characters and find a way of interconnecting them is exceptionally impressive. It almost feels as though the novel is actually a compilation of independent short stories, but then a character from a previous chapter is mentioned by someone who had apparently no relation to them, or an event that was extremely important in a different chapter is brushed over in another, and the reader realizes that they are all part of a cohesive and very well-thought-out story that Egan has created. The creative way in which some chapters are presented, such as chapter nine, which is told in the form of a news article, or chapter twelve, which is narrated through PowerPoint slides, is also noteworthy, and it proves how eager the author was to experiment and be innovative with the novel’s structure and narrative style.

As a matter of fact, this unusual structure is very intentional, and it is what allows Egan to explore in depth the many themes of the novel and successfully deliver her message. For instance, having the chapters happen in a non-linear timeline showcases how time affects each character differently at distinct points of their lives and how decisions and mistakes made in the past haunt and shape the character’s future. It also allows for the exploration of reinvention and people’s wish to have the possibility of recovering from their failures, as Sasha expresses at the end of the first chapter, “Redemption, transformation—God how she wanted these things. Every day, every minute. Didn’t everyone?” (19), and many of the characters also deal with throughout the novel. Moreover, by placing different characters at the centre for each chapter, the author illustrates how what may seem insignificant for one person may immensely affect another and that actions and choices always have consequences.

All in all, A Visit from the Goon Squad is a remarkable novel in which Egan deeply reflects on the passage of time, human relationships, and identity by means of an extremely unique structure and highly captivating characters. Through the different stories and events that take place in the novel, Egan shows how choices shape the characters’ lives, how past decisions and mistakes influence their futures, and how these actions not only have consequences for themselves but also for the people that surround them. Overall, while it is true that at the beginning of each chapter the reader may be a little confused about which character is being explored or in which time period they are in, discovering how it all connects together is part of what makes the reading experience extremely satisfying and entertaining.

2010. Polygamy, Power and Female Agency in Lola Shoneyin’s The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

Edition reviewed: HarperCollins, 2010

Lola Shoneyin (b. 1974, Ibadan, Nigeria) is a poet and author whose work engages with the themes of female sexuality and the complexities of domestic life in contemporary Africa. Before turning to fiction, she had already gained recognition as an adventurous, humorous, and outspoken poet. This reputation created high expectations for her debut novel, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives, which was first published in the United Kingdom in 2010. The novel secured her international admiration, earning both the PEN Award in the United States and the Ken Saro-Wiwa Award for prose in Nigeria. Shoneyin’s contributions to African literature extend beyond her writing, and in 2017 she was named African Literary Person of the Year by Brittle Paper. Nowadays, she continues to develop the continent’s cultural legacy from Lagos, where she currently lives and runs the annual Aké Arts and Book Festival.

The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives follows the household of Baba Segi, a polygamous patriarch with four wives and seven children. The novel focuses on the moment in which their daily life is altered by the arrival of his fourth wife, Bolanle, an educated university graduate whose presence destabilizes the hierarchy within the family. Set in this context, the novel explores the cultural pressures placed on the infertile and the impotent in a society where fertility is related to status, while it also engages with more universal topics such as domestic abuse, rape, girls’ education, jealousy, marital property rights and the shifting dynamics of power in the household. The novel’s critical reception was significant, as it was longlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction in 2011, and eventually won both the PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Award and the ANA Saro-Wiwa Prose Prize in the same year. Moreover, its impact has extended beyond literature, counting now with multiple translations, stage and screen adaptations and a growing body of academic work examining its issues of stress management among co-wives, the structures of polygamy and forms of female agency within patriarchal systems.

Shoneyin portrays Baba Segi and each of his wives with remarkable depth, including their flaws and their emotional struggles. Every woman in the household speaks with a distinct voice and has a distinct biography, allowing their motivations and vulnerabilities to be clearly shown, whether it is in Iya Femi’s fierce determination against another wife—“I want her gone. I want my place back and I will get it” (96)—or Bolanle’s attempts to deal with the shifting alliances of their home: “I don’t understand this! One minute you are giving me generous portions of chicken from your son’s birthday celebrations, the next, you call me an evil spirit” (110). This attention to the individual is reinforced by the structure of the novel, which is based on a multi-perspective narrative. Each chapter is narrated by one of the wives, slowly revealing the hidden tensions and secrets that condition their lives within a polygamous household. As the readers move through these alternating voices, they understand not only what the wives do, but also why they do it, gaining knowledge into the experiences that have shaped them, such as Iya Femi’s conflicted gratitude—“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate Baba Segi; on the contrary, I have several reasons to be thankful to him” (92)—, or Bolanle’s memories of childhood mistreatment: “The one time that I protested that I had at least come first in everything else, she dug her nails into the back of my ears and twisted my earlobes until they burned” (100). Through this mixing of voices, Shoneyin not only humanizes her characters, but also offers a credible portrayal of Nigerian cultural life. With this, the novel illuminates the family structures, social hierarchies and everyday realities that govern the household, and invites the readers to appreciate the complexities of the world that the author depicts.

Another of the novel’s greatest elements is Shoneyin’s sensitive treatment of the serious issues that surround the characters’ lives, from infertility and class disparities to sexual trauma passing through the power inequalities within a patriarchal society. She presents these subjects through moments of profound emotional clarity, such as Bolanle’s realization of her marginalization with an ex-partner at a hard moment for him: “he was embarrassed that I, a common tenant, was witnessing such a personal family tragedy. It was at that moment that I realized that I meant very little to him” (125), or her confession of her own past to her mother: “I was raped, Mama! Did you know that? (…) You are right, Mama, I am ruined, damaged, destroyed. I am all those things you ever said. My life was wrecked and I didn’t know how to fix it. I still don’t know” (103, original emphasis). These narrative choices support the novel’s feminist concerns, as Shoneyin exposes the limited options available to women and the multiple forms of oppression that they suffer, while also highlighting their resilience, solidarity and moments of empowerment. Bolanle’s declaration—“A real woman must always do the things she wants to do, and in her own time too” (106)—carries the spirit of self-assertion that we can find throughout the text, offering an accessible yet forceful critique of patriarchal expectations. At the same time, Shoneyin balances these crucial themes with a distinctive humorous tone, using irony to expose social hypocrisy and gendered double standards without diminishing the emotional depth of the narrative. This combination allows the novel to remain deeply engaging, since despite its exploration of trauma, injustice and moral complexity, it holds a wonderful story that keeps the reader captivated and eager to discover the internal dynamics within Baba Segi’s household.

In conclusion, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives is a complete and multifaceted debut that confirms Lola Shoneyin’s place among the contemporary voices in African Literature. Through its wide characterization, narrative structure and bold engagement with themes of gender, power and domestic life, the novel offers both a captivating story and a deep cultural image. The novel has also gained significant recognition as it illuminates the realities of women within patriarchal systems, while it gives internal reflections on resilience, agency and the bonds that shape family life. Ultimately, Shoneyin delivers a work that is memorable, not only for its thematic ambition, but also because of its humanity, making The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives a rich story and a notable contribution to contemporary fiction.

2010. Far to Go by Alison Pick: The Train of Memory – Mila Torres Bondarenko

Edition reviewed: Headline Publishing Group, Hachette UK, 2011

Canadian writer Alison Pick (1975, Toronto) was nominated for the 2011 Man Booker Prize for one of her most notable novels, Far to Go (2010). She has won other awards—some for her poetry—such as the National Magazine Award for Poetry in 2003 or in the same year, the Bronwen Wallace Memorial Award for Poetry with her collection Question & Answer. With Far to Go Pick also won the Helen and Stan Vine Canadian Jewish Book Award in 2011 in the fiction category. Pick’s fiction is highly connected to reality. By discovering in her teenage years that she had Jewish heritage from her father’s Czech family, she converted to Judaism. Her literary works serve as a reflection of her process of rebuilding and reshaping an individual and collective memory, such as the memoir Between Gods (2014) in which she explores her relation with identity, family secrets, and more. Inspired by the journey her own family went through, Far to Go imagines and speculates on how this might have happened, and ultimately, how we cannot forget to remember.

Set in the beginning stages of Hitler’s occupation of Czechoslovakia during the Second World War (1939-1945), the novel presents itself with the first person narration by Lisa, an old woman who has dedicated her life to researching Czechoslovakian Jewish families. The narration is then shifted to the third-person perspective of Marta, the Bauer family’s matriarch. By combining the two voices—set in different chronological lines—and also adding letters that function as historical records, the reader is offered the story in pieces: even though history allows you to know how this story will end, you do not get to truly know everything about the characters all at once. This also blurs the line between fiction and truth, which is one of the aspects that make this novel impossible to leave aside.

The Bauer family consists of Pavel, who lives the occupation in great denial, believing their high economic status will somehow protect them. His wife, Annelise, who is often elusive, distant and gloomy, is desperate to protect their five-year-old son Pepik, the heart of the story. Marta, a Gentile servant, offers a very particular perspective of the events. As she is an outsider, her role as a witness is morally complex, as she fights to keep her loyalty to the family—and especially to Pepik—and with her unclear political beliefs regarding her own safety. The story grows in tension as the occupation advances and as the audience learns more about Lisa, the researcher narrating in present time. Pick’s choice of including these two voices, using a brilliant and raw prose, leaves the reader no option to avoid pain. The decision to focus on one family, and of including historical documents, strongly suggests that the Bauers stand for countless real families and people.

Pepik, as noted, can be said to be the heart of the novel. He is the embodiment of pure innocence, and also, the hope and symbol of remembrance and survival, as children are. Although a child, the loved Miláčku, he also suffers the violent occupation—from being denied an education, to receiving violence from Nazi children, etc.—though ultimately, he escapes via the Kindertransport, the trains that functioned from 1938 to 1940 as rescue efforts taking thousands of Jewish refugee children to Great Britain. Leaving his family is the only way that ensures Pepik’s survival, though it surely does not guarantee that his identity and memories prevail, though this is something that the book marvellously reveals. Pick’s novel also offers a great depiction of the family’s dynamics, giving the characters complex personal storylines, ensuring that their names are personified and not just numbered. By humanising the characters with mothering and parenting issues, romantic and adulterous relationships, and spiritual and political debates, they are not reduced to passive victims, but are rather honoured as the human beings that they were, or could have been.

Pick’s attempt to evoke memory breaks sharply through the pages of the novel and makes us remember that we are diving “into a future time when someone will look back at us now, wondering what our days were like and why we did the things we did. Or why we did not act, as the case might equally be. Someone will be unable to make our lives make sense” (311). The truth should not be a privilege, and neither should memory. It is important to keep reading these narratives, and to keep remembering, because we are now too, witnessing something similar. As O.E. Akkad writes in One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This (2025), “One day, when it’s safe, when there’s no personal downside to calling a thing what it is, when it’s too late to hold anyone accountable, everyone will have always been against this.”

2010. Choice, Control, and the Cracks in a Perfect World: Matched by Ally Condie – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

Edition reviewed: Penguin Group, 2010

Matched is the debut novel of Ally Condie, a US novelist born in 1987 in Cedar City, Utah. Condie, a former high school English teacher, has become well-known for her dystopian young-adult fiction, especially her Matched trilogy composed by Matched (2010), Crossed (2011), and Reached (2012). Matched was a New York Times bestseller and was named one of Publisher’s Weekly’s Best Children’s Books in 2010. It also featured on YALSA’s 2011 Teens’ Top Ten list.

The story centres on Cassia Reyes, an 18-year-old living in a tightly controlled society where the government, known simply as the Society, dictates almost everything: who you marry, where you work, and even when you die. At her Matching ceremony, Cassia is matched to her childhood friend Xander, but when she later checks his file, she briefly glimpses the face of another person, Ky Markham, an outsider labelled an Aberration. Conflicted, Cassia begins to question whether the Society’s System is as perfect as it seems. She uncovers forbidden poetry from her grandfather, and grows closer to Ky, triggering her journey from complacency to rebellion. By the novel’s conclusion, though, many questions remain unresolved, such as how the Society came into being, why there is an ongoing war, and what her next steps will be in the larger struggle.

The world-building in Matched is particularly enticing. Condie creates a society that feels both clinical and suffocating: everything is ordered, meticulously scheduled, and controlled by the Society’s algorithms. As Condie explains, “All of the things that were shown in early studies to be good for longevity—happy marriages, healthy bodies—are ours to have. We live long, good lives” (116). This setup immediately raises the stakes, and Condie uses it to explore themes of agency, choice, and rebellion. Condie’s background as a teacher seems to inform her sense of structure; her pacing carefully builds Cassia’s curiosity, as small mysteries (like the glitch in her match) gradually unravel into more serious questions about freedom and conformity. The dialogue feels realistic for young adults as there is softness in Cassia’s voice when she debates her place in this society, and her conversations with Xander and Ky are full of both hope and tension. The dynamic between the two potential partners (Xander and Ky) is especially compelling: Xander represents safety and conformity, while Ky embodies risk and rebellion. That love triangle is classic, but Condie gives it emotional weight rather than cheap love-game drama. However, Matched also has clear drawbacks. Because it is the first book in a trilogy, many crucial world-building elements remain vague: the origins of the Society, the mechanics of the war, and even the full scale of the rebellion are underdeveloped. This works for setting up sequels, but as a standalone novel it feels incomplete. Some readers might find this frustrating if they want answers, yet Condie deliberately withholds many. Still, this ambiguity does fuel the sense of rebellion: by not explaining everything, Condie reflects Cassia’s own limited understanding of her world.

Also, while the romance triangle is engaging, it develops rather quickly. The distinction between conformity (Xander) and rebellion (Ky) is symbolic and effective, but Cassia’s emotional shift sometimes feels more driven by the plot than by deep internal change. On the other hand, the emotional core works: as she falls for Ky, Cassia’s struggle becomes more than teenage love, it becomes a political act and a rebellion, being aware of what going against the society might imply: “Who am I to try to change things, to get greedy and want more? If our Society changes and things are different, who am I to tell the girl who would have enjoyed the safe protected life that now she has to have choice and danger because of me?” (238). The final chapter is particularly strong: it does not tie everything up, but it does provoke excitement for the next book, leaving readers eager for what comes next. That cliff-hanger quality is effective for a trilogy, though it may disappoint those who hoped for a self-contained story.

In conclusion, Matched is a polished and thought-provoking dystopian YA novel. While its incompleteness can be frustrating, its themes of control choice, and love make it a compelling start to the trilogy. I recommend it to readers who enjoy quiet but emotionally resonant Young Adult dystopia, especially those who do not mind waiting for answers.

2011. Humour as Feminism and Affection in Tina Fey’s Bossypants – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

Edition reviewed: Little, Brown Book Group, 2012

Bossypants is a humorous autobiographical memoir published in 2011 by the renowned actress, comedian, producer, and writer Tina Fey. Born in 1970 in Pennsylvania, she is widely recognized for the creation of the television series 30 Rock (of which she was a leading actress) and the screenplay for Mean Girls, as well as her writing and performing in Saturday Night Live, the famous sketch comedy show. Her winning multiple Emmy and Golden Globe Awards, in addition to the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, proves Fey’s talent and influence. This memoir brought her closer to her audience and was an instant success, remaining at the top of The New York Times Best Seller list for weeks and earning her a Grammy Award nomination for the audiobook version.

In Bossypants, Fey takes readers through all the stages of her life, from her childhood in Pennsylvania to becoming one of the most famous entertainers in the 21st century. Mixed with humour and social critique, readers get to know a very honest Tina, fond of drama throughout her life (eventually earning a degree in it), who would hardly believe what she has accomplished to this day. Besides the professional events of her life, Fey opens up about love, friendship, motherhood (even breastfeeding), and insecurities. Readers feel close to the author thanks to her first-person narration addressing them directly, and get to know the real woman behind her career in comedy. Fey narrates the personal and professional struggles she has faced along the way, even the hardships of balancing motherhood with an extremely hectic work life or how fame does not exempt one from the pressure of following imposed beauty standards (but rather how this becomes even harsher).

Fey’s highly critical, feminist voice is skilfully mixed with humour and sarcasm. Without having to make big, feminist-advocating statements, simply by narrating her struggles as a woman, Fey creates a political memoir full of exposed injustices that challenges societal expectations. Fey makes it clear how male-dominated both the world we live in and the entertainment industry are, just by revealing her uncertainty and overwhelming frustration in the narration of ordinary events most women go through. For instance, readers find young Tina navigating the unknown world of menstrual products, facing her first physical insecurities because of the unattainable beauty standards, encountering the unsettling expectation that “all girls must be everything” (while constantly being looked down on). Adult Tina is even criticised about breastfeeding. It is truly fascinating how someone can use such a light and humorous tone to convey powerful, meaningful messages. This approach humanizes her, bringing Fey closer to readers. She is the personification that, no matter how famous one is, all women face similar conflicts and expectations imposed by patriarchal societal values that demand perfection yet deny equality of opportunities. “Maybe we women,” Fey writes, “gravitate toward comedy because it is a socially acceptable way to break rules and a release from our daily life” (138). Fey manages to use her witty voice to demonstrate the psychological depth of her writing, denouncing the ongoing sexism which shapes women’s life from a very young age. This type of narration also serves Fey’s purpose of advocating for the subversion of societal standards, empowering readers to find out who they are and stick to it, disregarding external opinions. In a similar vein, the title choice of Bossypants is excellent in anticipating the ironic yet critical and political voice that the memoir is written in. Men are the ones expected to be the dominant figures (portrayed comically in the man-like arms she has in the cover illustration), yet she reclaims this title, assuming and taking pride in it as a woman in power.

In a similar vein, Fey’s humorous voice not only serves as a critical tool, but also as a means to show affection when portraying her wholesome upbringing and her loving inner circle. This narrative voice allows readers to see the soft Tina behind the public figure they are used to. It is, once again, simply by describing often-funny anecdotes that she undeniably demonstrates her appreciation for those around her. The chapter dedicated to her father (“That’s Don Fey”) can be considered the ultimate example of the effectiveness of this type of narration, with readers easily sensing the strong father-daughter relationship without recurring to cheesiness at all. For instance, at the very beginning of the chapter she coyly relates how her father raised an “achievement-oriented, obedient, drug-free, virgin adult” (45), which already hints at her witty tone. Then, her use of funny stories to characterize her father is enough to make evident her admiration towards him, with subtle sentences like “My dad looks like he’s ‘somebody’” (46). Finally, the following passage illustrates the culmination of her skilful, sentimental voice disguised in humour. When people ask her “This is your dad, huh?” she wonders “What are they realizing? I wonder. That they’d better never mess with me, or Don Fey will yell at them? That I have high expectations for the men in my life because I have a strong father figure?” (55). Thus, similarly to the argument made in the previous paragraph, her mastery of words and humour already enable her to put across her intended message (how protected and loved she has always felt by her dad, not willing to settle for less than that), being able to be remarkably endearing without having to make big, explicit statements.

In conclusion, Tina Fey’s memoir has proved to be more than a humoristic overview of her life. Instead, her funny anecdotes and tone allow readers to connect with the author, getting to know both her sentimental side and her critical, feminist side. As mentioned throughout the review, managing to create such an effective narration demands a high command of the language and humour, which Fey never fails to accomplish.

2011. Rewriting the Muse: Violence and Female voices in Helen Oyeyemi's Mr Fox – Cèlia Saltó Parramon

Edition reviewed: Picador, 2012

Known for her use of fairy tales in her novels, Helen Oyeyemi (b. 1984, Ibadan, Nigeria) has secured herself a spot in contemporary British fiction. Her first novel, The Icarus Girl, was published in 2005. Since then, eight more novels have been published, as well as two plays and a short story collection. Although her works are considered mainstream literary fiction, readers can find many elements of myths and magic realism in them. An example of this is her second novel, The Opposite House, in which she takes inspiration from Cuban mythology. She has received numerous recognitions and awards, including being named one of Venus Zine's ‘25 under 25’ list in 2009 and receiving the Somerset Mugham Award in 2010.

Mr Fox was described by the author, in an interview for Bookforum, as a game; an idea that fits perfectly the development and structure of the novel. Mr Fox is the protagonist, a writer with a characteristic: he always violently kills the heroines in his books. The game begins when Mary, her muse and one of the women he has created in his stories, makes an appearance before him. Mary challenges Fox to create different stories in which he stops perpetuating the cruel violence against women. From this point onward, Mr Fox becomes both the author and the main character. Two different worlds emerge: one, the real world, where he has a wife named Daphne, and another, an imaginary one, set in different periods and genres. In the end, his wife, who believes her husband is having an affair, confronts him. This forces Fox to choose between Mary's games in their imaginary world and her real wife, whom he has practically forgotten.

A particularly noteworthy aspect of Helen Oyeyemi's Mr Fox is the blurred line between reality and imagination. The author's storytelling and worldbuilding deserve recognition, as she constructs the world in which Mr Fox and Daphne exist, but she also succeeds in creating many different imaginative worlds through which the dynamics of the relationship between Mary and Fox develop. Mary, described as Mr Fox's greatest muse, acts throughout the novel as an authority over him despite her not being a real human being; he is the author, yet she pushes her voice over his. The traditional role of author-muse is challenged and somewhat reversed. This time, the narrative is carried out by the muse, inspired by the hideous acts of Mr Fox in the novels. Each character mirrors different ideas that extend beyond the novel's themes. Mary wants to stop the violence inflicted on women and give them a voice, while Fox is confronted with the consequences that artists may face when they evade responsibility for their creations. By stating how “it was because 'nothing is more poetic than the death of a beautiful woman'; it was because of this, it was because of that. It's obscene to make such things reasonable” (120) through Mary’s voice, the author highlights how acceptable misogynistic violence is for many readers and real people. The novel achieves the perfect balance between Oyeyemi’s characteristic fairytale tone and her critique of the silenced voices of women in literature throughout history.

Another distinctive feature of this novel is its genre, which actually combines multiple genres: from fairy tale to realist fiction, as well as thriller and historical romance. The central conflict unfolds throughout the narrative in different settings and tones, keeping the reader interested through Oyeyemi's versatile prose. Although the novel is composed as a sequence of different tales, all of them are perfectly connected and intertwined, creating a cohesive experience. Across these stories, readers may discover the novel’s key themes and characters, including the complexities of marital relationships, Fox's process of self-awareness, and the moral and ethical implications of perpetuating violence against women in literature.

Overall, it is unquestionable that Mr Fox is a fascinating and unique novel, beautifully crafted from start to end. The dialogues between Mary and Fox are rich, emotional and tense, adding depth to their characters. I would highly recommend this novel, as it diverges from conventional contemporary fiction and offers a captivating fantasy story.

2011. In the Presence of Pain: How Maggie Nelson’s The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning Reframes Violent Aesthetics – Èlia Llobera Camacho

Edition reviewed: W. W. Norton, 2011

Maggie Nelson (b. 1973, San Francisco) stands out as one of the most distinctive writers in modern American criticism and literature, particularly thanks to her hybrid volume The Argonauts (2015). Through her work, which combines elements of memoir and philosophy with cultural analysis, she has created a new method of writing about art and the human body that transcends traditional literary forms. The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning (2011) follows Nelson’s previous work by studying how artists use cruelty in modern and contemporary creations. The author examines cruelty in art through its effects on viewers while exploring its purpose in artistic creation and how to handle its disturbing impact. Nelson rejects straightforward moral judgments because she believes cruelty requires complex evaluation through ethical consideration and discomfort tolerance.

The Art of Cruelty is a non-fiction volume that uses analytical chapters to study various artistic depictions of violence. The author starts with Antonin Artaud to study his “theatre of cruelty”, a concept which, as she shows, continues to influence modern artistic works. Nelson also examines Yoko Ono's Cut Piece and Marina Abramović's Rhythm 0 performances alongside other works of literature and visual arts and film. The author studies next the artwork of Francis Bacon, Sylvia Plath's poetry, Catherine Breillat's films and the violent displays found in mass media. Nelson’s volume studies multiple examples to determine how artists use violence as an artistic tool while assessing when violent elements lead to meaningful understanding and when they are reduced to mere shock value. The book starts with the historical context before moving to interactive performances and spectator ethics to demonstrate its main focus on the transition from representation to participation.

A most compelling quality is Nelson’s insistence on the complexity of cruelty. She is deeply sceptical of what she calls “stupid cruelty,” violence that seeks only to shock without offering any intellectual or emotional provocation. As she states, “Cruelty bears an intimate relationship to stupidity as well as to intelligence, and I am not interested in stupid cruelty” (124). This distinction becomes essential in her analysis: for Nelson, cruelty should not be consumed as spectacle but interrogated for what it reveals about the viewer’s own position. What she values is a kind of art that disorients, unsettles, and prompts reflection, a dynamic she identifies not only in the extreme gestures of performance art but also in the subtler violences of literature. In one of the most illuminating moments of the book, she writes that “an art that affects you in the moment, but in which you then find hard to remember, is straining to bring you to another level (…) it has opened you to the possibility of growing into what you are not yet” (28). Thus, Nelson represents her belief that cruelty may become a catalyst for ethical and emotional awareness when it is used thoughtfully.

The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning offers dense content; occasionally, Nelson's numerous references hide her personal voice from view. The book, as noted, examines an extensive range of artists from painting and sculpture to filmmaking, from literature and philosophy to performance through its highly knowledgeable approach, though the fast-paced stream of examples challenges readers to follow Nelson’s arguments. As a reviewer noted, Nelson sometimes “throws out so many references on top of one another that her own voice gets submerged.” This sense of intellectual excess, however, can also be interpreted as part of the book’s method: cruelty is a multifaceted phenomenon, and a single perspective cannot capture its meaning. Indeed, Nelson affirms that “by virtue of its being multiply sourced, art cannot help but offer up multiple truths” (117). Her refusal to provide definitive answers may challenge the reader, but it reflects her commitment to dismantling closed systems of interpretation.

Nelson uses her fine writing style to connect analytical precision with personal thoughts, which enables her to maintain intellectual detachment while creating emotional connections with her readers. The author presents her complete range of emotions about the artworks she studies which demonstrates her approach to active audience participation. The author maintains both academic precision and easy understanding throughout the entire text even when dealing with the most disturbing content. Nelson challenges the practice of treating artists as either visionary truth-seekers or dangerous rebels because she believes this approach fails to understand art's most compelling aspects (139). The author opposes fixed moral categories because she believes viewers need to approach cruel art through thoughtful analysis instead of relying on preconceived judgments. Nelson does not offer a singular interpretation of cruelty, nor does she claim that all violent art is ethically valuable. Instead, she encourages readers to consider why certain representations affect them, how they choose to look, and what forms of participation they implicitly accept.

In conclusion, The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning is a challenging but rewarding work that asks its readers to rethink the relationship between violence, spectatorship, and responsibility. From my perspective, Nelson’s refusal to simplify cruelty and her intellectual fearlessness make the book admirable, despite its density. Her exploration of when representation becomes participation, especially in performance art, raises essential questions about our own complicity as viewers and the ethical stakes of watching. Ultimately, in confronting the presence of pain in art, Nelson reshapes our understanding of violence not as a spectacle to consume but as a site of reflection, discomfort, and potential transformation.

2011. Trauma, Memory, and Identity in Jeanette Winterson’s Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? – Siya Kumar Rani

Edition reviewed: Alfred A. Knopf Canada, 2011

Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? was published in 2011 as an unsettling and compelling memoir by one of Britain’s most acclaimed contemporary authors, Jeanette Winterson. The author was born in Manchester in 1959 and adopted by strict Pentecostal parents, an event some of her writings revolve around, including this memoir. Winterson rose to popularity with her debut work, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, which won the Whitbread Award in 1985. In Why Be Normal When You Could Be Normal? the author directly confronts her childhood as she abandons the layer of fiction used in her previous productions, making it both an emotional text and a record of personal survival.

Primarily, the central plot of the memoir is Winterson’s upbringing under her adoptive parents, tightly controlled by the adoptive mother, who is only referred to as Mrs. Winterson throughout the book. Her figure is presented as ardently religious and psychologically cruel. The narrator also reminisces that books were not approved in the house, as Mrs. Winterson would claim that “The trouble with a book is that you never know what’s in it until it’s too late” ( 33), a prejudice young Jeanette never understood. That is why reading was her first act of rebellion, as she found refuge in it. Nonetheless, the story is not linear, as the memories surface in fragments from Winterson’s awakening to literature, the discovery of her queer sexuality, her parents’ rejection leading to her expulsion from her home at the age of sixteen, and, eventually, being able to access higher education, which allows her development as a writer. The memoir leads to an emotional collapse that urges the protagonist to search for her birth mother.

The profound psychological depth is a key feature of this memoir, achieved through a raw display of sentiments as Winterson recalls her childhood, without attempting to soften the brutality or oversimplify the moral complexities, especially Mrs. Winterson’s rigidness due to her deeply-rooted beliefs. Her monstrosity is a principal feature that shapes the memoir’s emotional landscape, and ushers the protagonist to question the silent acts of violence that lead children into emotional turmoil. As a child, Jeanette is taught not to question, not to speak and not to feel, yet, as an adult, she is willingly writing against those prohibitions, recovering the voice that was denied to her. Additionally, the 1960s and 1970s industrial North England settings, such as the cold house, the relentless mill town and the overheated chapel, mirror the internal states of the characters. Similarly, literature is given a high value as it is presented both as a lifeline and something the protagonist wants to conquer, especially as she believes that the public library had become a “portal” for her, as through books, she could construct a parallel world to find refuge. Language itself is given distinct importance as Winterson’s characteristic lyrical prose shifts between concrete memory and ensuing philosophical reflection. The words used for each recollection seem quite vivid as the author uses the surroundings in order to inhabit the words completely. The pacing of the story constantly changes from urgent to slow as the protagonist follows a nonlinear process of remembering, which makes it difficult to trace the structure, although it proves the central theme of identity being pieced together instead of discovered.

From the second half of the memoir to the end there is a transition in emphasis, as the adult Winterson proves that childhood abandonments not only cause wounds in children, but also affect the abandoned individual throughout their life. As she writes, “The psyche is much smarter than consciousness allows. We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don’t” (130). This leads her to not only focus on self-discovery but also to break down the search for her biological mother, which permits the story to broaden the themes. Paradoxically, once Jeanette reunites with her biological mother, this is not an unsettling moment, as rather than seeking comfort in this woman, Winterson insists on emotional honesty, seeking closure. She acknowledges that healing is about negotiating with both the past and present, and that this takes a while, which illustrates the idea of how complicated it is to find redemption. The narrative method employed portrays the unpredictability of trauma as unwanted memories reemerge continuously. Similarly, the absence of a happy ending further highlights the central argument implying that life is shaped by constant ups and downs rather than just a linear normality.

Overall, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? is a deeply personal story of resilience and strength that prompts readers to consider how life can be shaped into something meaningful through disciplined reflection on the past and learning from it for a better future. It is a highly recommendable work as one of the principal features of this memoir is that instead of giving readers a sense of closure, Winterson invites them to consider the process of finding one’s identity through memory and reflection, which makes it compelling and significant to contemporary literature.

2012. Leaving the Past Behind: Deborah Feldman’s Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots – Helena Clot Perez

Edition reviewed: Simon & Schuster, 2012

Deborah Feldman was born in New York City in 1986. She was the daughter of the arranged marriage of an unstable Orthodox couple, who were largely absent from her life. Her father was mentally impaired and was unable to take care of her, while her mother left the Hasidic community when Feldman was still a toddler. As a result, she spent her childhood in Brooklyn where she was raised by her Orthodox Jewish grandparents, Bubbe and Zeidy, in the highly conservative Satmar Hasidic community. In 2012, six years after she decided to leave the community, she published her first memoir, Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots, in which she narrates the struggles she faced while freeing herself from the constraints of her cultural roots. Across the three parts of her memoirs, Feldman maps a precise chronological portrait of her life, offering the readers an insight into the constrained life of a young Orthodox girl. In 2020, Netflix produced the award-winning series Unorthodox based on Feldman’s work, which made the bestseller memoir gain significant international recognition. The memoir was followed by a second, less popular volume, Exodus: A Memoir (2014).

In Unorthodox Feldman recounts her upbringing in the strict Satmar Hasidic community. She describes the rigid rules and intense social surveillance that governed her early life, from clothing, to education, language and even marriage, tracing how her desires for knowledge and autonomy were suffocated by the monitoring and the frowning upon of the community. After her arranged marriage to a rather disoriented young man leads to motherhood, Deborah’s need for freedom intensifies, ultimately leading her to leave the community in pursuit of a dignified life for her and her child. It is at this point in her life that Feldman writes Unorthodox, once in Berlin, offering a look back at her life and shining a light into a closed world rarely seen from the inside.

The book begins somewhat redundantly, marked by dense detailing that depicts a lovely world with little progression in the narrative. As Feldman matures and the narrative takes shape, her voice becomes grounded in clarity and truth rather than in bitterness. Her growing critical evolution allows her to present her life story and her memories in an unresentful way, narrating her experiences with emotional objectiveness. Her characters are not represented as villains but rather as individuals embedded and shaped by a rigid system that influences the way they see the world. As Feldman recounts, “All my aunts and uncles are hard on their children, it seems to me. They berate them, embarrass them, and yell at them. This is chinuch, child rearing according to the Torah. It is the parents’ spiritual responsibility that their children grow up to be God-fearing, law-abiding Jews. Therefore, any form of discipline is all right as long as it is for that purpose” (27). Beyond the human figures, the setting also seems to function as a character of its own. Feldman vividly depicts the setting as a cruel and hypocritical world that is physically close to modern New York City yet culturally closed off from it. This self-contained Jewish Orthodox ecosystem dictates the way characters interact and behave, becoming an active agent within the narrative. Despite the weight of the memoir’s theme, the narrative flows steadily from childhood memories to adult experiences. This smooth progression reveals the slow but consistent development of Feldman’s growing critical awareness, emphasizing on how her early conditioning influenced all her later decisions.

Although Unorthodox reveals the shocking details that contorted Feldman’s upbringing, the narrative tone she uses is quite detached, almost as she is recounting events from a distance rather than something that she lived in the flesh. As mentioned earlier, this detached objectiveness reflects Feldman’s narrative control, but also limits emotional resonance, allowing the readers to grasp her journey but not become emotionally invested in her ordeal. At the same time, this detachment can function as a coping mechanism, a protective shield that allows Feldman to narrate her trauma and to relive it fully without further suffering. Viewed this way, the tone of the narrative is not simply a stylistic choice, but a general strategy that allows her to narrate her story without having to re-experience the painful memories that come with it.

Nonetheless, the memoir is a very complete work which portrays Feldman’s skills and strengths as a writer. The most prominent quality lies in her ability to blend the personal narrative with social critique, in a narrative that speaks both of a personal experience and of a wide systematic issue. Without offering direct condemnation, Feldman allows the raw details of her life to reveal the emotional limitations imposed on her. As a woman in the community, she was forbidden from reading, denied sex education, barred from driving and restricted from speaking any other language but Yiddish. In her world, female identity was defined by obedience and modesty and was shaped by external pressures and expectations. It was not built freely or authentically, rather it was designed to fit into a uniform mould. As she recalls: “An empty vessel clangs the loudest. That’s the adage I hear continuously, from Chaya, from the teachers at school, from the Yiddish textbooks. The louder a woman, the more likely she is to be spiritually bereft, like the empty bowl that vibrates with a resonant echo. A full container makes no sound; she is packed too densely to ring” (31). By portraying how her upbringing shaped her understanding of self-worth, identity and values, Feldman creates a memoir that invites the reader to reflect critically and form their own judgments on the systems that shape individuals’ lives, urging them to consider how culture and authority can define one’s self.

Overall, Unorthodox is a very crude and courageous memoir that illuminates a distant but existent reality that a few readers ever see from the inside. Deborah Feldman’s honesty and narrative skills makes it both compelling and deeply informative. I recommend it to readers who are interested in exploring different realities that people inhabit and to those interested in identity and in the complexity of leaving one’s cultural roots behind.

2012. From Broken Soles to a Reclaimed Soul in Cheryl Strayed’s Wild: A Long Walk Back to Oneself – Anan Ye

Edition reviewed: Alfred A. Knopf, 2013

Published in 2012, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail is a memoir by American writer Cheryl Strayed (b. Spangler, Pennsylvania, 1968). Strayed is widely recognized for her contributions to contemporary literature, particularly through her fiction and non-fiction explorations. Her works often contain autobiographical elements and explore themes of grief, resilience and complex family dynamics. Her debut novel, Torch (2006), which portrays a family’s struggles after the mother’s death, already displayed her sustained engagement with these concerns. Wild remains her most popular and influential work. It became a New York Times bestseller and was selected for Oprah’s Book Club 2.0, as well as winning the 2012 Goodreads Choice Award in the category of Best Memoir and Autobiography. The memoir’s cultural presence expanded with its film adaptation in 2014, which earned Oscar nominations for Best Actress for Reese Witherspoon and Best Supporting Actress for Laura Dern, underscoring the story’s broad critical appeal. Strayed is also a podcast host, co-leading Dear Sugars, where her empathetic narrative voice continues to resonate.

Wild recounts Cheryl Strayed’s attempt to rebuild her life after a series of traumatic events: the death of her mother, the collapse of her family, her stepfather Eddie’s emotional withdrawal, her own turn to heroin use and extramarital affairs that eventually led to the disintegration of her marriage to Paul. Told in a first-person narrative interwoven with flashbacks, the memoir follows Strayed as she impulsively decides to hike over a thousand miles of the Pacific Crest Trail, without prior hiking experience, in a final effort to save herself from grief, addiction and self-destruction. Her journey is marked by the physical burden of Monster, the enormous backpack that mirrors her emotional weight, and by relentless practical challenges, including the loss of her boots. As she moves northward, memories of her happy childhood under her mother’s care contrast sharply with the trauma instilled by her abusive father. Encounters with fellow hikers, long stretches of isolation and the unforgiving landscape gradually compel her towards clarity, resilience and a renewed sense of self.

One of the novel’s most remarkable features lies in Cheryl Strayed’s exceptional ability to craft vivid, immersive descriptions that anchor readers emotionally and geographically within the narrative. Even critics who condemn her lack of preparation, her reckless decisions on the trail or her questionable choices in her private life frequently acknowledge the remarkable precision and sensitivity of her writing style. Strayed’s descriptive talent enables her to render the natural world with a clarity that transcends mere observation, transforming landscape into an active and affective presence. As she writes, “I noticed the beauty that surrounded me, the wonder of things both small and large: the color of a desert flower that brushed against me on the trail or the grand sweep of the sky as the sun faded over the mountains” (67), a passage encapsulating her capacity to locate transcendence in details. Simultaneously, Strayed brings equal acuity to the representation of her physical suffering, articulating bodily pain with unflinching honesty. Her admission that her “feet hurt both inside and out, their flesh rubbed raw with blisters, their bones and muscles fatigued from the miles” (70) shows a descriptive precision that pulls readers directly into the corporeal realities of the hike. Together, these narrative strategies create a text in which sensory richness is inseparable from psychological depth. Cheryl Strayed’s tone facilitates a reading experience that feels immersive, authentic and emotionally resonant, enabling the memoir to function as both a personal confession and a compelling work of literary nature writing.

Another distinguishing strength of Wild is Strayed’s ability to render the real people in her life with remarkable emotional nuance, transforming them into fully realized characters without compromising their authenticity. Her mother, Bobbi, emerges as the memoir’s most radiant presence, depicted with a depth of tenderness that reveals both the magnitude of their bond and the emotional devastation caused by her loss. Strayed’s assertion that “the amount that she loved us was beyond her reach. It could not be quantified or contained. It was the ten thousand named things in the Tao Te Ching’s universe and then ten thousand more” (13) encapsulates not only the intensity of her mother’s affection but also the reverence with which Strayed remembers her. This mother-daughter relationship becomes one of the memoir’s most compelling themes, offering a refreshing alternative to the conventional dominance of romantic relationships in contemporary narratives. The grief Strayed endures following her mother’s death is raw, unfiltered and profoundly moving, highlighting the irreplaceability of maternal love. Equally affecting is her portrayal of Paul, whose patience and kindness persist even as their marriage deteriorates. The author’s evident admiration for him, despite her own failings, underscores her capacity to acknowledge goodness in others with honesty and grace. Through these carefully crafted depictions, Cheryl Strayed invites readers to engage not only with her journey of self-reconstruction but also with the complex, enduring ties that shape human identity.

A striking feature of Wild that is also worth mentioning is that it often reads more like a novel than a traditional memoir, a quality that heightens its emotional impact. This literary immediacy makes it particularly surprising to remember that the events described are real, which in turn sparked significant criticism from experienced hikers and backpackers, who faulted Staryed for, as mentioned before, her lack of preparation, her disregard for Leave No Trace principles as she threw her boots away and her failure to complete the Pacific Crest Trail. Yet Cheryl Strayed never claimed to offer a how-to guide and her poor decisions were consistent with a narrator in a profound emotional crisis. This blend of realism and narrative craft renders the memoir both immersive and thought-provoking.

To sum up, Wild is a deeply engaging memoir that blends emotional honesty with vivid storytelling, drawing readers into Cheryl Strayed’s search for healing and redirection. Her gift lies in turning her personal struggles into a story that feels both intimate and somehow relatable, allowing the physical journey on the trail to mirror the emotional one within. The clarity of her descriptions, the sincerity with which she portrays the people she loved and lost and the courage to show herself at her most flawed all contribute to a narrative that stays with the reader long after it ends. In this sense, Wild reveals that healing rarely comes in a straight line but in the uneven miles we manage to walk despite the weight we carry.

2012. Hilary Mantel’s Bring Up the Bodies: A Compelling Reimagining of the Tudor Court – Neus Heras Mena

Edition reviewed: 4th Estate, 2019

The historical fiction novel Bring Up the Bodies by English author Hilary Mantel (1952-2022), was published in 2012, as a sequel to Wolf Hall (2009). Both novels belong to the Wolf Hall Trilogy or The Thomas Cromwell series along with the third volume The Mirror & the Light (2020). The trilogy follows Thomas Cromwell’s experiences as Prime Minister of Henry VIII’s court. Bring Up the Bodies earned Mantel several literary awards such as the Man Booker Prize of 2012, and the Costa Book Awards for the category of Novel and Book of the Year in 2012. In January 2014, both Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies were brought alive on stage by the main British theatre company, The Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC). Likewise, the first two volumes of the Wolf Hall Trilogy were later adapted into a BBC television series titled Wolf Hall, broadcast in 2015.

Drawing from Henry VIII’s notorious reign (April 1509–January 1547), Mantel begins Bring Up the Bodies in September 1535. Through the viewpoint of Thomas Cromwell, Secretary to the King, the reader witnesses how Henry VIII progressively redirects his attention from his second wife Anne Boleyn—depicted as the novel’s antagonist figure—to the captivating Jane Seymour, daughter of the noble Seymour family, who owns Wolf Hall. The King, tired of how his union to Anne Boleyn does not provide him with a male heir, wishes to terminate their marriage. Furthermore, rumours accusing Anne Boleyn of not only maintaining affairs with other men but also of planning the King’s death, lead the ambitious Cromwell to secure her downfall. Cromwell, an intelligent man who “never spares himself in the King’s service” (7), takes advantage of such accusations to strengthen his own position. Throughout Anne’s announcement of her pregnancy and the death of Katherine of Aragon, Henry’s first wife, the Boleyn family aims to solidify its position of power. Nonetheless, Anne’s miscarriage further invalidates her marriage to Henry (though they have a daughter: the future queen Elizabeth I). Cromwell attempts to negotiate a separation with Anne’s father and brother, but the latter refuses to help. Once sufficient evidence is collected to convict Anne of treason and adultery, she is executed at the Tower of London, thereby clearing the path for Henry to marry Jane Seymour. Cromwell’s ingenuous schemes earn him a barony and increase his reputation to the monarch’s eyes, at least for the time being.

Although Mantel’s use of the third person pronoun ‘he’ to narrate Thomas Cromwell’s perspective makes it, at times, confusing to discern who the pronoun refers to—especially whenever two or more male characters engage in conversation—it remains remarkable that, despite using third-person instead of first-person narration, Mantel is able to bring the reader so close to the characters’ psychological landscape. Additionally, Mantel arranges to make the reader enter Thomas Cromwell’s mind, a man who, despite being ruthless, cold and intelligently manipulative, turns put to be an understandable, sympathetic and even admirable character as opposed to Anne Boleyn, who is, at the eyes of Cromwell, a political obstacle. Another striking aspect of Bring Up the Bodies is how compellingly the relationship between Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII is presented. Mantel reveals the dynamic between a king largely absorbed in his political concerns and multiple marriages and his capable but also ambitious secretary. Although the narrative addresses Henry’s desire to move from one marriage to the next, the true focus remains on Cromwell, who works behind the scenes, directing events and bearing the pressures of the kingdom. Mantel presents a Henry totally dependent on his Secretary: “by night, he lies awake; he stares at the craved roof beams; he numbers his days. He says, ‘Cromwell, Cromwell, what shall I do? Cromwell, save me from the Emperor, Cromwell, save me from the Pope’” (9).

Also commendable is Mantel’s use of conversational, approachable language, which successfully immerses the reader into Henry VIII’s court, without sounding anachronistic. Mantel presents the story in a way which does not require the readers to acclimatise themselves to her narrative style. The prose in the novel is effortless, therefore ensuring an engaging pace, which at the same time, leaves room for intrigue even for the reader who is already familiarized with the history of England. The use of dialogue, although purely fictional, successfully establishes a convincing and alluring atmosphere which brings up the readers closer to the historical figures present in the scenes. In Bring Up the Bodies, the Tudor court is appealingly brought to life, and its historical figures are drawn with a humanity which brings them closer to the reader. In other words, Mantel succeeds in transforming what are, in essence, a set of archival and historical documents in the British royal archive into a compelling and vivid novel. Generally, Mantel’s sophisticated, yet non convoluted language finds a way to set a captivating and tense atmosphere, especially as the novel reaches Anne Boleyn’s collapse and brutal execution scene.

To conclude, Hilary Mantel’s Bring Up the Bodies is a well-constructed historical novel which combines engaging intrigue with a striking characterisation of popular historical figures through approachable dialogues. The novel’s compelling pace makes it difficult to put down and succeeds in transporting the reader into the Tudor period. Ultimately, Bring Up the Bodies is a good read not solely for those interested in the political and personal matters of Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII’s court, but also for those who search for a gripping, intriguing narrative concerning courtly drama. Hilary Mantel’s portrayal of Anne Boleyn’s downfall brings past events back alive in an engaging and absorbing manner.

2012. The Disappointing Promise of Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass – Aray Teixidor Pérez

Edition reviewed: Bloomsbury, 2012

Sarah Janet Maas (b. 1986, New York) is an American best-selling author of ‘Romantasy’ (romance and fantasy) novels, known for her series Throne of Glass, A Court of Thorns and Roses and Crescent City. Her debut novel, which she started writing at age sixteen, was originally posted as Queen of Glass on FictionPress.com, where it became extremely popular. The original content was deleted after its publication in 2012 under its new title, Throne of Glass. The novel won the Arkansas Teen Book Award in 2017. From then on, Maas’s novels have been recurrently nominated for and awarded the Goodreads Choice Awards (from 2017 to 2024); her latest novel House of Flame and Shadows won the 2025 Libby Book Award for the Romantasy category.

Throne of Glass (2012) started as a retelling of the folk tale “Cinderella” with its protagonist as an assassin instead of a princess. As the first entry of the series with the same name, it follows the story of Celaena Sardothien, an imprisoned assassin who is offered a chance to participate in a competition against other criminals in which she could be appointed the King’s Champion and eventually gain her freedom. Under a false identity, Celaena goes to the royal castle of Rifthold in the corrupted kingdom of Adarlan to be trained with the other participants. However, the competition takes a dark turn when the contestants start being murdered one by one. In order to ensure her own safety, the protagonist joins the investigation to find the culprit. At the same time, she grows closer to Prince Dorian Havilliard and the captain of the royal guard, Chaol Westfall, developing romantic feelings for both of them. Overall, the novel deals with Celaena’s confusing feelings for the young men while she faces the cruel events happening at the castle.

This synopsis might appear to describe a fascinating story full of emotion and mystery, with conspiracies and danger around every corner, suggesting a thrilling and strong plot. However, it only leads to misconception in contrast to what the novel actually delivers. First, the genre of romantasy creates expectations for an equal amount of romance and fantasy, yet the main aspect of magic in the story is that “the King of Adarlan had outlawed it all—magic, Fae, faeries—and removed any trace” (30). Other than that, the fantasy elements and setting are barely relevant to the plot. Second, the premise implies that Celaena must face numerous challenges in order to fight for her survival and save her world, making little mention of the romantic aspects. Meanwhile, the actual story mainly follows her relationships with both young men (Dorian and Chaol) and the various ways she tries to impress them, paying no attention to her advances in the tournament or her fight for safety and freedom. And third, although the mysterious deaths of the participants are an appealing part of the plot, they feel meaningless within the story, other than the danger they represent for the protagonist. Besides, most of the deaths lack impact because the characters have not been properly introduced beforehand. Overall, while the premise of the plot remains interesting and exciting, the final execution lacks a deeper exploration of themes and events initially presented in the story, and only the romantic subplots are fully developed and explored.

Curiously enough, although the story focuses on the protagonist and her companions, none of the characters are well constructed. First, the secondary characters appear only at a surface level or are overlooked, having zero impact on the story. The only non-main character that has any relevance is Nehemia Ytger, the princess of Eyllwe, who is visiting the kingdom to learn their customs and who develops a close friendship with Celaena. However, the princess mostly appears as a supporting character for the protagonist, so her own story is unexplored. Second, the two love interests are cliché: Dorian is a flirtatious narcissist and Chaol is an overprotective brute. Moreover, their attraction to Celaena is purely based on how mesmerised they are by her beauty, an unforgettable trait mentioned repeatedly throughout the novel, such as when “the prince’s eyes shone with amusement at her brashness but lingered a bit too long on her body” (17) or “an expression of surprise crossed his features when he beheld her in her finery” (57). Altogether, the stereotypical portrayals are not unacceptable but their lack of depth and character development as well as their superficial attraction to Celaena make both of them plain and displeasing love interests.

Finally, Celaena is a poorly written protagonist. She is introduced as the deadliest assassin known in the kingdom, fierce and determined, yet her actions portray a negligent girl whose attention shifts completely towards her potential lovers as soon as she sets foot in the castle, seemingly forgetting about the tournament and her desire for freedom. Additionally, as previously mentioned, her beauty is her most impactful trait alongside her intelligence, which is hinted at a handful of times, such as when the prince “had to remember she was an assassin with the blessing of a pretty face and sharp wits” (35) as he was staring at her from a distance. And even then, her appearance is acknowledged first. Her cleverness is questionable, as it rarely corresponds to her actions. Under the threat of a murderer on the loose, she finds a bag of candy with “no note, not even a name scribbled on the bag. With a shrug and glowing eyes, Celaena pulled out a handful of sweets (...) and crammed some of the candy into her mouth” (211). Considering her profession and her situation as a potential victim, one would expect her to be more wary, while actions such as these show a careless protagonist, different from the sharp-witted assassin introduced at the beginning.

To conclude, Throne of Glass is a novel born from an intriguing twist in a known tale, with a wonderful argument and great potential, but fails to meet the expectations set by that premise. As the first volume of a series, it is expected not to explore all the aspects of the story in order to continue it in the following entries. However, the lack of compromise to the initial plot by shifting the attention towards the romance, and the underdevelopment of the main characters, result in an unsatisfactory start for an allegedly intriguing series.

2012. Louise Erdrich’s The Round House: Deeply Moving and Historically Significant – Anna Garriga Soler

Edition reviewed: HarperCollins Publishers, 2012

Louise Erdrich (b. 1954, Little Falls, Minnesota), an author known for exploring her Ojibwe nation heritage in North Dakota, is one of the most respected voices in Native American literature. As a young woman, she worked on farms and in hospitality-related jobs before becoming a writer, publishing not only novels, but also poetry and children's books. In addition to her writing, Erdrich owns an independent bookstore, Birchbark, which she manages with her children. The Round House, the author's fourteenth novel, was written while Erdrich battled cancer—intensifying the emotional weight writing it had on her—and was published in 2012 as the second book of her Justice Trilogy—The Plague of Doves (2008), The Round House (2012), and LaRose (2016)—, all of them interconnected stories exploring themes like crime, punishment, historical trauma and Indigenous identity. The Round House, a combination of literary fiction, the thriller, and the Bildungsroman genres, was quickly acclaimed by the critics and won the National Book Award.

The Round House recounts the Spring and Summer of 1988 in the Ojibwe Indian reservation in North Dakota. The central plot revolves around the brutal assault on Geraldine, who gets home beaten, raped, and doused in gasoline. From this point, Judge Coutts, Geraldine's husband, and Joe Coutts, their son and the novel's first-person narrator, focus their attention on investigating who the culprit is to bring him to justice. The revelation of key information for Joe's investigation comes from multiple sources, including ancient tribal traditions, Ojibwe mythology, his father's legal files, and the help of his unwavering friends. The investigation becomes increasingly complex as Joe searches for the culprit’s identity, with both external figures and members of the community itself adding layers of suspicion, tension, and mystery. Joe will have to make use of every clue he finds, as the culprit may be closer than he thinks. At the heart of the novel lies the great legal limitations that reservations have always suffered due to the absence of protection offered by the United States legal system.

The most fundamental pillar of the novel is the first-person narration. Joe is an intelligent boy who deeply cares for his parents and is strongly connected to the community around him. The fact that he is the narrator gives the narrative a tender attractiveness of discovery, and of an innocence in decline. While the young, 13-year-old Joe provides a sweet and relatively innocent vision, ephemeral glimpses into the future are given by Joe decades later, which are crude and break with the vision marked by the inevitable ignorance of his former self. In fact, he anticipates the death of his best friend right at the beginning of the novel: “I had three friends. I still keep up with two of them. The other is a white cross on the Montana Hi-Line. His physical departure is marked there, I mean” (17), and it is not until the end of the novel that the reader knows how and why he dies. The combination of the ignorance and wisdom provided by the two visions creates a churning mix of emotions that leaves an indelible mark on the reader, as is also observed in the young Joe when he comments confused why his beaten up mother smells: “Gasoline, I said. I smelled it. Why did she smell like gas? Did she go to Whitey’s?” (15). Not much later, he understands that his mother did not smell like gasoline from refuelling her car, but because her attacker tried to burn her alive before she escaped. Erdrich flawlessly presents the problematic situation of the reservations and the law from this duality, since the impact of what is narrated is perceived and digested as a shocking lesson, but also places the reader in a receptive and emotional state, predisposed to learn.

The Round House also stands out for everything the argument encompasses. Set, as noted, in the Ojibwe reservation in North Dakota, portraying and denouncing the precarious situation regarding assaults on indigenous women, mostly by white men, the novel is composed of multiple layers that enrich and complete the result without ever moving away from reality. Also, the combination of real statistics on rapes provided by the author at the end of the book and Joe's fictional story merge to form the perfect plot to touch upon, even if superficially, multiple themes such as the tribe's traditional culture, community, friendship, sense of belonging, justice, morality, and found family. Being a not too long novel, it is surprising how profoundly psychologically developed the characters are. In its 317 pages, the author manages to present the reader with highly complex, diverse, and interesting characters who evolve and ignite the curiosity to know more about them, because even if they are secondary characters, they are worth exploring in a much deeper way.

While few aspects of the novel have been widely criticized or commented on negatively, there are three points worth addressing. Firstly, the novel lacks conventional dialogue markers. This writing style can slow down the reading and hinder the thread of the interactions. Even so, this style seems to be perfect for a novel that takes memory as its starting point; that is, it does not narrate the present directly. Also, Erdrich’s stye approaches the tribe's oral tradition, blurring transitions between what is said, what is thought, and what is narrated, thus allowing a flow of reading that omits artificial visual interruptions. Secondly, another aspect to comment on is the pace. By including so many stories, points of view, and spaces, the fluidity of the narrative is affected. At one moment, a part of the story referring to the site where the rape took place may be developing, and the next, we find the group of young friends experimenting with alcohol and tobacco. Although many of the passages are necessary to observe the transition of Joe's psyche, others can break the rhythm of the narration and feel dispensable, repetitive, or a bit chaotic. Finally, the ending of the novel feels abrupt, without clarifying how some of the events are closed, leaving the reader in shock. In fact, the ending seems still open, but this may be, in fact, part of the novel’s charm.

In conclusion, The Round House is more than a well-constructed plot and good characters that give it life. Erdrich takes the basis of reservation realities and draws on Joe's double perspective to linger for long in the reader’s mind, imparting in the richest possible way a lesson about the human consequences, trauma, and systematic precariousness in indigenous reservations. The Round House is definitely an essential and absolutely recommendable reading, both for its emotional resonance and its historical significance in the treatment of Native Americans.

2013. We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler: A Family’s Odyssey into Human Identity – Roger Vallès Fitó

Edition reviewed: Putnam (Penguin Group), 2013

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves (2013) is a novel by Karen Joy Fowler (b. 1950, Bloomington, Indiana), an author widely regarded as one of the most versatile and intellectually agile voices in American fiction. Fowler is celebrated for her elegant prose, nuanced characterizations, and sustained engagement with ethical questions at the intersection of science, family, and identity. Throughout her career, she has received numerous accolades for her contributions to both speculative and literary fiction. Her short stories have earned particular recognition, including the 1987 Astounding Award for Best New Writer for “Recalling Cinderella” and the 2010 World Fantasy Award for “The Pelican Bar”, while her novel We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves secured Fowler the 2014 PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction and a place on the shortlist for the Man Booker Prize. It remains a defining work in her production and a touchstone of twenty-first-century American literature, inaugurating a phase in which Fowler interrogates the boundaries between human and nonhuman experience and the emotional and moral legacies of scientific experimentation.

Fowler structures the narrative as a first-person retrospective by Rosemary Cooke, who reconstructs her childhood through a non-linear progression that gradually builds tension and intrigue, which Fowler ultimately releases in an emotional cascade of intimate yet intellectually unsettling feelings. The novel begins in the present, with Rosemary—now a college student—confronting the absence of her family and the hindrances of her upbringing. Rosemary is traumatized by her strange childhood and conflicting feelings over the sudden disappearance of her older brother Lowell ten years earlier and her twin sister Fern seventeen years earlier, when the sisters were five: “My parents persisted in pretending we were a close-knit family. (...) At the same time, I am very clear in my own mind. We were never that family” (17, original emphasis). The later revelation that Fern was Rosemary’s chimpanzee foster sister, and the subsequent collapse of her family, lead the story to a new dimension where loss and guilt impel the course of events, and emotional injury becomes the fabric of mental instability. Her father’s research and questionable decision to raise Fern as part of the household, challenges the ethics of animal rights and scientific experimentation, emerging as the original sin that destabilizes the family and catalyses Rosemary's moral and psychological development.

The author challenges the anthropocentric perspective that has historically dominated family narratives, showing how the treatment of Fern becomes a subject of debate even among the Cookes. On the language barrier, while Dr. Cooke expresses his doubts on Fern’s capability to learn a language, Lowell bears a more moral and empathetic stance on the matter: “‘Why does she have to learn our language?’ Lowell asked my father once. ‘Why can’t we learn hers?’” (98). Furthermore, Rosemary raises the issue of how twinness affects language learning by developing a secret code before they learn to speak—a compound of expressions, gestures, and sounds that a graduate student identifies as an idioglossia—allowing her and Fern to communicate with one another. This interdependence leaves Rosemary with a deep trauma after Fern is given away, which she expresses viscerally by stopping speaking, rocking, and even biting her fingers. When she is already fifteen, Rosemary learns that before fleeing home, Lowell had discovered that Fern had been sent to a dubious laboratory, confined with twenty other chimps, prompting him to complain “That’s my sister in that cage” (124). Shortly thereafter he pledged to rescue Fern and became an Animal Liberation Front activist wanted by the FBI.

Fowler’s story interrogates the boundaries of humanity today, emphasizing how the influence between humans and animals is unequivocally bidirectional. Thus, the twins' personalities are irreversibly altered, leaving a lasting imprint on one another. Rosemary claims that her father “was a great believer in our animal natures, far less likely to anthropomorphize Fern than to animalize me” (92). In fact, Rosemary possesses an uninhibited, wild impulse—her “essential monkey-girlness” (137)—an antisocial behaviour that connects only with kindred spirits, such as her friend Harlow: “Yet I felt comfortable with her in a way I never felt comfortable with anyone” (138). Fowler carefully traces the slow revelation of Rosemary’s past, exploring the intersection of yearning and remorse through humour and heartbreak, and foregrounding the complexity of familial relationships without falling into sentimentality. Eventually, Rosemary and Lowell reunite, and he reveals to her that he found Fern in a South Dakota lab, where she now lives with her youngest child, Hazel, whom Fern is teaching to sign: “‘She's already making up signs of her own. Tree dress for leaves.’ (...) ‘Just like her mom’” (216, original emphasis). The tension between human and animal, parent and child, and scientific curiosity and ethical responsibility becomes a lens through which the novel explores broader questions of empathy, moral conscience, and the consequences of treating sentient beings as experimental subjects.

Fowler invites readers to consider the moral complexity of human relationships, the ethical commitments we bear to other beings, and the enduring impact of memory on the formation of self. The novel deals with one of the most controversial issues in the contemporary era regarding civil rights and ethics. But now the activists are not celebrities, intellectuals, or scientists who use their public figures to denounce animal mistreatment. We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves is about anonymous heroes who risk their physical and mental integrity because their free will and affective dignity are at stake. The only objection—if there is any—to this excellent novel is that the author’s aspiration to achieve an artful randomness, meant to reflect the disorder of lived experience while creating a patina of authenticity, comes at the expense of certain narrative coherence. What may be intended as an experimental challenge instead risks disorienting a broader audience unfamiliar with such narrative strategies, for whom the experience proves less intellectually stimulating than simply bewildering. Ultimately, there is no fairy-tale ending, but through this sentimental odyssey there emerges a deeper need to acknowledge the inherent humanity of the animal soul. No one expresses this insight better than Rosemary as she beholds Fern “As if I were looking in a mirror” (307).

2014. A Beautifully Wrapped Void: A Review of Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation – Leire Olariaga Miera

Edition reviewed: Vintage, 2014

Dept. of Speculation is a short autofictional novel by writer and editor Jenny Offill. Born in Massachusetts (in 1968), Offill studied at Stanford University and at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Over the course of her career, Offill has written three novels, co-edited with Elissa Schappell two anthologies of essays, and published several children's books. Her work has received wide acclaim: Dept. of Speculation was included on the New York Times’ list of the best books of 2014, and Meg Wolitzer, in her review of the book, published by NPR, praised the novel as “intriguing, beautifully written, sly and often profound”. In 2016, Offill received a Guggenheim Fellowship, and four years later, her novel Weather was nominated for the Women’s Prize for Fiction. She currently lives in upstate New York and teaches at Syracuse University and Queens University.

Offill’s novel follows an unnamed female narrator, an aspiring writer whose career and identity gradually shift as she becomes a wife and mother. The plot, though not traditionally linear, traces the progression and eventual deterioration of her marriage, which takes a central space after her husband’s infidelity is revealed. Presented as a collection of short paragraphs, anecdotes, and philosophical reflections, the narrative moves abruptly among personal memories, scientific facts, literary quotations, and interior monologue. Through the novel, moments of domestic life blend with abstract speculation, and emotional confusion is expressed indirectly through metaphors rather than explicit confession. Central themes such as marital crisis, motherhood, artistic ambition, and the instability of selfhood emerge not through chronological development but through the accumulation of fragments that gradually sketch the narrator’s psychological landscape. The book’s title, Dept. of Speculation, refers to both a fictional department the narrator once imagined founding with her husband and a metaphorical space where hypothetical futures, anxieties, and alternate selves coexist.

Offill’s prose demonstrates considerable stylistic control. The novel experiments with fragmented sequences, placing scientific facts alongside emotional reflections to create moments of intellectual and thematic resonance. This technique invites readers to draw connections between different registers of experience, aligning the text with a broader contemporary trend toward hybrid forms that tend to blur the boundaries between fiction, essay, and diary. Furthermore, the novel traces interesting topics such as female authorship, the conflict between artistic ambition and domestic responsibility, and the psychological strain caused by marital instability. These concerns have been central to contemporary feminist literary discourse, and Offill’s engagement with them reflects an awareness of the pressures that shape women’s creative lives. In addition, Offill’s ability to make rapid shifts in tone, moving from irony to melancholy with notable agility, should also be highlighted.

There is no doubt that Offill’s writing style hits the reader right away. The experience of reading the book can be described as if you were introduced into the narrator's mind. Readers are bombarded with all her thoughts, and they have no other option but to let themselves flow in her stream of consciousness. However, even though her writing style initially makes a first impact, it dissipates gradually, and the reader can’t help but feel an increasing emptiness. The fragmentary structure, though visually striking and technically disciplined, often results in a narrative that feels disjointed rather than layered and creates a surface impression of complexity without necessarily offering depth. For instance, in one of her several overly sombre, self-absorbed sequences, marked by a pronounced authorial self-consciousness, she introduces Buddhist philosophy: “The Buddhists say there are 121 states of consciousness. Of these, only three involve misery or suffering. Most of us spend our time moving back and forth between these three”(8). The synopsis of the book in Goodreads already warns us about Offill’s writing: “the wife analyzes her predicament, invoking everything from Keats and Kafka to the thought experiments of the Stoics to the lessons of doomed Russian cosmonauts.” In addition, emotional experiences are frequently conveyed through implication rather than direct articulation, which produces a sense of distance rather than intimacy. Overall, the stylistic impact of the prose is evident, yet the emotional resonance expected from such a personal narrative is notably absent, as the writing often seems overly invested in demonstrating its own wit and sophistication.

Another issue arises from the ordinariness of Offill’s story. The novel portrays a marriage affected by infidelity, creative frustration, and domestic strain, which are topics that are neither new nor treated here with particular originality beyond the chosen form. The narrator’s reflections reflect the privileged socioeconomic context in which the characters operate. For instance, in the novel, the narrator and her musician husband have a daughter, and when the relationship changes because of the family dynamics and needs, the husband has an affair. This sends the narrator into an existential crisis, but she gets over it by simply doing some yoga. The author’s privileges clearly shape her perspective, and as a result, engaging with the thoughts, reflections, and advice of someone operating from such a different reality can be challenging. Passages like the protagonist telling herself her situation is “A thought experiment courtesy of the Stoics. If you are tired of everything you possess, imagine that you have lost all these things” (61) can maybe be interesting to people who are bored of their own capacity to have everything they want, but for most people in the world, this advice is not necessary.

In conclusion, Dept. of Speculation occupies an important place in contemporary discussions of experimental fiction and domestic narrative. Its stylistic precision, intellectual range, and thematic concerns have earned Offill praise and recognition within the literary community. Nevertheless, the novel’s reliance on fragmentation, its limited emotional scope, and its focus on relatively ordinary experiences within a privileged context restrict its capacity to engage a broad readership. The narrative offers polished observations but struggles to transform them into affecting literature. As a result, the novel turns out to be an empty, beautifully wrapped present. It may be a great Christmas gift for readers interested in form-driven, minimalist, or hybrid prose, but it is unlikely to satisfy those seeking emotional depth, fascinating characterization, or something that simply makes them feel moved.

2014. The Trials and Tribulations of Kindergarten Moms in Liane Moriarty’s Bechdel-proof Big Little Lies – Dafne Iglesias Solà

Edition reviewed: Penguin Random House, 2017

Big Little Lies (2014) is a mystery novel written by Australian author Liane Moriarty (b. 1966, Sydney). After working in advertising for most of her life, Moriarty became the author of many best-selling novels following her first, Three Wishes, in 2004. Her work revolves around female protagonists who find themselves entangled in a mystery. Big Little Lies, her sixth novel, tells the story of Madeline, Jane, and Celeste: three mothers at Pirriwee Public School whose everyday lives lead to a murder. Moriarty’s novel was famously adapted as an HBO series starring Nicole Kidman, Reese Witherspoon, and Shailene Woodley.

It is the beginning of the school year and the first year of kindergarten for many children. Jane, having recently moved into the coastal town of Pirriwee, is worried about fitting in as a young single mother and about her son adjusting to school. What begins smoothly with her newfound friendship with Madeline and Celeste suddenly changes for the worse when her son is accused of bullying. From this point on, the novel begins to disclose a series of events in the lives of these three women, marked by the parental disputes at the school and other everyday battles. All until, as it is foreshadowed from the beginning, everything leads to a murder.

The structure of the novel is unusual compared to other mystery novels. In the first chapter, the reader learns through a neighbour’s perspective about an incident that happened in the parents’ ‘Audrey and Elvis Trivia Night’. From a collection of accounts given by the parents at the party, the reader learns that a murder has occurred. Then the novel takes us back to six months before the Trivia Night and the reader begins to become acquainted with the events leading up to the tragedy while remaining clueless as to who was killed in the first place. As surprising as it may seem initially, this structure is really effective in keeping the reader hooked to the story. The school-related quarrels that would be deemed innocent in another context become perverse by the anticipation of the catastrophic ending, and the reader cannot help but speculate on how everything is going to turn out.

Although Big Little Lies revolves around everyday life events, the novel never feels monotonous or repetitive. Moriarty’s prose, while never attempting to be literary, manages to make the novel impossible to put down. Her style is easy to read and fast-paced, but also effective in immersing the reader in the characters’ world. Despite never resorting to extensive descriptions, the relaxed atmosphere of Pirriwee is palpable, especially the setting of Tom’s café next to the beach. Moriarty’s characterization is also worth noting: her characters are easy to picture from their first appearance. She places emphasis on their style (Madeline's stilettos as opposed to Jane’s low ponytail), and their body language (especially Celeste’s fragile disposition), but above all their dialogues make them jump off the page. For example, Madeline’s interventions are usually a bit dramatic and give the sense of somebody who speaks quickly. The reader can tell how energetic and fun she is since she introduces herself to Jane: “I’m Madeline, by the way. Madeline Martha MacKenzie. I always mention the Martha for some reason. Don’t ask me why” (19).

There is something fresh about Big Little Lies, and perhaps that has to do with the specific part of society it represents: middle-class white mothers who struggle to find what is best for their children, who wonder if they are good enough, and who secretly or openly compete with other mothers. It may seem surprising for a thriller to be based on this setting, but the author truly had a vision: there can be a great deal of tension among kindergarten parents to the point of making some scary. Besides how original this environment feels, the novel successfully passes the Bechdel test: all the main characters are women and the novel focuses on their big and small fights, finding a good balance between taking their issues seriously and keeping the mystery upbeat. There are some heavy topics addressed, such as domestic violence and sexual assault; others are more light-hearted but also nice to see represented, such as Madeline struggling to function while having PMS. Female friendship is beautifully portrayed, which is always a pleasure.

Some may argue that the novel makes a big fuss over frivolous issues. It is true that the conflicts the characters face are usually petty discussions regarding their children, which may resemble high school drama more than serious adult issues. This can put some readers off, but one should also remember that this novel clearly has the intention to entertain rather than raise social awareness. Furthermore, there are instances in which Moriarty seems to acknowledge the privileged bubble in which her characters live. For example, in the beginning of the novel, Mrs. Ponder ironically comments that “Mothers took their mothering so seriously now” (4). Also, towards the end of the novel, Madeline reflects on the fact that “there are so many levels of evil in the world” (440). She acknowledges how much real suffering there is in humanity, without repressing the hurt she feels when she sees her daughter rejecting her. As shallow as the characters may appear, it could be argued that it is not wrong for someone to talk about this kind of mundane topics as well.

All in all, Moriarty has produced a very solid novel with Big Little Lies. It is entertaining, fun, and impossible to put down, but there is much more than that. As a mystery thriller, it breaks some conventions which make it feel fresh and memorable, such as its unusual structure and very distinctive setting. It may also be a breath of fresh air for the reader to come across such a women-centric novel with positive representation of female friendships while also portraying a wide range of experiences women may go through, as trifling or serious as they can be.

2015. Stating the Obvious: Predictability and Unreliability in Paula Hawkins’s The Girl on The Train – Núria Pedrós Peró

Edition reviewed: Black Swan, 2015

Paula Hawkins has established herself as an emerging promise in the contemporary thriller genre after her debut The Girl on the Train (2015). Born in 1972 in Zimbabwe, Hawkins worked for fifteen years as a journalist before turning to fiction after moving to London in 1989. Published in over forty languages, and having spent thirteen weeks at number one on the New York Times Fiction Best Sellers list in 2015, The Girl on the Train was adapted into a film in 2016 starring Emily Blunt. Hawkins has continued to explore the themes of memory, unreliability in narration and complex female protagonists through the publication of her subsequent works: Into the Water (2017), and A Slow Fire Burning (2021).

Through rather short chapters, Hawkins splits the narrative of her thriller between three women whose lives tragically interlink: Rachel, Megan and Anna. The novel first introduces Rachel Watson, a woman trapped in a cycle of loss and self-destruction, struggling with alcoholism after her divorce from her ex-husband Tom, now Anna’s partner. After losing her job due to her personal struggles, Rachel conceals her unemployment from her roommate by continuing to ride the same train she used to take to London. This has become a solace that allows her to externally observe the lives of strangers and momentarily avoid her own reality. When passing her former neighbourhood, Rachel’s attention is attracted by a couple she nicknames Jess and Jason, who live near her old home, where Tom and Anna now reside. She idealises their relationship, projecting onto them the happiness she once enjoyed; however, her well-crafted fantasy is suddenly shattered when Rachel witnesses ‘Jess’, whose real name is later revealed to be Megan Hipwell, embracing another man, and soon learns that she has gone missing. As Rachel digs deeper, growing increasingly obsessed with Megan’s disappearance, she is led into a web of lies, infidelities, and secrets. The alternating perspectives of the three women unveil deceitful marriages, betrayal, and the realisation that the lives of Megan, Anna and even Tom are far from the perfect images they present, ultimately leading Rachel toward a dangerous truth.

Hawkins swiftly intertwines the perspectives of the three protagonists, producing a fast-paced narrative in which personal details quickly converge toward an anticipated climax. Nevertheless, there is an intrinsic expectation for the multiple narrators to have voices that are distinctive enough so as to sustain the reader’s engagement, an expectation that Hawkins struggles to fulfil. Initially, the author establishes distinguishable traits for each of her narrators: Rachel’s alcoholism positions her as an unreliable source whose self-pitying attitude —"people can see the damage written all over me, can see it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way I move” (27)—creates a stark contrast with Anna’s sexual demeanour, while Megan’s vibrant personality overshadows every woman in her suburban neighbourhood. However, despite these initial distinctions, Hawkins’s prose fails to consistently maintain meaningful differences between the characters. Excluding Rachel, whose dubiousness renders her an exhausting personality from the beginning, there is little insight to be gained into Anna and Megan given that their internal monologues share a remarkably similar register and tone resulting in shallow and underdeveloped backstories. This appears to be rooted in Hawkins’ss overreliance on the “damaged woman” trope, which overtakes the narrative and reduces the characters’ psychological depth, causing them to be repetitive and ultimately unsympathetic. This is not to suggest that female characters must be likeable to be effective; the problem lies, rather, in the lack of nuance when depicting their flaws, often framed through self-absorption: Anna is described as a home-wrecker who is altogether unable to find bliss in the life she has remorselessly taken away from Rachel; Megan is presented as a serial adulteress who holds no accountability for her betrayal prior to her disappearance, and Rachel, in Hawkins’s attempt to present her as real, becomes as much an agent of her misery as a victim. These representations result not only in unappealing characters and dull narrative testimonies but in ones whose predictability diminishes the thrill of the unravelling mystery.

At the same time, Hawkins fails to use the unreliability of Rachel’s narration to her advantage. At first, Rachel’s alcoholism functions as an effective tool for generating suspense, since there is a constant fragmentation of her memory, and her frequent blackouts give way to an uncertainty which encourages the reader to question the information presented regarding Megan’s kidnapping. However, rather than using this strategy to her advantage, Hawkins overuses it, thus causing the flow of the story to become stagnant, gradually losing effectiveness and weakening the impact of later revelations. This is evidenced throughout the investigation into Megan’s disappearance, in which Rachel continuously foregrounds Megan’s husband, whose real name is not Jason but Scott, and her therapist, who turns out to be Megan’s lover, as being the most unlikely suspects due to the classic cliché: “It’s obvious the police will suspect that they have done something to her, and I know it isn’t true” (104). The impossibility of framing “the usual suspects: husband, and lover” (313) becomes so overt that their potential guilt becomes narratively implausible, as revealing either as the actual culprit would result in an anticlimactic resolution. Consequently, the range of perpetrators is narrowed not through subtle clues or a steady reconstruction of Rachel’s memories, but through the excessive emphasis placed on obvious red herrings, causing the novel’s central plot twist to be foreseeable, as only one character remains capable of coherently tying together the intersecting narratives of Rachel, Anna, and Megan. As a result, the unreliable narration undermines the thriller’s capacity to sustain expectation through to its conclusion.

In short, The Girl on the Train, despite succeeding as a page-turner, becomes a predictable read due to its dependence on familiar genre conventions and limited character depth. While Hawkins’s novel remains engaging, these shortcomings prevent it from achieving a lasting complexity, and position it instead as a largely generic example of the thriller genre.

2016. Facing an Uncomfortable Reality: Reading Peggy Orenstein’s Girls & Sex in a Culture That Refuses to Change – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

Edition reviewed: HarperCollins, 2016

Girls & Sex: Navigating the Complicated New Landscape (2016) is a non-fiction work by the American journalist and cultural critic Peggy Orenstein, born in New York City in 1962. Orenstein is widely known for her books on gender, adolescence, and sexuality, including Cinderella Ate My Daughter and Boys & Sex. Girls & Sex became a New York Times bestseller and received critical acclaim for its investigative depth and social relevance. The book belongs to the genre of journalistic social analysis and draws on extensive interviews, academic research, and case studies to examine how contemporary girls experience sex, consent, desire, and power within a deeply gendered culture.

Girls & Sex presents a detailed exploration of teenage girls’ sexual lives in the United States. Orenstein bases her work on interviews with over seventy girls from diverse backgrounds, alongside psychologists, educators, and activists. She addresses topics such as consent, sexual pressure, pornography, rape culture, religious shame, and the lack of comprehensive sex education. The book argues that although girls today are often seen as “liberated”, they still grow up in a society that prioritizes male pleasure and normalizes female discomfort. As Orenstein writes, “I also worry about the incessant drumbeat of self-objectification: the pressure on young women to reduce their worth to their bodies and to see those bodies as a collection of parts that exist for others’ pleasure; to continuously monitor their appearance; to perform rather than to feel sensuality” (12). Orenstein exposes how girls are taught to appear desirable rather than to understand their own desires. The book does not offer a specific solution, but instead reveals the structural and cultural factors that perpetuate sexual inequality, making clear how deeply ingrained these issues are.

A most notable feature is the use of real testimonies and abundant data. Orenstein’s journalistic approach allows the reader to engage directly with girls’ voices, which gives the book emotional weight and credibility. The interviews are detailed and often disturbing, but never sensational. By grounding her arguments in lived experiences, Orenstein avoids abstraction and instead exposes how systemic sexism manifests in everyday situations. The psychological depth of the analysis is particularly strong: the author shows how girls internalize shame, fear, and confusion, often struggling to name their own boundaries. Another key strength is the book’s examination of sex education, or rather the lack of it. Orenstein demonstrates how misinformation, abstinence-only programs, and adult discomfort around sex actively contribute to sexual violence. As she warns, “Parents need to discuss the spectrum of pressure, coercion and consent with their sons, the forces urging them to see girls’ limits as a challenge to overcome. Boys need to understand how they, too, are harmed by sexualized media and porn. They need to see models of masculine sexuality that are not grounded in aggression against women, in denigration of conquest. They need to know about shared pleasure, mutuality, reciprocity” (233). Many girls, she shows, simply lack the language to articulate consent or desire, which leaves them vulnerable. The book is also effective in connecting individual experiences to broader structures such as religion, media, and politics, revealing how generational trauma and moral impositions continue to shape contemporary attitudes toward female sexuality. Orenstein’s tone remains controlled and analytical, even when dealing with deeply emotional material, which strengthens her credibility.

However, the book is not wholly flawless. As it progresses, the arguments begin to feel repetitive, particularly towards the end. The same patterns of coercion, silence, and violence appear again and again. While this repetition reflects the awful reality that sexual violence is widespread and persistent, it can make the reading experience exhausting. For many female readers, the book is not only intellectually demanding but emotionally infuriating, as it describes experiences that are already familiar, and sometimes personally lived. This creates a sense of hopelessness: the problems seem endless, and the solutions remain frustratingly out of reach. Additionally, Girls & Sex is a dense book. Its academic references and detailed reporting may limit its accessibility, which is ironic given how necessary its message is. One might argue that the people who most need to read it (particularly men, or those complicit in maintaining these systems) are the least likely to do so. Despite these challenges, the book’s refusal to simplify or soften its conclusions is also a strength. It does not offer false hope, but instead insists on the urgency of cultural change, even when imagining such change feels nearly impossible.

In conclusion, Girls & Sex is an essential but demanding book. It exposes the depth of sexual inequality with clarity and honesty, even when the result is discomfort or despair. While not an easy read, it is a necessary one, especially for educators, parents, and anyone interested in gender justice.

2016. Attention and Inheritance: Reading Ken Liu’s The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories – Daixing Cao

Edition reviewed: Saga Press, 2016

Ken Liu’s 2016 collection brings together speculative short fiction written across about a decade. Liu (b. 1976, Lanzou, China) is a US programmer, lawyer, and translator, and you can feel those trades in the work: his stories care about rules and systems, but also about people sitting at a table, or a bedside, trying to say what matters. The famous title story draws readers in, but the book holds because it returns, from many angles, to one steady question: how do we carry the past when new tools and new lives press us to set it down?

Liu is not a stylist who hides the mechanics of his writing. He often explains how a world works and then tests what that world does to a bond—parent and child, teacher and student, citizen and state. Forms vary: some stories read like case files or transcripts, some like fables, some like classic science fiction. The tone is even and patient. Jargon is rare. When a story uses science or law, it is there to make the situation clear, not to perform expertise. This plain approach makes the ideas accessible and keeps the focus on choices and consequences.

The title story, “The Paper Menagerie,” turns on two small acts: a mother breathing life into a folded animal, and a son later returning to a language he pushed away. The scene is simple; the cost is high. “Mono no aware” follows a generation ship that survives by rationing fuel and rituals at the same time. A young boy learns that grief can guide action without becoming a pose. “The Bookmaking Habits of Select Species” lists how different beings store memory—skin that records touch, stars used as punctuation. It reads like an essay until it quietly becomes a meditation on why we save anything at all. “The Regular” blends cybernetic enhancement with a detective plot and asks what justice looks like when anger can be tuned. “Good Hunting” tracks a collision between folklore and industry and then asks what desire becomes when bodies can be rebuilt. “The Man Who Ended History” uses a mock documentary frame to argue with itself about proof and witnessing in the face of atrocity. Across these pieces, Liu favours one telling detail that opens onto a system: a form to sign, a checklist, a toy on a shelf.

Translation runs through the book. Sometimes it is literal—between Chinese and English, or between dialects. Often it is larger: parents translating a country to their children; children translating their parents’ past into something they can bear; institutions translating lives into files. Technology becomes a second translator, turning speech into data and memory into storage. The danger is not cartoonish evil but the ease with which clean conversions erase context. Liu’s answer is not to reject systems. Instead, the best stories ask which parts of a person can survive being formatted and which must be held in messier ways—through care, attention, and time.

The collection’s main strength is its balance. Head and heart sit side by side. The prose is clear, the metaphors carry weight without calling attention to themselves, and the speculative ideas are aimed at feelings and choices rather than at spectacle. Several pieces— “The Paper Menagerie,” “Mono no aware,” “The Litigation Master and the Monkey King,” “The Waves”—feel fully shaped and stay with you. There are trade-offs. Liu often adopts a teacherly stance; some stories pause to explain one point too many. A few endings click into place a little too cleanly. Because the range of modes is wide—myth next to legal pastiche next to hard SF—one story can feel cooler or louder than the next. These are minor costs of a writer trying to be both generous and rigorous.

Short fiction can chase twists. Liu uses it to run careful trials. He sets up clear rules, puts pressure on a relationship, and lets readers rehearse judgment: What do we owe to memory? When does consent fail in the face of power? Can apology repair harm without proof? The Chinese and Chinese American threads matter, not as markers to be checked off, but as sources of conflict and metaphor that show how people move through schools, companies, courts, and ships built with someone else in mind. The result is a map of ordinary modern pressure: love in the path of bureaucracy; grief inside an interface; old stories adapting to new shells.

The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories is a plainspoken, generous book. It explains without condescending. It imagines without drifting away from human stakes. If you come for the title story, stay for the quieter arguments the others make—about custody of the past, the limits of neat redemption, and the work of paying attention when the world is built to move quickly. The collection does not pretend that tenderness automatically beats code or law. It does suggest that careful attention can hold its own, and sometimes carry us further than we expect. On those terms, it is easy to recommend.

2016. Generations, Characters, and Perspectives in Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing: Over Two Centuries of Ghanaian and African American History – Clàudia Puelma Jové

Edition reviewed: Penguin Books, 2017

Homegoing (2016) is the debut novel by Ghanaian-American author Yaa Gyasi. Gyasi, born in Mampong, Ghana in 1989 and raised in Alabama, USA, studied English at Stanford University, where she earned a grant that allowed her to return to Ghana in 2009. This trip provided her with the inspiration for the idea behind Homegoing, which was then fully developed while taking a creative writing program at the University of Iowa. Gyasi’s second novel Transcendent Kingdom, also set partly in Ghana, was published in 2020. Homegoing is the recipient of the National Book Critics Circle’s John Leonard Award for Best First Novel and the PEN/Hemingway Award, and its author is the winner of the 2016 National Book Foundation’s 5 under 35.

Homegoing is a multigenerational novel spanning around 250 years, from the late 18th century until the turn of the millennium. It follows the separate lineages of two half-sisters, Effia and Esi, who do not know each other, and have two completely different and contrasting destinies: the former marries a white British slave trader, whereas the latter is sold into slavery and sent to the Southern American plantations. Throughout the seven generations and the points of view of the fourteen different characters that the novel follows, Gyasi touches upon several relevant topics related to black history by focusing on a single character from each of the sisters’ lineage one at a time. Each individual character is shaped by the historical events of their respective eras, both in Ghana with Effia’s descendants, and in the United States with Esi’s, from the Transatlantic Slave Trade, through the Southern American plantations until the Great Migration, and from the wars between the English, the Fantes, and the Asantes to the independence of Ghana from Britain.

Gyasi writes highly complex characters with notable psychological depth in such short space, since each one of them only gets a chapter of around 20 pages. Therefore, every single line is packed with significantly valuable and interesting information, and each family member is portrayed in an incredibly detailed manner. They feel so human that it seems as if they were actual people who had existed in real life and had experienced all the trauma these characters are constantly going through. The novel, thus, reflects extremely genuine and believable scenarios: it is a very realistic depiction of the lives of black people, an accurate representation of what African American and Ghanaian people had and still have to go through, from the late 18th century nearly until the present day. The reader is able to connect with every single character and their story despite the briefness of the chapters; each one leaves an imprint long after finishing the chapter, and their presence can be felt in the later sections, which follow their children and the children of their children. Readers are given the chance to get the full picture of the stories and the origins of both family branches, an opportunity which the characters themselves lack, especially Esi’s descendants in America: they were ripped off their lands and taken to a foreign country, completely severing the ties with their original home country and their ancestors’ history. In a way, the novel also provides a sense of fulfilment for African Americans, since Gyasi has found a way to construct the personal history that most of them were deprived of from the moment their ancestors were captured and turned into slaves.

Because of the multiple characters descended from the sisters, Homegoing does not simply focus on a singular time period and instead shows different times with their corresponding historical and cultural events. Yaw, from Effia’s lineage, a man who stays in Ghana, tells his students that “history is storytelling” (225), and in Homegoing, Gyasi carries the storyline throughout decades and centuries of Ghanaian and American history through the use of remarkably stunning prose. The Transatlantic Slave Trade and the many Ghanaian internal conflicts and wars between tribes—particularly the rivalry between the Fantes and the Asantes—, the Fugitive Slave Act and the convict leasing system in the Southern states after the American Civil War and the subsequent slavery emancipation, the Great Migration from the South to Northern places such as Harlem, or the independence of Ghana from Britain are some of the most relevant events that are reflected in the story. Each of these events shapes the characters belonging to that time period in an extremely accurate way; Gyasi’s thorough research is deeply felt throughout the novel. Something which further enhances her informative purpose is the discussion of different topics that are related to black history, including colonialism, slavery, racism, generational trauma, or drug addiction. Gyasi deals with them in extreme detail, in a very accurate and eye-opening manner, and she does not shy away from the truth which usually involve the many atrocities and cruelties that white people and imperialist forces committed against black people.

In conclusion, Homegoing not only does a great job at portraying meticulously deep characters in a considerably compact way, but it also succeeds in depicting Ghanaian and American history and culture, as well as the most prevalent issues that affected their societies. Through her characters’ voices, Gyasi’s scepticism is shown by admitting that “we cannot know that which we were not there to see and hear and experience for ourselves” (226), and that it is “one thing to research something, another thing entirely to have lived it. To have felt it” (295). In Homegoing, however, she successfully gets as close as one can possibly get to portraying authentic historical and personal experiences and brings the readers along an exceptionally plausible and far-reaching journey which stretches across multiple generations, continents, and centuries.

2016. The Power by Naomi Alderman: Who Has It? Does It Really Matter? – Mery López Díez

Edition reviewed: Penguin Books, 2017

The Power is a speculative fiction novel by British writer Naomi Alderman (b. London, 1974), blending elements of dystopian science fiction and social satire. The novel depicts a near-future world in which women around the globe develop a new organ called the skein, which grants them the biological ability to produce electrical shocks and that can be stimulated by a substance called glitter. This new development grants women a form of physical power that rapidly overturns the gender hierarchies so well known to us. The premise draws heavily on political, social, and historical structures, and by using reversal questions, contemporary systems of dominance are examined. Since its publication, The Power has been widely discussed for its unsettling exploration of gender, violence, and institutional power, positioning it firmly within current debates about feminism, authority, and social change.

The Power is constructed around several narrative threads and portrayed as a historical document edited by fictional scholar Neil Adam Armon. It follows separate stories about women from different backgrounds: Roxy Monke, a British teenager raised by a criminal, troubled family; Allie, a foster child who becomes a religious leader named Mother Eve; Margot Cleary, an ambitious politician from the USA; and Tunde Edo, a Nigerian journalist who recalls the global transformation. As their stories unfold, the narrative traces the rapid evolution of the new power from a biological anomaly to a political and military weapon. What begins as a seemingly emancipatory development soon escalates into widespread upheaval, exposing how swiftly liberation can turn into domination. By following characters across different continents and social positions, Alderman situates intimate personal experiences within vast geopolitical shifts, inviting the reader to observe how power restructures lives and how men’s bodies are in physical danger for a change. The novel repeatedly stresses that the potential risks of power lie in motivation, not in capacity. This phenomenon is successfully depicted when one character asks, about a particularly violent episode, “Why did they do it?” and is told “Because they could. That is the only answer there ever is” (345). This exchange reduces violence to a mere possibility. By this, it is also clear that The Power analyses how gender reversal is used to explore universal moral questions rather than simply flipping oppression; it’s not just women committing violence, it’s about how anyone with it can act destructively.

One of the most salient traits of The Power is Alderman’s construction of morally complex and psychologically layered characters. None of the protagonists can be easily classified as heroes or villains. Instead, characters in The Power have complex moral compasses. Allie’s transformation into Mother Eve is particularly distinctive; her spiritual rhetoric becomes increasingly authoritarian, blurring the line between faith and manipulation. Margot, although initially motivated by political reform, gradually employs coercive strategies that replicate the very power structures she seeks to challenge. Roxy, fierce and impulsive, embodies the dichotomy between vulnerability and brutality. Instead of relying on simplistic portrayals of oppression, Alderman situates power as a corrupting force regardless of gender. The novel constantly emphasizes how both fear and desire replace ideals of justice. As the novel determines in relation to one of the characters, “It doesn't matter that she shouldn't, that she never would. What matters is that she could, if she wanted. The power to hurt is a kind of wealth” (76).

The narrative structure, built upon fragmented perspectives, short chapters, and a metafictional frame, reinforces the idea that power is not only exercised through institutions but also embedded in perception, fear, and especially potential violence. The emphasis of the author is not on what characters do, but on what they could do. However, from a critical perspective, The Power can be read as ultimately subverting women’s achievements, suggesting that if women were to acquire physical dominance, they would reproduce or even surpass the same structures of violence historically associated with male power. The novel’s risks implying that women are incapable of exercising power in benevolent ways, as well as oversimplifying sensitive topics, particularly in its depiction of cultural shift. The representation of women’s rebellion in conservative societies, such as Saudi Arabia, risks reproducing a Western perspective, implying that once power is obtained, centuries of religious and cultural practices would be rapidly discarded. The suggestion that Muslim women are simply waiting for something to break to act as Western feminists or liberal women flattens complex identities and historical realities. In this sense, Alderman is most convincing when examining individual psychology and institutional corruption and less so when she describes a possible cultural upheaval as immediate, which is unlikely. However, the novel’s framing as a historical document from the far future helps to relieve this limitation.

To conclude, The Power is an incredibly uncomfortable, provocative, and intellectually ambitious novel that combines speculative imagination with sharp social critique. Its layered and morally complex characters, global perspective, and innovative narrative produce a satisfactory and thought-provoking reading experience; even those who dislike how the novel treats certain topics may nonetheless find the reading experience critically productive. It is targeted at readers interested in feminist theory and dystopian fiction, particularly those seeking a text that questions rather than comforts. However, it is important to note that the novel contains explicit depictions of abuse, sexual violence, and war, which may be distressing for some readers. Despite its harshness, the story ultimately succeeds in exposing the fragility of moral systems and the volatility of social order, which resonate deeply when closing the boo and returning to society as it is.

2017. From Personal Trauma to Collective Resistance: Race, Voice and Social Justice in Angie Thomas’s The Hate U Give – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

Edition reviewed: HarperCollins, 2017

Angie Thomas (b. 1988, Jackson, Mississippi) is an American young adult author whose work focuses on issues of race, violence and social justice in contemporary American society. She studied Fine Arts at Belhaven University, where she obtained her Bachelor degree, becoming the first Black teenager to graduate from her creative writing course. Thomas was marked by personal experiences with gun violence from an early age, including witnessing a shooting between gangs at the age of six, and although she was initially interested in fantasy, she was encouraged by a teacher to use her own experiences to give voice to the communities that had historically been silenced. Thomas uses her literary work as a form of activism to fight for the Black Lives Matter movement. The Hate U Give (2017), her debut and most renowned novel, addresses the controversial issue of police brutality against Black communities and its social consequences. The novel debuted at number one on The New York Times Best Seller List for young adult fiction in its first week of publication and received several prestigious awards, including the Boston Globe–Horn Book Award and the Edgar Award for Best Young Adult Novel.

The Hate U Give follows the story of Starr Carter, a sixteen-year-old Black girl who lives balancing her two contrasting worlds: her home in the Black and working-class neighbourhood of Garden Heights, and her daily life at Williamson Prep, a largely white private school. The story unfolds when Starr witnesses the fatal shooting of her childhood best friend Khalil by a white police officer during a traffic stop. After Khalil is ordered out of the car, the officer shoots him three times when he mistakenly assumes that Khalil is reaching for a weapon, when he was actually asking Starr how was she feeling, killing him in front of her. Initially, Starr’s identity as the only witness of the murder remains secret, but following the grand jury’s resolution whether to indict the officer or not, social tensions erupt into protests and riots across Garden Heights. Confronted with injustice and grief, Starr chooses to speak up publicly about the events, transforming her personal trauma into collective resistance, promising herself to preserve Khalil’s memory and continue her fight against systemic violence. While the novel mainly centres around the Black Lives Matter movement, it also explores broader themes such as intra-community dynamics within Black neighbourhoods, the shifting language and behaviour Starr adopts between her Black and white environments, and moments of tenderness and emotional growth, particularly in her relationship with her boyfriend.

A remarkable feature of The Hate U Give is its treatment of powerful and socially relevant themes, which are presented with a sense of emotional authenticity. The novel confronts racism, police brutality, identity and social justice by linking Starr’s personal experiences to broader structural inequalities. This tension is evident in moments where institutional injustice is openly questioned, such as when Uncle Carlos challenges Starr’s father by asking, “Why does it always have to be about race with you?” to which he responds by exposing the unequal consequences faced by Black citizens: “If I kill Tyrone, I’m going to prison. If a cop kills me, he’s getting put on leave” (38). Similarly, Starr’s internal conflict as a witness reflects the fear and silence imposed on marginalized voices: “I’ve seen it happen over and over again: a black person gets killed for being black. (…) I always said that if I saw it happen to somebody, I would have the loudest voice. (…) Now I am that person, and I’m too afraid to speak” (27). In addition, Thomas’s use of a strong and realistic narrative voice, reinforced through natural dialogue and vernacular language, positions the story in real experience and emotional truth, as illustrated by Starr’s father’s warning that “This ain’t funny. (…) I told you they was gon’ come after you” (141). Through this authenticity, the novel encourages critical thinking, particularly among young adult readers, making them question systems of power, stereotypes and the cost of silence. This is powerfully reflected in Starr’s moment of disillusionment, when she states “I did everything right, and it didn’t make a fucking difference. (…) And for what? Justice Khalil won’t get? They don’t give a fuck about us, so fine. I no longer give a fuck” (242), emphasizing the novel’s role as both a literary work and a depiction of society.

Another notable asset is the construction of Starr Carter as an engaging and deeply relatable protagonist. Her internal struggle to navigate between her predominantly Black neighbourhood and her mostly white private school is portrayed with complexity and authenticity, allowing the readers to emphasize with her constant self-monitoring. This duality is explicitly acknowledged when Starr reflects “Funny how it works with white kids though. It’s dope to be black until it’s hard to be black” (12), capturing the conditional acceptance she experiences. Her emotional uncertainty also reinforces this realism, as seen in her admission that “Maybe I’m being sensitive. Or maybe things have changed, maybe I’ve changed. For now we’ll keep pretending everything is fine” (53, original emphasis). Beyond Starr, the novel also enriches its narrative presenting a cast of complex and well-rounded secondary characters, particularly her parents and friends, who embody diverse perspectives on resistance, protection, anger and hope in the face of injustice. The emotional impact of the novel is equally significant, as it confronts readers with moments of intense vulnerability and trauma, such as the shooting itself. As Starr narrates, “I blink through my tears. Officer One-Fifteen yells at me, pointing the same gun he killed my friend with” (21). At the same time, it also offers reflective moments that encourage resilience, including the reminder that “Sometimes you can do everything right and things will go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right” (100). Despite the gravity of the themes that the novel deals with, Thomas maintains a careful balance between despair and hope by incorporating moments of love, humour and emotional connection, particularly in Starr’s romantic relationship, which provides warmth and relief in the middle of the conflict: “I remember the guy who spends almost every night on the phone with me talking about nothing and everything. The one who loves to make me smile” (55).

The Hate U Give stands out as a powerful and impactful young adult novel that successfully combines literary quality with social relevance. Through a compelling narrative and a deeply human perspective, Angie Thomas sheds light on systemic racism and police brutality while giving voice to experiences that are often marginalized or silenced. The novel’s strength lies not only in its engagement with the Black Lives Matter movement, but also in its sophisticated portrayal of identity, community, family and personal growth. By focusing the story on a relatable protagonist and surrounding her with complex, multidimensional characters, Thomas invites the readers to emotionally connect with the realities depicted, fostering empathy and critical reflection. Ultimately, The Hate U Give is not only a reflection of contemporary social issues, but also a call for awareness, dialogue and resilience, securing its place as a significant work in modern young adult literature.

2018. Reclaiming Voice and Power: Madeline Miller’s Circe as a Contemporary Myth – Aitana Tarango

Edition reviewed: Bloomsbury, 2019

Madeline Miller (b. 1978, Boston), published her first novel The Song of Achilles in 2011. This first novel was awarded the Orange Prize for Fiction in 2012 and was a New York Times Bestseller. Circe was published in 2018 and it was an immediate success, earning Miller prizes such as the Indies Choice Best Adult Fiction of the Year or The Red Tentacle Award. Like her debut novel, Circe is based on Greek mythology and retells the story of the daughter of Helios. The publication of her second novel firmly established Miller as a prominent writer of the contemporary literary scene.

Circe follows, as noted, the story of the daughter of the Sun god, a woman who discovers that she holds the power of witchcraft. The book is a reimagining of her character, who appears in Homer’s Odyssey, with Miller giving voice to what had been a minor figure in Greek mythology and literature. Circe is isolated, and unlike her relatives she is considered weak and is constantly ridiculed by her own family; however, she discovers that she has powers. Using these, she transforms Scylla, a nymph, into a monster, which angers Zeus. As a punishment, she is sent to the isolated Mediterranean island of Aiaia, where she keeps practicing and perfecting the art of witchcraft. On the island, she begins to shape her own identity, free from the constraints of her family and the story unfolds as she interacts with the most famous figures of mythology, such as Odysseus, the Minotaur or Medea. Through the encounters, Circe learns about power, love and mortality, and by reclaiming her story, Miller presents Circe’s journey as one of empowerment and self-discovery.

Madeline Miller reconstructs a very powerful female character in Circe to expose and discuss the misogynist nature of Greek mythology. From the start, it is stated that women hold a lower category than men in terms of authority and autonomy, and women with power are perceived as a threat to the gods. For example, daughters were usually used as pawns to consolidate marriages. When Circe is born to Helios and the Oceanid Perse, her father declares “she will make a fair match” (3), meaning that for him, women’s destiny is, simply, marriage. It is also observed how power equals impunity, especially for male characters, as they are able to act more freely than women, who are easily punished for their misdeeds. Therefore, Miller writes about the journey of Circe, from a marginalised individual who is constantly mocked by her relatives, to a powerful figure who embraces her identity and choices. Furthermore, by writing this novel in the first person, the author lends voice to a usually silenced character, granting her the chance to reclaim her own story. The greatest power Circe accomplishes is not only the mastering of witchcraft, but also her autonomy to make choices, such as how she raises her child by Odysseus Telegonus or her final decision. Circe does not only reinterpret the story of mythological figures but also allows Miller to comment on contemporary themes that debate gender, autonomy and power.

One aspect that attracts readers to the main character is how human she is despite being a mythological figure. Circe experiences fear, desire, loneliness and emotions that overall make her relatable and allow readers to connect with her journey. One of the emotions that is explored is remorse and the desire to acknowledge one’s mistakes. This sense of remorse is clearly seen through Scylla’s transformation, which affects Circe throughout the novel. Furthermore, her relationship with motherhood is worth mentioning. Just as with marriage, women’s fate according to men was to secure the continuity of the linage, meaning, to bear children, as it is described in the novel. However, Miller offers a beautiful exploration of motherhood by portraying Circe’s. Circe raises Telegonus alone, and readers see her navigating this new role in isolation, which depicts her vulnerability and capacity for unconditional love.

One last thing to mention about the novel is, obviously, Madeline Miller’s mastering of the art of storytelling. Miller’s capacity to reconstruct the mythological world that Circe inhabits is astonishing. Her writing is both lyrical and accessible, making it easy to engage with the text. However, it is important to note that the pace of the story can feel slow at times, as there are many events that need to be contextualised in order to fully understand Circe’s story. Furthermore, there are many different characters that, especially if you are not familiar with Greek mythology, are difficult to follow.

In conclusion, I believe that Circe by Madeline Miller is a magnificent read for those who enjoy Greek mythology, and although readers who lack knowledge on the topic may feel slightly lost at times, it can also be a good introduction to that world. Miller is an outstanding writer who is able to depict the magnificence of mythology while introducing topics that resonate with the current panorama.

2018. Beth Macy’s Dopesick: The Structural Failures behind the Opioid Crisis in The USA– Paula Portillo Jimenez

Little, Brown and Company, 2018

Beth Macy (b. 1965, Urbana, Ohio), published her non-fiction work Dopesick; Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company that Addicted America in 2018. Macy, the first in her family to attend college, is currently a Democratic candidate for Virginia’s 6th congressional district for the 2026 midterm elections. Dopesick addresses topics usually present in Macy’s works such as poverty, economic decline and addiction to the hard drugs that are present in the USA. The book received a Los Angeles Times Book prize and was part of multiple “best-of” lists of 2018, including The New York Times Book Review’s 100 Notable books of 2018, The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune and Amazon. In 2021, the book was adapted into a Hulu miniseries starring Michael Keaton.

Dopesick studies the origins and expansion of the opioid epidemic in the United States, combining historical facts regarding drug overprescription and abuse with interviews and anecdotes from the people who have been affected. The book starts with OxyContin, then moves to heroine and finishes with the current crises of fentanyl. Macy illustrates how addiction spread rapidly especially in economically vulnerable communities. Purdue Pharma, owned by the Sackler family, is central to the narrative, as they were the ones to release the powerful, addictive painkiller OxyContin in 1996. They had the drug approved by the FDA on the grounds that one of its components made it safe from recreational users and addicts seeking a quick fix, which turned out to be false. Macy also offers a critique of how the healthcare system contributed to the problem, highlighting how doctors were bribed by Purdue to overprescribe opioids and how warning signs were systematically ignored. Macy argues that the crisis was not the result of individual mistakes, but a failure in the United States health system, driven by profit instead of human decency.

Macy’s reporting is strongly researched. She draws on court documents, medical studies, interviews, first-hand testimonies and doctors’ opinions, which gives her full credibility. With these testimonies and interviews, the author provides psychological depth to the issue, allowing readers to understand how addiction not only affects individuals but also their families and communities, often as the result of the US failing health system. Macy observes that “Many cases of the morphine habit could have been avoided had the family physician not given the drug in the first place” (37), remarking the lack of responsibility of medical professionals, which could have helped in the crises. As an example, Macy talks about how in Australia and Europe the doctors were “Often prescribing physical therapy, anti-inflammatory, biofeedback, or acupuncture” (43) before prescribing opioids, whereas in the US the first option as well as the only one that an affordable medical assurance covers are opioids. In addition, she highlights how the medical system is compromised. This is further proven when in one of her interviews, lawyer Emmitt Yeary mentions that “The doctors started prostituting themselves for a few trips to Florida” (67), a blunt statement that illustrates the systemic corruption in the USA. In general, Dopesick succeeds in explaining the complexity of the opioid crisis demonstrating the human cost behind the political failures.

However, one recurring weakness of the book is the sense of repetition. The book introduces each new drug by explaining to the reader how they got on the street and the consequences for patients. While this is highly informative and interesting, it makes the sections feel repetitive and predictable. Additionally, Macy tends to present multiple new names and stories, dedicating only a few pages to each case before moving on to the next one and never talking about them again. The approach can leave readers feeling confused as to why those stories are incomplete and why they were good enough to mention but not to pursue and finish. The frequent shifts between stories are a challenge for the readers as they might not be able to track the events or fully understand each individual story, which might lead to them not emphasizing with their protagonists. Despite these issues, Macy strengthens the text with other tactics. While she uses specialized terminology because she provides scientific facts, discuses drug-related organizations and employs medical terminology, she defines them for the general reader. This allows for much needed clarity without oversimplifying some concepts that are essential to understand her message. For instance, she explains that “skin popping” (137) is “The practice of injecting the heroin under the skin” (137). This is an expression that someone who has not been in contact with the world of drugs surely does not know, and the explanation helps the reader follow her explanations. She also clarifies the role of the FDA and other government organizations that are important in drug-control. Overall, Macy ensures that the book remains informative and accessible despite the occasional narrative repetition.

In conclusion, Dopesick is a well-researched book that draws awareness to the opioid crises in the United States of America, combining personal narrative with analysis. Even though there are occasional repetition and some stories are too brief, Macy’s clear explanations and insights make Dopesick highly informative and engaging. I would strongly recommend this work for readers who are interested in the addiction epidemic and are seeking to understand why the United States of America does not put an end to it.

2018. Reading Sally Rooney’s Normal People: A Portrait of Modern Human Relationships – Aitana Tarango

Edition reviewed: Faber and Faber, 2021

Sally Rooney, born in 1991, is an Irish writer whose first novel, Conversations with Friends was published back in 2017. Undoubtedly, her second novel Normal People (2018) is her best-known work, possibly also because of its adaptation into a miniseries in 2020. Rooney’s books are an exploration of the complexities of human relationships and have received several awards, such as the Costa Novel of the Year in 2018 or the Irish Book awards Novel of the Year. As of today, Sally Rooney has published four novels that have been translated into many languages and has established herself as a well-recognized writer with a promising future.

Normal People follows the story of Marianne and Connell since their last year of high school until their early twenties, exploring how they navigate their last teenage years and step into adulthood. At the beginning, the story is set in Sligo, their hometown, where Connell is very popular whereas Marianne is socially ostracized. While waiting for his mother, who works cleaning Marianne family’s house, Connell and her strike up a relationship, which is the central theme of the whole novel. Once at university, both installed in Dublin to attend Trinity College, the tables are turned, and upper-middle-class Marianne is the one who has social connections while working-class Connell struggles to find his place. Through their years in college, their paths continually separate though they always find their way back to each other. As the novel oscillates between both character’s perspectives, Rooney offers a very deep examination of the protagonists. Through their very complicated relationship, Rooney engages with multiple topics, such as mental health, social class and abuse.

Rooney’s novel is particularly striking for its psychological depth and how it portrays human relationships. She creates two very complex characters whose personalities are shaped through their interactions with others, highlighting how humans are social beings whose identities are constructed thanks to the relationships among them. This is particularly observed in Marianne, whose family background shapes her self-perception, and therefore, her future relationships. Marianne’s storyline portrays how the trauma of abusive relationships affects emotional development, intimacy, and self-worth, as after the lack of affection that she experiences from her family, she is convinced that she is damaged: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, says Marianne. I don’t know why I can’t be like normal people” (181). Furthermore, the romantic relationship she develops with Connell presents a contrasting dynamic. Although it cannot be denied that their relationship is tumultuous and is guided by miscommunication and unresolved trauma, Connell provides Marianne with a sense of safety. Through this bond, Rooney demonstrates how relationships can both wound and heal, shaping individuals’ understating of themselves.

Rooney does an excellent job of focusing on the psychological aspects of each character and creates very detailed and complicated personalities for both Connell and Marianne. However, one of the main aspects that shapes the characters’ personalities is social class. Following in Jane Austen’s tradition, Sally Rooney integrates the theme of class to highlight the significant role this social matter plays in shaping personal relationships. Connell and Marianne come from very different social classes, Connell is from a working-class background and lives with his single mother while Marianne belongs to an upper-middle-class family. This contrast in social status continuously affects their relationship, especially while in Dublin, creating misunderstandings. Connell is not hostile about the fact that Marianne is rich, but, at times, their relationships is affected by Marianne’s lack of awareness, not because she is alien to her privilege, but because she has never had to care about certain things. For example, while for Connell scholarships are important because of the financial opportunity, for Marianne they are a proof of personal achievement, as she admits not thinking about the financial part of the deal. Rooney uses these two characters to reveal how class intersects with identity, intimacy and vulnerability, allowing her to critique the ways in which social class shapes emotional lives and personal connections.

In conclusion, Normal People is a novel that I would totally recommend, as it allows for the discussion of many themes. Although it is a novel that lacks a significant plot, Rooney manages to construct a story that is interesting, intimate and raw, portraying real issues that readers can identify with. Normal People is, in short, a novel about being young and in love, confused and vulnerable while searching for connection and identity.

2019. Time, Love, Strategy, and Betrayal: Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone’s This Is How You Lose the Time War – Aina Matamala Tuset

Edition reviewed: Jo Fletcher Books, 2019

This Is How You Lose the Time War is a science fiction fantasy LGBT epistolary novel published in 2019 by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone. Amal El-Mohtar is a Canadian poet and writer of speculative fiction, who works as an editor for the Goblin Fruit and reviews science fiction and fantasy books for the New York Times Book Review. Max Gladstone is an American fantasy author, best known for his 2012 debut novel Three Parts Dead, which is part of The Craft Sequence, part of the urban fantasy serial Bookburners. Both authors are renowned and celebrated for their co-writing This is How You Lose the time War, to the point of receiving the 2019 BSFA Award for Short Fiction and the 2019 Nebula Award for Best Novella. This novel is also one of the first works in which the authors deal with a real-world phenomenon, in this case conflict driven by ideology and control over history, and translate it into a speculative science-fiction world. Through lyrical prose, science fiction, and romance, El-Mohtar and Gladstone approach and subtly critique the nature of war, communication, and the dehumanizing scale of ideological conflict. By framing a vast temporal war through intimate letters between two agents on opposing sides, the novel exposes both the absurdity of endless rivalry and the deeply human desire for connection that persists even within systems built on opposition.

In This Is How You Lose the Time War, El-Mohtar and Gladstone immerse readers into a vast and dynamic battlefield spread across countless timelines, as an unyielding conflict between two rival groups aims to influence the future of reality itself. The narrative focuses on Red and Blue, two adept agents from opposing factions, who move through time, altering events to ensure that history unfolds according to their individual ideologies. Initially bound by rivalry and duty, the two find themselves drawn into an unexpected exchange of letters, hidden in improbable places across time. Driven by curiosity and a sense of connection, Red and Blue start an unplanned secret correspondence that slowly evolves into intimacy. As their bond deepens, they realize that this connection is dangerous, threatening the rigid structures and expectations of the agencies they serve. It is important to note that, these agencies are only mentioned through their correspondence: “Did your bosses send you here? Do you even have bosses? Or a Queen?” (28). The war they fight begins to take on a darker and more personal dimension, as discovery would mean betrayal, punishment, and the erasure of everything they know. Confronted with the rising conflict between loyalty and affection, the main characters must choose whether to stay faithful to the systems that formed them or jeopardize everything to protect the delicate bond they have discovered through time.

This is How You Lose the time War is a deeply character-centred narrative in which the two main characters, Red and Blue, serve as the driving forces of the story. Rather than relying on a conventional plot driven by action or causal events, El-Mohtar and Gladstone construct a narrative almost entirely through the evolving interaction between these two agents on opposing sides of a temporal conflict. “The enemy,” we learn, “is insidious. Even if this is but the opening gambit of a longer game, by reading it Red risks Commandant’s wrath if she is discovered, risks seeming a traitor be she never so loyal” (4). The novel’s emotional power emerges from the gradual transformation of hostility into intimacy, as each letter exchanged ignites change in both characters, reshaping their loyalties and identities. The agents they encounter and the worlds they briefly inhabit are rendered not through extensive exposition, but through evocative fragments that gain meaning primarily as reflections of Red’s and Blue’s interior states. The prose is densely poetic, marked by heavy allusion, metaphor, and sensuous imagery, which elevates the epistolary form into a vehicle for desire and philosophical reflection.

Dialogue—mainly through letters—serves as the key narrative device, stressing the differences and similarities between Red’s and Blue’s perspectives while showcasing the romantic and intellectual tension between them, and the fear that the other could be harmed: “burn before reading (…) perhaps if she reads this letter she will be recorded, exposed, blackmailed for use of a double agent” (4). Significantly, even though both characters use she/her pronouns, their gender is considered mostly unimportant to the story, highlighting the novella’s dedication to inclusivity and its opposition to rigid identity classifications. This abstraction enables the relationship to stand as a more universal meditation on love, rivalry, and choice. Ultimately, the novel's structure, maintained through episodic interactions across different times and places, evokes a contemporary, speculative reinterpretation of Romeo and Juliet, where forbidden romance develops not amidst warring families but through timelines and ideological conflicts.

It is important to recognize that as readers engage with This Is How You Lose the Time War, they may initially experience a sense of confusion and disorientation due to the novel’s deliberate refusal to provide clear explanatory frameworks to sentences such as “Well, Mrs. Leavitt’s Guide to Etiquette and Correspondence (…) suggests I should be recapitulating my letter’s main thrust, whatever that means” (29). The narrative assumes a degree of interpretive competence, often signalling—implicitly—that readers must piece together meaning for themselves. This undertone of self-importance can render the plot difficult to follow, as significant gaps are left in the exposition, and the central conflict unfolds slowly and obliquely. Adding to the complexity of this process is the novel’s dependence on the epistolary format, which emphasizes personal reflection instead of chronological storytelling. The world-building, though inventive and carefully constructed, is exceptionally complex: the characters’ origins, the mechanics of time travel, and the nature of the war itself are so far removed from conventional reality that the text demands near to total suspension of disbelief. As the story progresses, however, these initially opaque elements begin to cohere, and readers who accept the narrative on its own terms may find a rhythm in its fragmented structure and poetic logic.

Stylistically and thematically, the novel uses time travel not so much as a strict speculative tool but rather as a metaphorical structure for intimacy, longing, and fate. With overt foreshadowing, the story gradually establishes a conclusion that, although emotionally impactful for some, may strike others as predictable. The alteration of time ultimately aims to provide an ending that closely adheres to the norms of a romance story “but maybe this is how we win Red, you and me, this is how we win” (198), emphasizing emotional satisfaction rather than intellectual surprise. While this approach will undoubtedly appeal to readers drawn to lyrical prose and tragic or fated love stories, it risks undermining the speculative potential of the science-fiction premise. Consequently, although This Is How You Lose the Time War excels as a stylistic and formal experiment, its dependence on abstraction, interpretive challenges, and a traditional romantic conclusion might restrict its attractiveness to readers desiring more narrative clarity or originality in the genre.

In conclusion, This Is How You Lose the Time War stands as a distinctive and ambitious contribution to contemporary speculative fiction, blending science fiction, fantasy, and romance through a highly stylized epistolary form. El-Mohtar and Gladstone present a work that emphasizes emotional closeness and poetic articulation rather than traditional plot-centred narratives, providing an exploration of love, dialogue, and defiance amid extensive ideological struggles. While its abstract world-building, interpretive demands, and predictable romantic resolution may challenge or frustrate some readers, these same qualities underscore the text’s experimental nature and thematic focus. By depicting a vast, ongoing war through the intimate correspondence of two rival agents, the novel reveals the dehumanizing reasoning of endless strife and the persistent human desire for connection. Ultimately, This Is How You Lose the Time War invites readers to engage critically with genre conventions and narrative form, rewarding those willing to embrace ambiguity with a poetic and emotionally resonant exploration of love across time.

2020. Addiction, Poverty and Neglect in Douglas Stuart’s Shuggie Bain – Siya Kumar Rani

Edition reviewed: Grove Press, 2020

Douglas Stuart is a Scottish American author, known for his debut novel, published in 2020, Shuggie Bain, which quickly became globally known, winning the Booker Prize the same year. Stuart was born in 1967 in Glasgow, a city whose post-industrial hardships are predominantly informed in his writings. Shuggie Bain is a historical fiction novel, strongly autobiographical as it seems inspired by Stuart’s own upbringing in the working-class society of Glasgow in the 1980s. The novel portrays filial love, poverty, and addiction, through unsentimental transparency and empathy.

Stuart’s novel is set in the Thatcher era, as it follows the childhood and adolescence of Hugh Bain, who is mostly called by his nickname Shuggie. He is the youngest child of Agnes Bain, a beautiful and volatile woman who is battling severe alcoholism. After Agnes’s marriage falls apart, she relocates to a desolate housing estate with her children. In that place, because of unemployment, their lives are filled with violence and despair, leading Agnes to become a drug addict. Soon enough, after her other children leave, Shuggie becomes the only person to care for Agnes, trying to shield her from her addictions, while he himself navigates through school, poverty, and his emerging queerness, as he tries to battle unknown yet scary feelings. The novel predominantly trails a slow downward spiral, portraying cycles of neglect, love, and a dependence that entangles Agnes and Shuggie, as even though on the verge of crumbling, they are unable to leave each other. Thus, although the work includes moments of tenderness and hope, it mostly presents the disastrous consequences of addiction and social abandonment.

A main strength of Stuart’s novel is the meticulous characterization, especially that of Agnes and Shuggie. Firstly, Stuart presents Agnes as not only broken and cruel but also charismatic and loving, instead of rendering her as simply an alcoholic mother. She is portrayed as someone obsessed with glamour and appearances, something that clashes tragically with her circumstances. Additionally, instead of romanticizing her bad drinking habits, they serve an informative purpose as they exhibit the rough situation of Scottish society, displaying the poverty and emotional isolation of the working-class people in the Glasgow area. Similarly, Shuggie is also depicted as gentle and loyal, with an evident emotional awareness that is contrasted with his surroundings, particularly in comparison to other men whose definition of masculinity is quite different. Stuart captures the internal life of a child who is forced into adulthood to the point of becoming a caregiver, which is shown to take a psychological toll, as he is caring for someone who cannot be saved, nor wants to be saved, for it remains unclear whether Agnes truly wants a change in her life. The novel begins with a paragraph that describes how Shuggie had lost his will to think and his body just works automatically: “The day was flat. That morning his mind had abandoned him and left his body wandering down below. The empty body went listlessly through its routine, pale and vacant-eyed under the fluorescent strip lights, as his soul floated above the aisles and thought only of tomorrow. Tomorrow was something to look forward to” (1). This underlines how Shuggie faces daily routine without much thought of the present, only the future, as internally he wishes tomorrow were better, though past memory and identity are central concerns of the novel.

Stuart presents a post-industrial Scotland that underlines the outcomes of political neglect, especially in relation to the working-class community. The setting, 1980s decaying Glasgow, adds to the emotional intensity and a reality full of hardships through various locations, such as Council estates, pubs and dark streets: “There was nothing out there. The street stopped at the edge of the peatbogs like it had given up. Dark pools of boggy water sat still and deep and scary-looking. Great forests of brown reeds shot up out of the grass and were slowly inching over the scheme, intent on taking it back from the miners” (103). This is not a mere account of the street, it actually mirrors the characters’ limited prospects. These places are described through evident precision, creating a sense of a claustrophobic environment. Additionally, the author also focuses on other material elements, such as the damp in the houses, the empty cupboards and worn clothing, which adds further to the rigid atmosphere. The author also balances lyricism with suppression as the prose is vivid without becoming sentimental, shifting from moments of desolate conditions to relative warmth. Similarly, the dialogue captures the Glasgow dialect while still conveying the emotional subtext with no obstacles. The sense of entrapment is highlighted through the pace of the story, which is calculated, taking into consideration the complexity of the poor society, instead of offering a clear resolution. This leads to Shuggie Bain functioning as a social critique, exposing how the unlawful political and economic structures lead to addiction and marginalisation.

Overall, Shuggie Bain is an emotionally intense novel as it combines a vigorous reality with social insight into 1980s Scotland. Stuart’s stern yet compassionate tone makes the novel an essential contribution to contemporary literature. Thus, it is a highly recommendable novel for those readers interested in socially realistic narratives with refined characterization and cautious surroundings.

2020. The Line between Human and Monster: Ring Shout by P. Djèlí Clark – Joan Portals Bonich

Edition reviewed: Tor Nightfire, 2020

Ring Shout is a dark fantasy short novel published in 2020 by American author Dexter Gabriel (b. 1971, New York City), better known by his pen name P. Djèlí Clark. The plot explores the reign of terror of the Ku Klux Klan with a supernatural twist, portraying the KKK members as gruesome demons fed by hatred that continuously kill black people. A group of African-American revolutionaries, including Maryse, Sadie and Chef, are Ku Klux hunters that fight the creatures in order to protect their people. The novel won many awards, including the Nebula Award, the British Fantasy Award and the Locus Award for best novella.

Ring Shout is alternate history set in an altered version of the 1920s. The African American community is not only threatened by lynchings and discrimination, but also by a powerful spell. The movie The Birth of a Nation (1915, David Griffiths) was cast as a curse meant to spread hatred over white supremacists throughout the USA. After that, demonic entities known as “Ku Kluxes”, born from this hatred, started emerging and joining the lines of the Ku Klux Klan to attack African Americans. Maryse Boudreaux, who witnessed how these monsters killed her family, has been selected as the “champion” who will put an end to these creatures. She is given a sword that hums the voices of enslaved people and the victims of the Ku Kluxes. Alongside her companions from the resistance, the hunting to stop the Klan from conjuring a greater evil unfolds in a journey of choices, self-discovery and sacrifices.

One of the most astonishing aspects of Clark’s novel is the way it handles its anti-racist message. The characters constantly state that the line between a human Klan member and a Ku Klux monster is very blurry at first sight, emphasizing that the horror itself comes from pure hatred. A character named Molly is reported to have said that “it's like an infection, or a parasite. And it feeds on hate. She says chemicals in the body change up when you hate strong. When the infection meets that hate, it starts growing until it's powerful enough to turn the person Ku Klux” (32). In addition, the descriptions of the monsters are grotesque and visceral, which is a sharp way to show that the creatures seem human but aren’t. These distortions of the body through the dark influence of hatred successfully relate to the social message while addressing the supernatural approach of Ring Shout. The contrast between the creatures and Maryse’s sword, full of “beautiful music inspired by struggle and fierce love” (113), is also a great piece of symbolism in Ring Shout. Maryse becomes the vessel of “centuries of anger” (107), which is an appealing portrayal of the collective struggle of the formerly enslaved, now turned into strength. On the other hand, there is constant action in Ring Shout, and the reader can enjoy some variety in the battles with the different fighting talents of the main characters: Maryse and her sword, Sadie and her rifle, and Chef with her explosive traps. However, the novel also offers calmer moments when the characters have time to interact in conversation. These are ideal moments for the reader to discover each one’s fears and desires, and thus bond with them. The moments of danger of the latter half of the novel feel more meaningful, because the reader has had the time to truly meet the characters, rather than just see them constantly fighting. Therefore, the balance between moments of action and character development is well managed.

Nonetheless, Ring Shout also presents some aspects that may limit its overall enjoyment. The most striking stems from its short length, as the concept of the plot would have been better explored in a longer novel. Due to its short extension, the plot inevitably accelerates toward the ending to conclude everything, leaving less space to explore the world and aspects such as the presence of the Ku Kluxes in society. In addition, the balance between horror and action can sometimes feel inconsistent. The moments of tension, rather than quickly turn into action sequences, could have worked better if they had been further described. Since the action comes rapidly the built-in tension loses its impact. The novel’s overall atmosphere could have been more memorable with more moments of tension, prioritizing horror over action.

In conclusion, Ring Shout is a very enjoyable novel that explains the essence of the reign of terror of the Ku Klux Klan from an unexpected perspective. The supernatural twist is a great addition to this kind of plot, because not only does it work as a framework, but also as an enhancer of the social message. Although the reader knows that the plot unfolds in a dark-horror setting, it is inevitable to make connections with reality. However, the plot feels accelerated towards the end, and some more length to explore the world would have left a better impact. A balance between action and horror could also have worked better, emphasizing the grotesque presence of the creatures as a greater menace to the Black characters.

2021. Horror as Empathy: Trauma and Misperception in The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward – Samya El Kasmy

Edition reviewed: Viper, 2021

The Last House on Needless Street is a 2021 horror novel by British American author Catriona Ward (b. 1984, Washington, D.C.). Ward had won the August Derleth Award for Best Horror Novel with her two previous works, Rawblood (2015) and Little Eve (2018), and won the award for a third time when this novel was released and became one of her most widely recognized works. The novel features Ward’s recurring use of unreliable narrators and brings together gothic themes, psychological horror as well as crime fiction while also exploring trauma, memory, and isolation.

The Last House on Needless Street is set in a decaying house where the dark forest and a lake form the borders of the estate. Eleven years after the disappearance of a six-year-old child, the man who lives at the end of the street, Ted Bannerman, is still suspected of being the perpetrator of the crime. The novel is told from the viewpoint of multiple narrators: through Ted, Dee (the little girl's older sister), and even Ted’s cat Olivia. Dee thinks that Ted is to blame for her sister’s disappearance, and Ted struggles with his obsession with the case and his mental instability. As the story unfolds it is revealed that each of the characters is an unreliable narrator as some memories are distorted or difficult to recall and Ted’s deteriorated psychological state is evident. It is the type of story that does not follow the conventional structure of a mystery novel. The main plot needs to be solved as if it were a puzzle, where the elements are affected by the characters past traumas.

The novel’s greatest assets are its characterization and psychological investment, which are achieved through the unreliable narrators and the multiple perspectives that change with the story. Ted Bannerman is introduced as a menacing figure and a possible criminal. Nonetheless, through the narration it can be seen that his odd behaviour is due to his trauma and that he is, after all, an unstable and emotionally fragile human being. Instead of her real name, he refers to the missing girl by the name of “Little Girl with the Popsicle,” which illustrates how trauma has infantilized his mind and how he perceives life, creating distance but also showing signs of guilt, fear and confusion. Ted's lack of a social life, his rigid schedule, and memory gaps are not simply isolated facts but obvious manifestations of his mind’s attempts to survive and protect itself. On the other hand, Dee harbours obsessive grief. Trauma makes her view things in a very limited way and judge people far more quickly than is proper. Her search for the truth propels the plot forward; simultaneously, it shows how flawed she is and demonstrates just how dangerous it is to assume she has a full understanding of what has happened. Olivia, Ted’s cat, might strike as a funny or ridiculous choice for a narrator at first, but her standpoint represents Ted’s desire for control, and his need to be protected and keep company. The result is that the narrators present a story with a whole mess of conflicting, fragmented and partial truths, evidence that identity, memory and reality are inherently unstable, particularly in connection with trauma, and that understanding someone is built on a combination of fragments of experiences and memories.

The other main trait of the novel is its eerie setting, which plays a crucial role in building the psychological horror. The house at the end of Needless Street is more than a simple location, acting as a symbol of mental confinement. Thus, it reflects Ted’s isolation from society and the repression of his traumatic memories. The house’s closed rooms, locked cupboards, and strict routines feel claustrophobic and suggest control and fear, making the house feel less like a home and more like a prison. The isolation is amplified by the forest that surrounds the house, as it not only separates the house physically from other neighbourhoods but also deepens the feeling that the house is socially isolated and outside the norm. This forest is presented as dangerous, unsettling and unsafe, capable of distorting reality, thus emphasizing how natural elements can inflect fear, for “In the forest, even familiar things were strange” (40). The thick trees, perturbing shadows and quietness described reflect the characters’ fractured mental states, especially Ted’s, transforming the natural world into an echo of his inner mind. The house and the woods create a suffocating immersive atmosphere in which to move about. By turning both domestic and natural settings into scenes of tension, Ward makes something that is disturbingly realistic feel much broader.

In short, The Last House on Needless Street blends psychological horror, gothic elements, and a crime story as it tells a complex tale about how unstable one's memories and reality can be. The author examines trauma, memory, and social isolation using unreliable narrators, fragmented perspectives, tension and a truly oppressive gothic environment.

2021. Honest Enough?: Reading Justin Baldoni’s Man Enough in the Cold Light of Day – Dafne Iglesias Solà

Edition reviewed: HarperOne, 2022

Actor and director Justin Baldoni (b. 1984, Los Angeles) used to be mainly known for his role in Jane the Virgin or his work directing Five Feet Apart (2019) and Clouds (2020), but has lately been surrounded by controversy. He reoriented his career into activism with his famous Ted Talk “Why I'm Done Being Man Enough”, which led to the creation of The Man Enough Podcast and to his writing of Man Enough: Undefining My Masculinity (2021). However, actor Blake Lively’s sexual harassment allegations against him after the release of It Ends with Us (2024), a film Baldoni directed and both star in, have left a stain on his name and changed the way his book must be approached. Nevertheless, while Man Enough has its flaws and might not be the best book to read following feminist principles (and the #MeToo campaign), the positive impact it can still have should not be totally disregarded.

Man Enough: Undefining My Masculinity is Justin Baldoni’s personal account of the experience of being a man, which he uses to reflect on its different aspects while sharing anecdotes about himself. Whereas it serves as a social commentary on patriarchy, the volume is always rooted in the personal life of Baldoni and avoids generalizations. Therefore, the book does not fit only one genre: it is non-fiction, memoir, and it occasionally dips into self-help. Baldoni attempts to discuss and reflect on masculinity and how the patriarchy affects men’s lives; how it has influenced his own behaviour and inhibited his personal growth. He, thus, addresses a wide range of topics: from how he started getting in touch with his emotions to his relationship with sex and pornography.

One of the aspects that could be praised about Baldoni is that he is aware of his own position as the author of his book. Although he defends the heart he has put into the project, he never pretends to be an expert nor claims to have written something groundbreaking. He acknowledges his privilege as a white man, his lack of expertise as an activist, and the fact that he may be taking up space that otherwise a woman could use. He also acknowledges that he is not a writer, which manifests itself in a simplicity of style that does not hinder the conveyance of his message. This makes for a very welcoming introduction, since this self-awareness is very needed in order for a book like this to work.

Unfortunately, the initial chapters of the book feel as underwhelming as he anticipated. The ideas he disseminates range from “men should be in touch with their feelings” to “white privilege exists”; although these are positive messages to spread, they feel basic and not worthy enough to justify the printing of a book. Furthermore, in terms of the personal stories he shares, they are fun and pleasant to read, but they do not feel substantial enough to be shared. In some cases, they seem to be added as comic relief. For example, in “Confident Enough” (102), he shares a totally off-topic story on how he chose the answers of his SATs randomly. Aside from some moments of brightness, the rawness that the reader may have been expecting to find is instead filled out by a nice but shallow compilation of shower thoughts and entertaining anecdotes.

However, towards the end of the book there is a considerable change for the better. The chapter “Sexy Enough” (195) is the first one that truly feels unprecedentedly vulnerable and honest. In this chapter, Baldoni explores his relationship with sexuality and shares some very intimate experiences in his sexual development, such as his first approximation to pornography. Writing about such a taboo topic is not easy, but Baldoni manages to do so in a relaxed and sensitive manner. It even gets better in “Loved Enough” (232), in which he talks about his marriage to Emily Baldoni. When talking about the development of their relationship, he is not afraid to put himself in a bad light: he is able to recognize his wrong behaviour and admits some struggles that could be considered embarrassing to talk about, such as the fact that Emily did not feel physically attracted to him when they started dating. At this point the book becomes exactly what it should be: personal, authentic, and free from any previous fluff.

Having said this, it must also be noted that getting immersed in Baldoni’s reflections on masculinity while being aware of the allegations against him is a very contradictory experience. When one is reminded of his current situation, it hardly seems possible to associate the author with the man who starred in It Ends with Us. It is normal to even distrust his apparent honesty. One cannot turn a blind eye to Lively’s allegations regardless of one's feelings towards Baldoni’s writing, just as the positive impact Man Enough can have cannot be simply dismissed. The last chapters’ unfiltered discussion of sensitive topics can serve as inspiration for both men and women who want to live a life of openness and communication and close the gap that the gender constructs have placed between the sexes. At the same time, it is a very reasonable decision to choose not to support a man under such allegations, especially one that has profited from a feminist image in recent years.

Reading this book is an irregular and multifaceted experience. Baldoni’s volume is already uneven, in the sense that it goes from a promising self-aware introduction to a disappointing beginning, ultimately leading to some great final chapters. But then there are the contradictions of being acquainted with Baldoni as the writer of Man Enough and also as a controversial celebrity. Regardless of what happens to him in the Lively case, nothing can take away the positive impact his book can have. Nevertheless, it is up to the reader whether they feel comfortable engaging with his work, or do not want to support an author in such a problematic position.

2021. The Story of One is the Story of All: Hell of a Book by Jason Mott – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

Edition reviewed: Dutton, 2022

Hell of a Book is a metafictional, surrealist novel published in 2021 by the renowned author Jason Mott. Born in North Carolina in 1975, his poetry collections and four novels have granted him much recognition, including the adaptation of his first novel, The Returned, into a television series. Hell of a Book is arguably his best-known novel, having won the 2021 National Book Award. Mott’s works are characterized by his critical and imaginative voice, tackling issues of race, identity, and the inequalities of American history and politics.

Hell of a Book narrates the story of a mysterious protagonist who seems to have it all as a bestselling Black author travelling the world on his book tour. However, his past is filled with traumas he will have to face, eventually, with the help of The Kid, a mysterious Black child who makes sudden appearances in the protagonist’s life. The Kid seems to be part of the protagonist’s “condition”, as he is able to immerse himself in his imagination to cope with the hardships of reality. Throughout this book tour, readers discover the protagonist’s background story and lifelong traumas. Furthermore, Mott’s novel features numerous discussions of racial matters, and even about the expectations put on Black authors, making it an insightful novel which narrates in the first person all the challenges, fears, and dreams that such a marginalized and criminalized community has had to face throughout the entirety of history.

One strong feature in Hell of a Book is Mott’s skilful use of ambiguity and imagination as a literary device for tension building and as coping mechanism. Readers constantly find unfinished sentences and lack of information, especially in reference to traumatic and tragic events including the police shooting of Black children, or even of the protagonist’s own father. Due to the protagonist’s previously mentioned “condition”, he is constantly interacting with apparently imaginary characters, which serve to reveal parts of his background story providing information that would not be presented otherwise, since he explicitly refuses to discuss the past. There are even contradictory accounts of this past including his parents’ deaths. Thus, the unfinished sentences, the missing or contradictory information, and the use of imaginary characters creates the tension around which the novels revolves, making it impossible for the reader to put the book down, as we grow eager to find out how the protagonist’s mind works and who he really is.

As hinted, these apparently imaginary characters and conversations also have the purpose of helping the protagonist cope with trauma and making readers more empathetic towards him. To start with, his condition is suggested to arise after his early losses, making his inner world the only place where he finds true happiness, as implied in this passage: “Reality as a whole—past or present—just isn’t a good place to hang out, in my opinion. There are better ways and places to spend your time” (47). Thus, even if his background story is generally revealed through the alternative present-past chapter structure, the most gut-wrenching truths are mainly revealed through his alternative universe, especially through The Kid. In fact, The Kid’s story even leaves the novel’s ending stranded in ambiguity concerning the veracity of the whole story. Mott’s skilful writing turns potentially irritating ambiguities into a literary device, rather than emerge from mere confusion.

Another undeniably strong feature is Mott’s powerful political voice against racism, expressed through metafiction. The protagonist faces persistent external expectations as a Black author, mentioned explicitly in numerous dialogues about the do’s and don’ts of the book he is writing, as if his skin colour reduced the type of literature he could write. While he is advised to avoid writing about race to focus on a love story instead, he is also asked to be the voice of the Black community (which seems contradictory): “The voice of my people? Always? Every second of every day of my life? That's what Black people are always supposed to be? And the Black condition? What kind of condition is that? (…) like an illness?” (77). Moreover, Mott denounces the publisher’s commercialization of “the Black author”, and how he is pushed to give hopeful and moralizing talks.

Even though the protagonist refuses to meet any of these imposed requirements, in the very last chapters he accounts for all of them. In the end, by exposing the lifelong inequalities and fears of an unnamed Black individual, he becomes the voice of a silent community. By not giving a name to his protagonist Motts indicates that it could be any name, and his novel could be the story of any Black (writing) person. Just like The Kid, this community wants to be seen, to be given the voice which the protagonist has granted them by writing his book, by exposing a reality that has historically been hidden, without the need to talk about race explicitly or give moralizing talks about it. In fact, he does write a love story, one about self-love, after so many years of external and internal hatred. Ultimately, inequality, segregation, and racism are exposed and challenged through metafiction. Instead of explicit racial discourses, Mott focuses on writing and on the constructed, commercialized figure of the “good Black author”.

In conclusion, the title Hell of a Book does justice to such a captivating, moving, and powerful novel. Mott’s skilful writing manages to turn ambiguity and metafiction into practical tools for tension building, coping mechanism, and antiracism. Without even naming his protagonist, this novel serves as a speaker for all the untold truths of a whole community.

2022. A Survivor Hero on and off Stage: Finding Me by Viola Davis – Roger Vallès Fitó

Edition reviewed: HarperOne, 2022

Finding Me (2022) is a memoir by Viola Davis (b. 1965, St. Matthews, South Carolina), an actor regarded as one of the most accomplished and influential figures in contemporary US cinema and theatre. Davis is celebrated for her commanding performances, emotional precision, and sustained engagement with questions of race, gender, trauma, and self-worth, both on and off the stage. Throughout her career, she has received numerous accolades, accomplishing the rare feat of winning all four major North American entertainment awards—the EGOT: Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony. Her Tony-winning performances in King Hedley II (2001) and Fences (2010)—the latter of which also earned her an Academy Award for its film adaptation (2016)—and her Emmy for How to Get Away with Murder (2015), mark key milestones in her career, later followed by a Grammy Award for Best Audiobook, Narration & Storytelling Recording for Finding Me (2023).

In Finding Me, Davis turns from performance to self-authorship, offering a candid account of her journey from childhood to artistic recognition and personal fulfilment. The author narrates her experiences in the first-person, bestowing a confessional tone that oscillates between vivid, almost cinematic recollections and moments of measured introspection. The chronicle, mainly narrated in chronological order, seamlessly interweaves past and present, recounting events from her youth while offering mature commentary on their lasting impact. Through straightforward yet emotionally resonant prose, Davis frequently employs anecdotal storytelling to recount events with an evocative atmosphere—often balanced by moments of humour and warmth—ensuring consistency and authenticity. Davis does not shy away from adversity in its many forms: from material hardships such as poverty, scarcity, chronic hunger, poor sanitation, and the lack of running water, heat, electricity, or gas, to psychological distress stemming from parental alcoholism, domestic violence, physical abuse, sexual harassment, and racism. The Davises must bear, besides, in the Central Falls apartment, nicknamed “128”, the psychological toll of growing up Black in a predominantly white, though struggling neighbourhood. The family background is a heavy burden—Viola’s mother, Mae, was born and raised on a South Carolina plantation, and her father, Dan, ran away from home at fifteen, after having faced years of abuse and abasement—which is reflected in Dan’s underdog mindset when the horse owners instruct him on how to groom: “It was almost as though he was a slave and they were masters” (20). Haunted by his past, Dan channels his pain into infidelity, alcoholism, and violence toward his wife. Viola tests her assertiveness when she confronts him during one of his aggressive outbursts toward her mother: “I had to stand up to my father, the authority figure. (...) That fight marked the beginning of my shift” (28-29). Davis recalls that period in her life as being “filled with shame” (44).

Despite all afflictions and hardships, the family bond remains intact. Viola’s older sister, Dianne, provides an uplifting influence, encouraging her to find her vocation and work hard to escape the fate of their parents. School emerges as both a refuge and a battlefield—while the sisters excel as model students, they must also endure blatant racism and bullying episodes: “We were a girl-posse, fighting, clawing our way out of the invisibility of poverty and a world where we didn’t fit in” (92). The early arrival of her youngest sister Danielle, when Viola is eleven, provides an emotional counterpoint, giving Viola a sense of purpose and responsibility that begins to shape her protective instincts and leadership. Viola recounts her formative years, convinced that acting is her calling, as she wins competitions, attends auditions, and ultimately enrols in a university theatre program. The pressure to excel almost causes her to withdraw from pursuing acting, leading to depression and the realization that the cure lays in the “courage to dare, risking failure” (124). The narration captures the intensity of these programs: long hours, high standards, hard discipline, and a competitive environment that rewards both tenacity and talent. After graduation she realizes the importance of combining opportunity, preparation, and personal agency in shaping her career, but also promoting critical thinking and grounding her craft in lived experience.

In the process of building a career, Davis still situates her professional achievements within the ongoing struggles against typecasting, sexism and colourism within the Black community that penalizes being darker skinned than other peers. Although talent and dedication are necessary, perseverance and strategic choices are equally crucial in an industry structured by precariousness and systemic inequality. Parallel to her professional triumphs, she addresses personal dimensions that reinforce the realistic portrayal of an artist navigating both planes simultaneously. Davis shows the ongoing complications of family obligations, health crises, and loss, ensuring that her story remains nuanced and grounded. On the other hand, her relationship with Julius Tennon offers a narrative of stability, love, and partnership, fulfilling long-held wishes that stand in stark contrast to the instability of her early life. Family dynamics evolve as well: her father Dan transforms in his later years, becoming a supportive partner to Mae and a good grandfather to his grandchildren.

At times, this memoir reads like a fairy-tale, conveying the sense that the protagonist is inevitably destined to succeed—a woman reborn from her ashes all the way to stardom. On her heady experience on Broadway, Viola declares: “Broadway is everything: it lives up to every bit of that dream” (194). From her early years in Rhode Island to her rise to Hollywood stardom, Finding Me stands as a seminal work in Viola’s public life, balancing the rigor of professional growth with the complexities of personal livelihood. Viola Davis offers readers a window into the intersecting pressures of race, class, and gender, while providing an honest account of the dedication required to succeed in theatre and film. While some sections could be tightened to sharpen the story, the overall work remains compelling, emotionally resonant, and highly readable. This from rags-to-riches story stands as a testament to Davis’s talent, resilience, and thoughtful reflection on a life that lived against extraordinary odds. It succeeds as both an inspirational story and a realistic portrayal of systemic hardship, offering a nuanced meditation on success, love, and the personal costs borne by a Black woman who ultimately reconciles with her eight-year-old self: “I have a great deal of compassion for other people, but mostly for myself. That would not be the case if I did not reconcile that little eight-year-old girl and FIND ME” (291).

2022. Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow: Both Sides of the Fragile Design of Friendship – Anan Ye

Edition reviewed: Knopf, 2022

Gabrielle Zevin is an American novelist and screenwriter born in 1977 in New York City. Her work is widely recognized for its emotionally nuanced exploration of human relationships, creativity and identity. Zevin is of mixed-race heritage, with a Korean mother and her father having a diverse European ancestry. This background has influenced her to include characters of diverse ethnicities, and to often write from the perspective of a biracial Asian-American person like herself. Gabrielle Zevin first gained recognition with novels such as Elsewhere (2005) and The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry (2014). The latter, one of her most popular works, was later adapted into a feature film released in 2022, which contributed to the novel’s renewed visibility and international reach. In the same year, Zevin published Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow (2022), a work that marked a significant turning point in her career and is widely regarded as her most acclaimed novel to date. Zevin’s novel achieved substantial critical and commercial success, winning the 2022 Goodreads Choice Award for Best Fiction and appearing on numerous “best books of the year” lists. Set largely within the world of video games, the novel follows the evolving friendship and creative partnership between Sam Masur and Sadie Green over several decades, exploring themes of ambition, authorship, grief, identity, gender inequalities and the complexities of long-term human connection.

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow (a title that references Macbeth’s soliloquy after his wife’s death) traces, as noted, the intertwined lives of Sam Masur and Sadie Green, whose relationship begins in childhood and evolves into a complex creative and emotional partnership. Narrated primarily in the third person, the novel moves fluidly across several decades, incorporating flashbacks that highlight the formative moments shaping the protagonists’ bond. After first meeting in a hospital as children, Sam and Sadie reconnect years later at Harvard, where their shared passion for videogames leads them to collaborate on Ichigo, a game that brings them sudden and huge success and recognition. As their careers develop, they, alongside their producer and friend Marx Watanabe, establish a videogame studio that becomes the foundation of both their professional achievements and personal conflicts.

The shifting narrative perspective offers insight into the characters’ inner lives, thus revealing how ambition, insecurity and unspoken resentment gradually strain their relationship. Sam’s physical disability and emotional guardedness, together with Sadie’s struggle for creative autonomy and work recognition in a male-dominated industry brings huge tension to the novel, while Marx functions as a stabilizing presence and emotional anchor who holds the trio together. The narrative reaches a tragic turning point with Marx’s violent death, an event that fractures the group and forces the two main protagonists into prolonged periods of grief and self-reproach. The novel ultimately presents reconciliation not as a definitive resolution but as an ongoing process shaped by loss, time and imperfect understanding.

A key strength of the novel lies in its deeply human characterization, which gives the central figures a strong emotional presence. Sam Masur, a biracial man who grows up in poverty without a father figure and loses his mother at a young age, is profoundly shaped with his physical disability and, later, the loss of a leg. These life experiences foster deep insecurity and emotional withdrawal as he struggles to express his emotions verbally, is uncomfortable with his appearance and finds sexual intimacy deeply distressing. On her side, Sadie Green is portrayed as someone who is highly intelligent and creatively gifted, having grown up in relative wealth and stability. Yet, as a woman in the male-dominated videogame industry, she frequently feels undervalued as her contributions are often minimized or insufficiently recognized because “the gaming industry, like many industries, loves its wonder boys” (132). Lastly, Marx Watanabe, a character loved by many readers, functions as a balancing force between the two extremes represented by Sam and Sadie. He is rich and good-looking, and despite facing racialized comments about his Asian appearance he remains generous, optimistic and emotionally perceptive, consistently choosing empathy over resentment. His significance is captured when Sam describes him as a non-playable character, before acknowledging that “there’s no game without the NPCs (…) There’s just some bullshit hero, wandering around with no one to talk to and nothing to do” (292). Although the characters often make questionable decisions, their actions remain psychologically coherent and grounded in their personal upbringings, underscoring Zevin’s strength in character construction. The strong characterization is supported by a writing style that is both accessible and engaging. Gabriele Zevin’s prose is clear and fluid, thus allowing the narrative to remain readable without sacrificing emotional depth. Equally compelling is the novel’s world building, particularly in its depiction of videogame design. Each game created by the characters are presented as a narrative space on their own, described with such vividness that even readers with little to no prior interest in video games are invited to engage with them.

The attractions of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow are evident; nonetheless, some aspects are less convincing. Certain narrative choices feel rather unnecessary, particularly Sadie’s relationship with her professor Dov, which is marked by sexual dominance and emotional imbalance. The depiction of Sadie’s submission, including her repeated return to Dov despite knowing that he has a wife and a child back in his hometown, are scenes that feel excessive rather than enriching. Additionally, while the complexity of Sam and Sadie’s bond is clearly intentional, the longevity of their friendship can at times feel strained by their inability to communicate beyond their shared work. Although their emotional restraint may stem from a desire to protect one another, their relationship often appears sustained almost exclusively through video games, leaving many conflicts unresolved. This limitation is even acknowledged by Sadie when she reflects that they “never say anything real to each other. We play games, and we talk about games, and we talk about making games, and we don’t know each other at all” (208). While this self-awareness adds realism, the repeated cycles of silence, separation and unresolved tension make their reconciliation difficult to fully accept and to the point of implausibility. Some readers have questioned not the depth of the characters themselves, but their durability of the connection between them.

To sum up, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow stands out for its compelling characterization, accessible prose and immersive world-building, even if some narrative choices feel less convincing. It is an engaging read for those interested in videogames or emotionally rich characters. In the end, it seems like Gabrielle Zevin is suggesting that friendship, like the games in her novel, is less about winning than about continuing to play despite loss.

2023. Fern Brady’s Strong Female Character: Stepping Out of Shame into Understanding – Madeleine Lawrence

Edition reviewed: Brazen, 2023

Fern Brady (b. 1986, Bathgate, Scotland) is a comedian, writer and podcaster, known for her standup and appearances on shows such as Taskmaster and the co-creation of the podcast Wheel of Misfortune. Strong Female Character (2023) is her memoir and the winner of the Non Fiction Award for Books Are my Bag in 2023. This memoir was written in the wake of her late autism diagnosis, and talks boldly and honestly about Brady’s tumultuous life, from childhood to university, all the way to her notably successful career in standup. Brady is both hilarious and seriously passionate in her writing. Her commitment to sharing all the raw details is what makes the memoir such a poignant read; she rejects the shame that has been forced on her, and the memoir reads as the story Brady wishes she could have seen represented, as well as a call for greater understanding.

Brady opens the memoir talking about her autism diagnosis, firstly in the context of a conversation with her befuddled Dad, in which he eventually responds by oddly commenting “Traffic in London’s mental, eh?” (11). We are immediately acquainted with Brady’s distinct narrative voice, and her sharp perception of the peculiar characters of her life. This combination gives an insight into a world that is frequently chaotic and surreal. Brady describes how she was misunderstood and therefore mistreated throughout her whole childhood, by family and peers alike. Her relationship with her mother is key throughout the memoir, particularly in its closing chapters. Recounting the numerous occasions Brady was raged at and expelled from home by her mother, her realisation upon meeting her mother again after COVID lockdown, that her mother had truly done her best as a parent, has a lasting bittersweetness. Where anger and bitterness at her circumstances and treatment could be justified, this memoir transforms them into a call for improvement and for connection. Brady awakens to the truth that her autism was mishandled throughout her life, and whilst autistic people can succeed and thrive through determination, there are also a million external factors that could be improved.

In an interview with Lou Sanders, Brady explains that with this book she ‘2anted to look at how odd female communication is”*. With her narration going between an actual telling of events as they happened, with newly informed reflections on them, Brady tells us, for instance, about her relationships with girls her age at school. She describes her friend ditching her at 14, becoming “as distant and unreachable as the rest of (the girls)” (70). Brady underlines the loneliness and isolation she felt, and her obliviousness that her actions (in this case, dating her friend’s male friends) would be a cause of conflict. She then links this to her later discovery of the ‘pick-me’ trope, and how she simultaneously disagreed with this behaviour, and identified with it. This particular trope has now been quite openly dismissed as an anti-feminist characteristic, but Brady adds to the discussion that the distain for it is unfairly dismissive of autistic girls, for whom this might be the only clear path for feeling a sense of acceptance and connection.

Brady demonstrates throughout the memoir how relationships with women frequently come with an undercurrent of unwritten rules and complex social dynamics that are nonsensical and even hostile to autistic women. This theme follows her to the workplace, where a female coworker delivers the extremely egregious dismissal “you leach off our taxes, don’t you?” (241) in a conversation about student debt, “sweetly” and with a “cold smile”. Brady points out many similar instances where cruelty is thinly veiled by sweetness and people around her refuse to say what they mean, thus demonstrating the constant decoding she has to do to operate in the world around her. She describes in passages about her more recent life her conversations with her boyfriend Conor, who she often calls in to “translate any social situation” (252), which offers an insight into the kind of support that she needs and that at least one of the few people in Brady’s life story seem to provide, with the right kind of love and understanding.

Brady’s open discussion of her precocious sexual identity is another refreshingly new and honest aspect of her memoir. Sex for her functions as a sensory activity, as well as one to bring social capital, either hooking up with a girl in a mental health unit, or finding an emotionally distant hookup to avoid her ex while at uni. She doesn’t attempt to moralise her behaviour at all. Brady’s ability to speak freely without excusing herself means that this memoir radiates acceptance as her sexuality is another means of exploration of the world and herself. She describes how she “grew up confident about (her) queerness” (107), only learning a “suitable amount of shame” (107), she adds ironically, from the messaging the world around her sent her. She even describes a point at which she thought lesbianism might explain some of her autistic behaviour. There is a novel’s worth of intrigue in Brady’s love-life itself, but the way she treats it is never sensationalist or egotistical. It instead informs her and our understanding of herself and the world.

Brady’s description of her time in sex work strips away inaccurately positive ideas about being in such positions, with Brady treating this type of employment in the memoir as she does her other jobs. She highlights the ways she and her coworkers were exploited, and pointedly refuses to humanise any of the men that made up the customer base. However, she also points out that the working conditions (the low lighting, the clear-cut transactional relationship between customer and performer and so on) were much more bearable than places like Boots or an office job. After years of feeling pressured to keep quiet and conceal parts of herself and her life, Brady gives the impression of someone who has felt shame deeply, but knows it is not the answer.

Brady’s memoir was evidently not written without struggle or doubt. She frequently notes how she has never seen her experiences reflected, let alone spoken about, in the world around her. “I’m really annoyed that I have to be the one to do this” (256), she writes with characteristic frankness, referring to her description of her meltdowns in the memoir, an aspect she finds is the most difficult to get people to understand, and can offer see the “horror in their eyes” (256) when she does explain. Sharing her life in this detail is not a whim for Brady, but something she knows is necessary to destigmatise these behaviours and expand the narrow understanding of autism that is so universally held. Brady treats her own life story with an acceptance-of-self rooted in empathy, and a clear and researched knowledge of how her autism has shaped her experience. It is a memoir that leaves you seeing the world with clearer eyes, and allied with Brady in wishing the world to become a kinder, more accepting place.

References:

Fern Brady | ‘Strong Female Character (FULL EVENT)’ by Fane Productions on YouTube

2023. Eleanor Catton’s Birnam Wood: A Great Message Through a Simple Story – Aray Teixidor Pérez

Edition reviewed: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2023 (eBook)

Eleanor Catton (b. 1985, London, Canada) is a New Zealand novelist and screenwriter known for her successful career as a young writer. Her debut novel, The Rehearsal (2008), was written as her Master’s Thesis in her creative writing degree at the International Institute of Modern Letters, and was later adapted as a film in 2016. In 2013 she published her second novel, The Luminaries, which made Catton the youngest writer—at 28—to ever win the Booker Prize (in 2013). This novel was also adapted as a television miniseries in 2020. Birnam Wood (2023), Catton’s third novel, was named one of the 100 Notable Books of 2023 by the New York Times and shortlisted for the 2023 Giller Prize.

Birnam Wood draws its name and some inspiration from Macbeth—as the author herself has acknowledged—reflecting its themes of tragedy and betrayal, and the representation of women who speak out only to be sidelined by powerful men. However, the plot is completely unrelated, as it tells the story of a New Zealand group named after the novel’s title who set up vegetable crops in unused land to exploit for themselves and others in need, most of the time without permission. As the group starts to dissolve due to their increasing debts, one of the leaders, Mira, hears about a landslide near Korowai Pass which has completely isolated the city of Thorndike. This has caused the abandonment of a nearby farm with plenty of unused land, and Mira explores it to determine if it is suitable for their purpose. Then, she comes across Robert Lemoine, a wealthy man who is also interested in the land and who offers Mira a deal: he would own the land and let the group use a piece of it, paying them a generous amount in exchange for them not interfering in his business. However, their plans quickly start to derail and the characters' limits start being tested as they face different issues that will determine how far they are willing to fight for their beliefs, or against them.

The themes explored in Birnam Wood are subtly transmitted in a brilliant way. The novel is a satire on climate change and environmentalism, criticising not only selfish powerful figures but also those who justify harmful actions with a perceived moral superiority. Through an easy prose and humorous tone, Catton manages to exemplify her message using the characters’ actions and conversations. The use of interior monologue is especially effective in this regard, as it allows access to the characters’ introspective psychological depths. A clear example of this is when Tony—one of Birnam woods’ members—is suspicious of the New Zealand government being involved in a big conspiracy and intends to expose the Cabinet. Still, instead of counting on his group members, he chooses to “forget all of that. This was his story. (...) Whatever was going on in Korowai was going on in secret, and he, Tony Gallo, Anthony Gallo, was going to be the one to flush it out” (201). Whether the government is actually part of the conspiracy or not, the fact that Tony decides to proceed with his plan alone instead of asking for help shows his true character. Both the character’s intentions and personality are clearly exposed, and it is easily understood that Tony is self-centred and cares more about personal glory rather than exposing the assumed corruption. This strategy is used for all the relevant characters. Even when their choices are frustrating or disturbing, their reasoning is laid out clearly enough for the reader to understand how they arrived there. This does not excuse their behaviour, but it does make it coherent. Altogether, Catton uses the characters’ behaviour and evolution to send a clear message against greed and how it can negatively affect anyone, even those who act under the premise of good intentions.

Although the plot of the novel is well-developed it fails to keep a consistent rhythm. The beginning of the novel is full of long introductions and descriptions which feel unnecessary and slow down the narrative. For example, when explaining that Mira uses a fake alias online the text provides a whole description of the imaginary persona, including her name—June Crowther—, age, and that “she had a modest nest egg in shares and bonds that she wished to convert to real estate. A holiday home was what she had in mind, somewhere rural, which could be shared among her daughters while she was living and bequeathed to them after she was gone” (9). The intention is to provide context as to what excuses Mira is telling the seller to seem interested in the farm, but most of the details seem unnecessary. In general, even if some of these sections gain importance and provide context for later actions and relationships, a more gradual distribution might have made the opening feel less condensed.

The rest of the novel seems to advance at a more stable pace, the story flows consistently and the characters’ subplots develop carefully. In relation to that, one positive aspect is that all actions have consequences. In general, all relevant characters have personal conflicts beyond the main plot which not only shape their decisions but also affect other characters and, sometimes, the main plot. This creates unpredictability. It might be easy to guess the characters’ actions once their personalities are known, but there is expectation to see what the consequences will be or what will happen next. However, that feeling of expectation is lost when reaching the rushed ending. Just as the beginning felt condensed due to the excess of information, the end feels the same but for the opposite reason, as everything that has been built up to that point collapses suddenly in a crashed closure. Overall, the main plot, although simple, is coherent and greatly supported by the subplots, but the inconsistency of the flow makes the reading less enjoyable.

Birnam Wood is a successful novel. It delivers a simple story with interesting characters, even if the unstable pace is unhelpful to the reading flow. However, its success was never determined by what it tells but by what it transmits. Catton’s message is clear, her commentary on climatic issues and all the parties involved aims to encourage those who care to compromise and reflect on their actions and, most importantly, to be aware of the consequences.

2023. Tender Prose and the Search for Belonging in Chloe Michelle Howarth’s Sunburn - Irina Xicota Guasch

Edition reviewed: VERVE Books, 2023

Sunburn is the debut novel of Irish writer Chloe Michelle Howarth (b. 1996), currently based in Brighton. Written during the Covid-19 lockdown, Howarth drew inspiration from her upbringing in the West Cork countryside and her love for the culture, people and landscapes of rural Ireland to develop this sapphic coming-of-age novel set in the fictional Irish town of Crossmore in the early 1990s. Sunburn was shortlisted for the 2023 Nero Book Awards in the Debut Fiction category, the 2024 Discover Book of the Year at the British Book Awards and the 2024 Polari First Book Prize, and was the runner-up for the Readers' Choice – Adult category of the 2024 Diverse Book Awards.

Sunburn tells the story of Lucy Nolan, the narrator and protagonist, throughout her adolescence and the beginning of her adult years, as she struggles with her identity and sense of belonging in her small, close-knit town. Her tale begins in the Summer of 1989, when her relationship with her friend Susannah begins to change owing to the growing romantic attraction between the two. As their romance flourishes, Lucy begins to experience an internal battle between what her heteronormative community expects from her and her growing doubts about her identity and the path she actually wants to follow once she finishes school. The novel focuses on Lucy’s personal journey as her developing relationship with Susannah makes her question her place within her devoted group of girl-friends, complicates her relationship with her childhood best friend Martin, whom everyone expects her to marry, and brings about tension in her conservative family, especially in her complex relationship to her mother.

Howarth’s novel excels in its tender, intimate prose and the depth with which it explores its themes through the mundane and Lucy’s personal experience. Despite a lack of acknowledgement of the sociopolitical context of The Troubles, something unusual in an Irish novel set in the 1990s, its situation in this period is clear through the treatment of themes like religion, sexuality or gender expectations. Lucy’s Catholicism is present in the writing itself, such as when talking about Susannah, intertwining her desire: “Being alone with her now, I feel I am the nearest I have ever been to God” (98), with her guilt: “Why would I let them confirm my worst fear: that we are not a normal couple at all, but one strange sin spread across two people?” (121). Through their different perspectives on their relationship, Lucy’s Catholic upbringing contrasts with Susannah’s Protestant one. Their different religious backgrounds define their position in the community, as well: while Lucy has grown up in the more conservative, Catholic faith that is common in Crossmore, leading to her feeling conflicted about her sexuality and lack of belonging, Susannah has been raised by a Protestant mother that has endured the scrutiny of their village for her less traditional views and conducts, which informs Susannah’s independence and her lack of fear of standing out from the crowd. As these differences cause difficulties in their relationship, Lucy begins to confront her internal conflict of wanting to be integrated into her community without wanting to adhere to certain social rules such as showing interest in dating boys or wanting to get married. Their romance serves as a starting point for exploring the conflicts that Lucy faces, their being rooted in the social fabric of the period and her internal evolution as she learns to confront them.

Although Lucy’s relationship with Susannah is very central in the novel, a great deal of importance lies in her other relationships, both with her friends and her family. One of the aspects that Lucy struggles with is confronting her need to break free from an environment that does not allow her to be her real self, since she feels a closeness and loyalty to it that she finds hard to see in a more negative light. Such is the case with her group of friends: “Without the girls, I don’t know who I would be. They are a very big part of who I am. All my life, they have been laying a beautiful path for me, and I am so grateful for it. (...) I want to be tied down to my path” (81). As her identity is tied to her friends, Lucy needs to challenge her own sense of self as she begins to see that their loyalty is conditional to her acting according to the social codes of the group. Although the loyalty of her childhood best friend Martin is unwavering throughout all situations, their relationship is not untouched by these social expectations, as the assumption that they are to become a couple looms over their friendship. Moreover, Lucy’s sense of belonging in her seemingly idyllic family, even more so when compared to Susannah’s more dysfunctional situation, starts to be questioned as her behaviour begins to deviate from the norm. As her relationship with her mother becomes strained, the novel puts into question what an ideal family actually is and delves into the complex connection between mothers and daughters. In all, Lucy’s position in her social world aids in her excellent characterization and in developing one of the central concerns of the novel: the difficulty of finding community while being loyal to oneself, especially in a small, rural town such as Crossmore.

In conclusion, Sunburn is a beautifully written novel that masterfully approaches the coming-of-age themes of discovering one’s identity, navigating societal expectations and finding one’s path after confronting one’s childhood innocence. Its development of Lucy and Susannah’s relationship is exquisite, and its psychological complexity and superb characterization are sure to entice any reader keen on slow-paced, substantial character-driven stories.

2023. Respect for the Elderly: The Last Devil to Die by Richard Osman – Noèlia Rodriguez Villanueva

Edition reviewed: Penguin Books, 2024

The television presenter and novelist Richard Osman (b. 1970, Billericay, England) published in 2023 The Last Devil to Die, a number one novel on The New York Times Best Seller list and the fourth title of the series started by The Thursday Murder Club (2020), his debut work. This murder mystery series consist, for now, of five novels, following the recent publication of The Impossible Fortune (2025). The other previous titles are The Man Who Died Twice (2021) and The Bullet That Missed (2022). In 2025, a film adaptation of the first novel was released, starring Helen Mirren, Pierce Brosnan, Ben Kingsley, and Celia Imrie. Osman has presented popular British shows such as Pointless in BBC Two and is also a producer and creative director of the company Endemol UK.

The Thursday Murder Club is not a common mystery club. It consists of four elderly pensioners who reside in Coopers Chase, a luxury retirement village located in the fictional seaside town of Fairhaven, near Kent, UK. Its members are Elisabeth Best, a former MI6 agent; Ibrahim Arif, a psychiatrist currently helping the imprisoned drug lord Connie Johnson; Ron Rithchie, a retired union-leader and Joyce Medowcroft, a former nurse, all of them pushing past 80. They have successfully solved various local murders since the creation of the club, often relying on the police constable Donna De Freitas and Chief Inspector Chris Hudson. On the New Year’s dawn, the body of Kuldesh Sharma is found in his own car near a country lane, five days after his death. This elderly antiques dealer was a friend of Stephen Best—Elizabeth’s husband—and had provided pivotal information to solve the previous murder. His store has been ransacked and the CCTV evidence destroyed. Drugs, a vanished mysterious box, and a chain of subsequent deaths soon entangle the club in the case, profiling some suspects yet encountering red herrings that mislead them.

The candid tone of the novel—often epitomised through Joyce’s diary entries—intertwined with humorous reframes of bleak events and unwelcoming characters, functions as a mediator to integrate the struggles that the senior population undergoes. The central concerns include loneliness, the loss of autonomy, illness and the emerging technologies through the menace of phishing and internet scams. The protagonists endeavour to ensure that no neighbour is isolated and spends Christmas alone or to help colleagues navigate the frustrating digital world. The novel advocates for a more empathetic approach instead of a condescending one towards senior persons. Although the ‘gang’, as they refer to themselves, does not lack action, their investigation relies largely on interpretative reasoning and insight into human motivation, in contrast to conventional crime fiction. Each member contributes their share of professional experience to collectively create an understanding of the suspects. Their bond, mutual trust and effective communication ensure the success of their investigation. They are not impeded by age to navigate the jeopardies of crime. However, ageism is a recurrent theme throughout the novel and is explicitly criticised: “spare us the euphemism, we are not children” (107). Ultimately, the narration becomes not only a crime fiction but an exploration of human vulnerability in the late stages of life.

Osman returns to the narrative formula that secured the popularity of his quartet, this time confronting drug dealers, heroin contraband and art forgery. The Last Devil to Die gathers the wide range of recurring characters with new ones, turning it into a challenge to engage with the emotional background for the readers who first approach the series. However, the simplicity that the dialogues present prioritises clarity, especially in sour moments such as death. Stephen Best has been suffering from advanced dementia since the first novel, slowly progressing towards a loss of identity and the inability to recognise those closest to him, even his wife Elizabeth. The tragic—yet peaceful—moment of his passing introduces the debate over the use of euthanasia, whose eligibility is restricted in several countries and considered a taboo even where the practice is legal. The episode, deeply emotional and intimate, is handled by Osman with delicacy, not only exploring the ethics of the procedure but also the process of grief—gentler with friends—and the transcendental sense of love “I don’t know why we are on earth (…) But if I wanted to find the answer, I would begin with how much I love you” (220). There is a shift in the narrative, as the investigation continues from a quieter reflection on finitude and the bonds that guide us. The idea of the series resonates: to see the people that you love wither with some dignity.

In conclusion, The Last Devil to Die is recommended to readers in search for an unconventional, fun, yet emotional murder mystery story. The series focus on the elderly perspective by exploring relevant struggles like illnesses, isolation or technological alienation. Richard Osman provides insightful social criticism along with humorous remarks, all while the suspense and the tangled red herrings deem the reader the necessity to be attentive.

2023. Circling Without Landing: A Thoughtful but Fleeting Journey in Samantha Harvey’s Orbital – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

Edition reviewed: Vintage, 2024

British novelist Samantha Harvey (born in Kent, England, in 1975), known for her versatility in literary genres and philosophical explorations, presents Orbital, a 2023 novel that has drawn both admiration and disappointment from critics and readers. The winner of the 2024 Booker Prize for best English-language novel, Harvey became the first woman to win the award since 2019. Her rather short novel has been recognized for her research and has been listed on several best-of-the-year lists, contributing to Harvey's reputation as one of contemporary fiction's most reflective writers. Translated to several languages, Orbital has begun to generate a legacy as a meditative work and significant contribution to the growing genre of literary space fiction. Its reception, however, has been mixed: many critics praise its lyrical prose and philosophical digressions, while others find it monotonous, diffuse, and overly trivial. It is within this outlook that Orbital situates itself, inviting readers into an intimate, unique portrait of life onboard the International Space Station.

Structurally, Orbital mirrors the repetitive rhythm of life onboard the ISS, narrating the 24 hours of a single Terran day as the crew completes sixteen full rotations around the Earth. The novel follows Roman, a Russian cosmonaut and current commander; Anton, the second Russian cosmonaut; Chie, a Japanese specialist; Pietro, an Italian flight engineer; Shaun, an American pilot and specialist; and Nell, a British meteorologist. Harvey moves between their perspectives as they perform maintenance checks, conduct different experiments, prepare for their meals, gaze at the magnitude of the planet, or reflect on the lives they have left behind. The opening of the novel already offers a first glimpse of its emotional weight: “Rotating about the Earth in their spacecraft they are so together, and so alone, that even their thoughts, their internal mythologies, at times convene” (1). Although little happens throughout the story in a traditional narrative sense, the plot lies in the constant compilation of these small gestures and interior thoughts, creating a tale that emphasizes psychological depth rather than dramatic action.

One of the novel's most notable strengths is its prose, which is consistently precise and richly poetic. Harvey succeeds at describing the Earth from above—its colours, textures, and changing patterns—as well as the quiet and repetitive life inside the station. Certain passages achieve genuine beauty, relating scenes that require reflexion such as the fragility of ecological systems or the bizarre contradiction of being physically detached from the world while emotionally tied to it. Shaun’s reflections in the sixth chapter capture this sense of awe perfectly: “Where do the boundaries sit, Shaun thinks as he moves past the window (…) You could never really comprehend the stars, but the Earth you could know in the way you know another person, in the way. He wishes to know it, inch by inch” (25). Harvey's fascination with perspective continues with the visual paradox of Diego Velázquez's 1656 painting Las Meninas and the way images invite us to question who is truly observing whom. Starting from this idea, Harvey meditates on the belief that a shift in point of view could change our understanding of the world—an invitation to reflect beyond the literal meaning of the message. In addition, characterisation is subtle. Rather than creating fully detailed psychological profiles, she relies on hints and fragments such as childhood memories, feelings of nostalgia and homesickness, or grief. The astronauts' reflections on home, responsibility, and the passage of time offer moments of introspective clarity as well as the tension between our perceived significance and our actual limitations as a species. She questions the human condition and highlights how even the most extraordinary achievements can seem both majestic and trivial—“We think we're the wind, but we're just the leaf” (106). As Harvey concludes, human are “ingenious curious beings who pioneer into space and change the future, when really the only thing humans can do that other animals cannot is start fire from nothing” (106). For readers who enjoy fiction based not in dramatic action but in reflection, these sections will likely be the most rewarding.

However, the assets of Orbital are also the limitations that prevent Harvey's work from fully reaching its potential. Its most persistent weakness is its extremely slow pace: the lack of narrative progression makes the reading experience static or sometimes even tedious. Harvey involuntarily evokes both the crew’s perspective and the reader’s experience of the novel: “There are times when the rapidity of this passage across the Earth is enough to exhaust and bewilder” (125). Although Harvey deliberately avoids a traditional plot, the result can be interpreted less like an artistic decision and more as a deficient narrative energy, which is also amplified by the novel's structural repetitiveness. Similarly, the characters often feel distant and difficult to empathize with. All six voices share a similar tone and rhythm: their reflections are lyrical and vivid, but also generalized which makes the characters forgettable and difficult for the reader to form a strong attachment to any of them. As a result, we observe the astronauts thinking and reflecting, but we rarely feel anything with them. Another limitation of the novel is its tendency to drift into long philosophical, descriptive passages that, while reflective and beautifully written, adds little to enrich the characters or build narrative coherence: at times, it reads less like a novel and more like a sequence of meditations. In the end, Orbital leaves a curious impression: it is a novel rich in atmosphere but poor in substance, insightful in places yet easy to forget.

In conclusion, Orbital is a thoughtful and elegant work, one that offers moments of genuine insight but struggles to maintain engagement. Harvey's prose is beautiful, and her ambition to capture the repetitiveness and quietness of life in space is admirable, but the novel’s slow rhythm and limited narrative prevent it from becoming as memorable as it could be. It is recommended to readers who appreciate meditative fiction and value atmosphere over plot, although it is far from essential. Beautiful in parts, forgettable as a whole, Orbital is a novel that can be admired intellectually but not necessarily loved.

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Martín, Sara (ed.). Reviewing Contemporary Anglophone Fiction and Nonfiction, vol. II. Bellaterra: Departament de Filologia Anglesa i de Germanística, Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, 2026. https://ddd.uab.cat/record/307453

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The book in the hands of the reader collects reviews written by the students enrolled in the second edition of the core subject ‘Contemporary Literature in English’ which I have taught within the BA in English Studies, Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, in the academic year 2025-26. As an academic work, this volume requires no permission or license from third parties since it is published for the only purpose of disseminating knowledge. The quotations from primary sources and the images of the book covers are here used for this end. The editor and the authors have not received nor will receive any earnings from the online publication of the volume.

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Notes

[←1]

See “Producing E-books on Fantasy and Science Fiction with University Students: Classroom Projects.” Mapping the Imaginative II, Christian Ludwig and Elizabeth Shipley (eds.), Universitätsverlag Winter, 2020, 163-184.

[←2]

See the materials I produced for the subject, ‘What You Need to Know about… Contemporary Anglophone Literature’ here: https://ddd.uab.cat/record/305685.

Table of Contents

Preface: An Experiment in Teaching

1991. A Thousand Acres of Trauma-sowed Land: Digging Deep into Jane Smiley’s novel - Iris Monleón López

1991. There are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in the Other America by Alex Kotlowitz: Discipline and Tact - Daixing Cao

1992. The Children of Men by P.D. James: Finding Humanity in a Hopeless World - Clara Escriche Jiménez

1992. Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés: A Timeless Reflection or an Outdated Classic? - Irina Xicota Guasch

1992. Poetic, Rhythmic and Spontaneous Writing as Musical as Its Title: Jazz by Toni Morrison - Dafne Iglesias Solà

1992. Not All Men, But This Man: A Modern Take on Robert James Waller’s The Bridges of Madison County – Leire Olariaga Miera

1992. Paul Monette’s Journey in Becoming a Man: Half a Life Story: An Intimate Connection - Aray Teixidor Pérez

1992. Fools by Pat Cadigan: Demanding Reading - Queralt Meca Camprubí

1993. The Giver, or How Lois Lowry Wrote Divergent before Veronica Roth – Widad Moula El Moussati

1994. A Quest for Identity and Empowerment in Bulibasha: King of the Gypsies by Witi Ihimaera – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

1995. Affection, Irony, and Identity: A Cultural Satire of Britain in Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island – Aina Matamala Tuset

1996. Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace: The Art of Doubt in a Seamless Quilt of Lies and Truths – Anan Ye

1996. The Myth within Storytelling: The Englishman's Boy by Guy Vanderhaeghe - Nelly Villavicencio Ortega

1997. A Powerful Story Lost in Its Form: Reading Nadine Gordimer’s The House Gun – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

1997. American Pastoral by Philip Roth: The Collapse of the American Dream as Postmodern Nihilism - Roger Vallès Fitó

1998. The Mysterious, Compelling and Erotic Aftertaste of Good Wine: Elizabeth Knox’s The Vintner’s Luck – Leire Olariaga Miera

1998. Life as a Film Set: Life: The Movie - How Entertainment Conquered Reality by Neal Gabler - Daria Malashenkova

1998. The Hours by Michael Cunningham: Virginia Woolf’s Long Shadow – Núria Pedrós Peró

1998. History, Trauma, and Responsibility: Reading Sindiwe Magona’s Mother to Mother – Irene González García

1999. The Charm and Claustrophobia of Small-Town Life in Elizabeth and After by Matt Cohen: A Beautifully Melancholic but Flawed Novel – Dafne Iglesias Solà

1999. Misfortune And Survival: Questioning Authority in The Bad Beginning by Lemony Snicket and Brett Helquist (illustrator) – Samya El Kasmy

2000. A Light-hearted Mystery Novel with Charming African Characters: Tears of the Giraffe by Alexander McCall Smith - Lluna Heredia González

2000. Memory, Identity, and Resilience in Amitav Ghosh’s The Glass Palace – Marina Alsina Ferrando

2000. Revisiting the Essex Tragedy: Thoroughness and Authenticity in Nathaniel Philbrick's In the Heart of the Sea – Clàudia Puelma Jové

2000. How Life Shapes a Writer: Stephen King’s Honest Writing Guide On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft – Clara Escriche Jimenez

2000. Julia Quinn’s The Duke and I: A Romantic Portrait of Power, Desire and Social Constraint - Judit García Cimas

2001. The River of Wounds: Pain, Secrets, and the Fragility of Lives in Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

2001. The Constant Gardener by John le Carré: A Sophisticated Thriller on Western Corruption – Irina Xicota Guasch

2001. Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser: A Call for Awareness about the US Fast Food Industry – Neus Heras Mena

2001. Bonding Generations: Memory and Language in Amy Tan’s The Bonesetter’s Daughter – Aitana Tarango Encinas

2001. White Teeth by Zadie Smith: The Illusion of Control – Daixing Cao

2002. A Beautiful Tangle: Denis Johnson’s Rethinking of the Frontier Myth in Train Dreams – Nora Taher Martinez

2002. Intellect and Emotion, Conceptual and Human Frontiers in Ted Chiang’s Stories of Your Life and Others – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

2002. When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka: A New Perspective. Aray Teixidor Pérez

2002. Steel, Dust, and Ruins: American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center by William Langewiesche – Ivetta Portnova

2003. Among Chaos: Adrian Nicole LeBlanc’s Random Family: Love, Drugs, Trouble, and Coming of Age in the Bronx – Cèlia Saltó Parramon

2003. Feminism and Delicacy in Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

2003. In-Betweenness, Identity, and Memories: History and Personal Life in Colonial and Post Colonial Kenya in M. G. Vassanji's The In-Between World of Vikram Lall – Clàudia Puente Guarro

2004. Identity, Empire and Belonging: A Compassionate Portrayal of Post-Colonial Britain in Andrea Levy’s Small Island – Samya El Kasmy

2004. My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult: A Constellation of Voices Under a Single Grief – Anan Ye

2004. Aestheticism, Desire, Privilege, and Decay: A Portrait of Thatcher’s Britain in Alan Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty – Aina Matamala Tuset

2005. Searching for Control in Tom McCarthy’s Remainder – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

2005. The Secret River by Kate Grenville: Echoes of Colonial Legacy in Early Australia – Roger Vallès Fitó

2005. Arthur & George by Julian Barnes: The Power of Narrative – Nelly Villavicencio Ortega

2006. I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman by Nora Ephron: Femininity Is Complicated – Laia Rodríguez Roca

2006. Of Islands and Literary Classics: Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones – Núria Pedrós Peró

2007. A White Man’s Fantasy: The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill - Mery López Díez

2007. Gut-Wrenching Love: André Aciman’s Call Me by Your Name – Noèlia Rodriguez Villanueva

2008. Authenticity, Ambiguity, and Intimacy: Exploring Love, Hope, and Political Oppression in John Berger’s From A to X – Clàudia Puelma Jové

2008. Rediscovering Self and Happiness in Sophie Kinsella’s Remember Me? – Marina Alsina Ferrando

2008. Here Comes Everybody by Clay Shirky: A Landmark Analysis of Digital Collective Action – Judit García Cimas

2008. The Accumulation of Testimony: Memory, Power, and Mercy in Sebastian Barry’s The Secret Scripture – Daixing Cao

2008. Laughing Through the Chaos: Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher – Lluna Heredia González

2009. A Story We Thought We Knew: Teen Depression, Media Spectacle, and the Lessons Unlearned in Dave Cullen's Columbine – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

2009. The Enthralling Folklore of Michael Crummey’s Galore – Irina Xicota Guasch

2009. The Spirit Level by Richard G. Wilkinson and Kate E. Pickett: From Data to Hope – Maria Sánchez Arjona

2009. Much To Pity: Barbara Demick’s Raw Portrayal of Not So Ordinary Lives in Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea – Nora Taher Martinez

2010. Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad: An Exploration of Time, Identity, and Reinvention – Clara Escriche Jimenez

2010. Polygamy, Power and Female Agency in Lola Shoneyin’s The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

2010. Far to Go by Alison Pick: The Train of Memory – Mila Torres Bondarenko

2010. Choice, Control, and the Cracks in a Perfect World: Matched by Ally Condie – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

2011. Humour as Feminism and Affection in Tina Fey’s Bossypants – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

2011. Rewriting the Muse: Violence and Female voices in Helen Oyeyemi's Mr Fox – Cèlia Saltó Parramon

2011. In the Presence of Pain: How Maggie Nelson’s The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning Reframes Violent Aesthetics – Èlia Llobera Camacho

2011. Trauma, Memory, and Identity in Jeanette Winterson’s Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? – Siya Kumar Rani

2012. Leaving the Past Behind: Deborah Feldman’s Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots – Helena Clot Perez

2012. From Broken Soles to a Reclaimed Soul in Cheryl Strayed’s Wild: A Long Walk Back to Oneself – Anan Ye

2012. Hilary Mantel’s Bring Up the Bodies: A Compelling Reimagining of the Tudor Court – Neus Heras Mena

2012. The Disappointing Promise of Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass – Aray Teixidor Pérez

2012. Louise Erdrich’s The Round House: Deeply Moving and Historically Significant – Anna Garriga Soler

2013. We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler: A Family’s Odyssey into Human Identity – Roger Vallès Fitó

2014. A Beautifully Wrapped Void: A Review of Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation – Leire Olariaga Miera

2014. The Trials and Tribulations of Kindergarten Moms in Liane Moriarty’s Bechdel-proof Big Little Lies – Dafne Iglesias Solà

2015. Stating the Obvious: Predictability and Unreliability in Paula Hawkins’s The Girl on The Train – Núria Pedrós Peró

2016. Facing an Uncomfortable Reality: Reading Peggy Orenstein’s Girls & Sex in a Culture That Refuses to Change – Laia Moreno Rodríguez

2016. Attention and Inheritance: Reading Ken Liu’s The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories – Daixing Cao

2016. Generations, Characters, and Perspectives in Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing: Over Two Centuries of Ghanaian and African American History – Clàudia Puelma Jové

2016. The Power by Naomi Alderman: Who Has It? Does It Really Matter? – Mery López Díez

2017. From Personal Trauma to Collective Resistance: Race, Voice and Social Justice in Angie Thomas’s The Hate U Give – Rocio Rodríguez Romero

2018. Reclaiming Voice and Power: Madeline Miller’s Circe as a Contemporary Myth – Aitana Tarango

2018. Beth Macy’s Dopesick: The Structural Failures behind the Opioid Crisis in The USA– Paula Portillo Jimenez

2018. Reading Sally Rooney’s Normal People: A Portrait of Modern Human Relationships – Aitana Tarango

2019. Time, Love, Strategy, and Betrayal: Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone’s This Is How You Lose the Time War – Aina Matamala Tuset

2020. Addiction, Poverty and Neglect in Douglas Stuart’s Shuggie Bain – Siya Kumar Rani

2020. The Line between Human and Monster: Ring Shout by P. Djèlí Clark – Joan Portals Bonich

2021. Horror as Empathy: Trauma and Misperception in The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward – Samya El Kasmy

2021. Honest Enough?: Reading Justin Baldoni’s Man Enough in the Cold Light of Day – Dafne Iglesias Solà

2021. The Story of One is the Story of All: Hell of a Book by Jason Mott – Ainhoa Irurre Martínez

2022. A Survivor Hero on and off Stage: Finding Me by Viola Davis – Roger Vallès Fitó

2022. Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow: Both Sides of the Fragile Design of Friendship – Anan Ye

2023. Fern Brady’s Strong Female Character: Stepping Out of Shame into Understanding – Madeleine Lawrence

2023. Eleanor Catton’s Birnam Wood: A Great Message Through a Simple Story – Aray Teixidor Pérez

2023. Tender Prose and the Search for Belonging in Chloe Michelle Howarth’s Sunburn - Irina Xicota Guasch

2023. Respect for the Elderly: The Last Devil to Die by Richard Osman – Noèlia Rodriguez Villanueva

2023. Circling Without Landing: A Thoughtful but Fleeting Journey in Samantha Harvey’s Orbital – Raúl Barquero Cerdán

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