NewPages Blog :: Book Reviews

Guest Post by Stephanie Katz.

The novel The End of Aphrodite by Laurette Folk follows a handful of women as they experience yearning, love, and loss in the sweeping New England oceanside. The characters move through their lives as if in a dream, and likewise Folk’s descriptive, ethereal writing makes experiencing the book feel more like dreaming than reading. Even the sadness and pain the women face is rendered beautifully in Folk’s gentle care, and themes of a Catholic, Italian-American culture adds an extra layer of depth to the story.

As the book progresses, each woman’s life wraps around them like a cocoon. Shy Samantha’s cocoon allows her to transform as she tentatively embraces her womanhood and sexuality:

“She came in with a big garbage bag with the wedding dress in it and handed it to me to put in the cedar closet downstairs. I hid there, took off my clothes and fit myself inside the regality of tulle and satin, of virgin white . . . I eventually abandoned the dress for the veil and would return several times that summer, surreptitiously, to undress and pull the tulle tightly around my skin, wrapping my entire naked body.”

Etta, the titular Aphrodite, spends most of the book struggling to attach the chrysalis of herself to lover after lover. She eventually is able to fully emerge when she embraces becoming a mother and the ramifications it brings. The End of Aphrodite is perfect for readers looking to slowly amble through a story, pausing to meander down a few subplots before making their way back to the denouement. Readers longing for more of Folk’s distinctive voice can pick up her first novel, A Portal to Vibrancy, and her book of poetry and flash fiction, Totem Beasts.

The End of Aphrodite by Laurette Folk. Bordighera Press, April 2020.

Reviewer bio: Stephanie Katz is a librarian with the Manatee County Public Library System and editor in chief of award-winning 805 Lit + Art. She was selected as a Library Journal 2020 Mover & Shaker for her work with 805. She is the author of Libraries Publish: How to Start a Magazine, Small Press, Blog, and More. She blogs about creative library publishing at LiteraryLibraries.org.

Guest Post by Raymond Abbott.

Recently I came upon a paperback copy of the novel 1984, George Orwell’s classic. I first read it easily fifty years ago. I remembered well the overall theme, a fictional account of the totalitarian government that existed in England in 1984, and well before that date.  What I didn’t recall were the particulars, the details, the events, the various characters, even the main character’s name, Winston.

I found the story engrossing for the first 100 pages, almost what one might call a page turner. Then the narrative slowed way down, almost stopped,  at least for me. This happened with the introduction of Julia, Winston’s lover.

What I noticed this time through is just how hostile Orwell is toward women. I quote a line (and there are others). He writes, “It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nose out of unorthodoxy.”

Hard to imagine getting such words past today’s gatekeepers, many of whom are women. I say lucky for Orwell that he published when he did, late forties, or there might not exist a 1984 novel for me to reread.

1984 by George Orwell. Secker & Warburg, June 1949.

Reviewer bio: Raymond Abbott lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Once in a while his prose is published. He used to be a social worker working among severely mentally disabled adults in Louisville.

Guest Post by Judith Chalmer.

The Inland Sea by Sam Clark is wonderful, full of interesting people left to live out their own mysteries, with rich and beautiful descriptions of the lake and communities on both sides. Evidence of intelligence and emotional complexity is everywhere in the characters Clark has created for his unusually constructed and sophisticated mystery.

An assortment of re-built boats skim across a lake bordered by forest and farm, carrying readers between islands, slamming waves, treacherous rocks, and the unpredictable currents of human capability. Designed with a craftsperson’s care and a philosopher’s depth, The Inland Sea covers a lot of territory.

I finished the book in two sittings, and had to make myself stop in the middle. I can’t wait to recommend it to friends.

The Inland Sea: A Mystery by Sam Clark. Rootstock Publishing, December 2020.

Reviewer bio: Judith Chalmer is the author of two books of poetry, Out of History’s Junk Jar, and most recently, Minnow. She lives and writes in Vermont.

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Guest Post by Jack Graham.

Paul Beatty presents a roguishly sharp addressing of current race relations within the United States within his Booker Prize-winning novel, The Sellout. In his plight to put his home town of Dickens back on the map, our protagonist (whose first name we never discover) explores notions of modern-day slavery under an Obama presidency, the revival of segregation in schools whilst also acknowledging the blatant racism of Hollywood, hiring black actors simply for their sense of ‘blackness’.

Our protagonist guides us through the chapters with a lexicon that can only be appreciated by sociology graduates, documenting in the earliest pages of the narrative as to how he was a guinea pig for his father’s experiments and torture in an attempt to mimic and alter notorious psychological experiments within the parameters of an African-American lifestyle adjacent to the struggles of a black community in small-town California.

Beatty presents his audience with the complete absurdity of segregation and slave-holding. The author is willing to excite and shock his audience as a means to illustrate the everyday strains of a black community, whether that be the ejection of black communities from city maps, the use of racial slurs, or the tremendous difficulties for black children to attend mostly white schools.

I wholeheartedly recommend that people read The Sellout as means to further understand and appreciate the tribulations of a much-subjugated class to acknowledge the role of often ignored small ghetto-like communities in the path of large-scale gentrification.

The Sellout by Paul Beatty. Picador, March 2016.

Reviewer bio: I’m Jack Graham, currently studying my Masters in English Literary Studies at Durham University.

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Guest Post by John Cullen.

The title for this review comes from the dedication which opens Deirdre Fagan’s collection of short stories, The Grief Eater.  This collection follows up on the author’s excellent poetry collection, Have Love, but turns its attention to beautifully written explorations of characters overcome with and attempting to live with grief.

In the story “The Grief Eater,” a young woman can’t stop reading the local obituaries and attending the funerals of people she does not know, initially believing she is doing it for the good of the grieving families and eventually coming to a larger realization about herself and the nature of life. “Dressing The Part” chronicles the events of a woman attempting to deal with having lost her husband. At various points she wears her wedding dress to work and discovers a strange yet movingly fitting way of spreading her husband’s ashes. In “Rotary Dial,” a grief-stricken man begins calling people at random and asking for his wife.

The characters in these stories struggle with that most human pain of how to move on from grief and possibly find a livable space. These psychological portraits of characters at extreme crossroads will strike a deep chord in anyone who has thought about mortality or confronted loss. This is an excellent first collection of stories.

The Grief Eater by Deirdre Fagan. Adelaide Books, 2020.

Reviewer bio: John Cullen’s poetry has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, American Journal of Poetry, The MacGuffin, and The Cincinnati Review.

Guest Post by Dawn Newton.

Jessica O’Dwyer’s novel Mother Mother is not only a story featuring two mothers but also a story about two worlds—a middle-class world in the United States where parents can seek an adoption through public or private options and the world of a Guatemalan mother forced to give up a child in the aftermath of a brutal civil war.

O’Dwyer writes about these journeys from many angles, revealing the complexities and emotional nuances of the adoption process for birth mothers and adoptive parents alike. There is despair, strength, and joy in the details. The juxtaposition of the two mothers’ lives, while highlighting the differences in socioeconomic issues and personal freedom in the two worlds, also reveals the emotional intensity involved in the journey each mother faces.

Just as Saroo Brierley’s A Long Way Home focuses on an adopted child’s journey to find a birth mother while portraying impoverished families in India, Mother Mother presents the stages of the adoption process while also revealing the work to be done once the adopted child arrives—helping him settle comfortably into an American society that still struggles with “the other.” In an incident on a playground just after newly adopted Jack’s arrival, a stranger comments on the boy, comfortable in her assumption that because Jack’s skin color is different from his mother’s, he must be adopted. Julie, his new mother, realizes that she won’t always be able to protect her son from external judgment or evaluation. Like most good books, this novel teaches us about worlds we might not know or understand, helping us to expand our empathy for others.

(Disclaimer: This book was published by the small press publishing my own work. While I don’t know the author personally, I consulted with her by phone once on a press-related issue.)

Mother Mother by Jessica O’Dwyer. Apprentice House, October 2020.

Reviewer bio: Dawn Newton is the author of Winded: A Memoir in Four Stages. Her novel, The Remnants of Summer, is forthcoming from Apprentice House Press in 2021.

Guest Post by Katrina Thompson.

From the moment I began reading Jeff Vandermeer’s “Annihilation” I was enthralled and intrigued by the mysterious top secret location dubbed “Area-X” as well as the suspicious yet compelling cast of characters, all of which have no name and are instead known only by their occupations “The Biologist,” “The Psychologist,” “The Anthropologist,” “The Surveyor,” and “The Linguist.”

The protagonist or “biologist” also known as “Ghost Bird” by her former lover throughout the entirety of the novel, is a self-contained loner who has spent most of her life wrapped up in her curiosities with the natural world, her educational pursuits, or her rich and elusive inner life. The narrative itself is from her perspective and is told through the medium of her journal. But despite the less than traditional narrative style, the pacing of this novel is extremely engaging and left me hanging onto every word wondering what would happen next. I found no lulls or filler in the plot or dialogue. There were only white knuckled, page turning chapters and beautiful, awe-inspiring descriptions of the intoxicating terrifying realm of Area-X!

I highly recommend this book to anyone who’s into the sci-fi or fantasy genres or if you’re just looking for a creepy read to finish off the month of November.

Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, February 2014.

Reviewer bio: Dreamer by day, writer by night. My rich inner life inspires my whimsical writings.

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Guest Post by Chuck Augello.

In the opening story in Gwen Goodkin’s debut collection A Place Remote, a character references Bruce Springsteen’s “Cadillac Ranch,” but the Springsteen song that best captures the spirit of these stories is “The Ties That Bind.” In “Winnie,” an ambitious scholarship student at an elite college is drawn to a childhood friend, a construction worker chasing jobs across the country and over the Mexican border. Goodkin is a sharp observer of class distinctions; her working-class narrator has a comfortable sense of where he belongs while Winnie struggles for acceptance among her affluent peers. Describing Winnie’s reaction to her classmates’ wealth, the narrator observes, “I could tell she liked it in a way, being around all these people. Maybe she thought their money was going to rub off on her.” The story’s ending is sad yet hopeful, Winnie’s life bringing her to unexpected places.

Goodkin’s dialogue is witty, earthy, and real, and her first-person narrators are unique and memorable.  The tension between staying and leaving is woven throughout the book.  In “A Boy with Sense,” a mother celebrates escaping her rural roots: “‘Best day of my life,’ Mom says with a cigarette between her lips, ‘was the day I left that shithole . . . .'”  Yet her son sees the beauty in what his mother has forced him to leave: “Farming’s what I love. What I’m best at. Mom can think what she wants. I’d stay at the farm for good.”

Over the past five years there’s been a near obsession with the “Red State-Blue State” divide.  A Place Remote is set firmly in the “Red,” but what matters most is the grace and dignity afforded these characters. Fiction allows readers to see into the lives of others and Goodkin makes an excellent tour guide into the remote places where her characters live, love, and dream.

A Place Remote by Gwen Goodkin. West Virginia University Press, 2020.

Reviewer bio: Chuck Augello is the author of the novel The Revolving Heart and the story collection The Inexplicable Grey Space We Call Love.

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Guest Post by Kimberly Diaz.

I stumbled upon amazing author Lucie Britsch via “Murder me Nicely,” a witty story in The Sun literary magazine. It charmed and delighted me so much that immediately after consuming it, I went looking for more. I found her on Twitter and great news—she had a novel coming out. I sent her a few highly complimentary tweets, ordered the book, and patiently reread my complete collection of Stephen McCauley novels as I waited for it to arrive.

Sad Janet is about a youngish woman who is depressed yet resisting constant pleas from family and coworkers to go on medication for it. She feels her depression is just the logical result of being aware. Every day she forces herself out of bed, laces up her Doc Martens and heads off to her job in a dog kennel in the woods “like a goddamned hero.” She has mixed feelings about the guy she lives with referring to him only as “the boyfriend” and admits that when he wants sex, sometimes she would really just rather have a sandwich.

With the holidays coming, the pressure to be happy is growing. Big Pharma has come out with a drug trial for a pill that will let you have a happy Christmas and Janet reluctantly signs up. You’ll have to read the book to find out how that goes. The novel is filled with Janet’s thoughts which are dark and hilarious. They’re already playing Christmas tunes in the mall, so Britsch’s brilliant debut novel, Sad Janet, is the perfect choice for gift-giving or your next book club meeting.

Sad Janet by Lucie Britsch. Penguin Random House, June 2020.

Reviewer bio: Kimberly Diaz studied creative writing at Eckerd College. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Entropy, Montana Mouthful, Eckerd Review, Another Chicago Magazine, and elsewhere. She’s currently working on a collection of creative nonfiction. Read her most recent publication: https://entropymag.org/the-fish/

Guest Post by Samantha Kolber.

This is the second novel I have read by Melanie Finn, and I am simply in love with her writing! It is smart and atmospheric, with the pull of a literary thriller but with meat and heart.

In her new novel The Hare (available now for pre-order), Rosie is an amazingly complex character, and Finn captures her porous self so well. In the beginning, we are coming-of-age with Rosie as she struggles to find her voice, her artistic vision, and her Self in a world dominated by men—men’s desires and needs have always come first, and Rosie is no stranger to that sublimation. But as the book moves through time, we see Rosie gaining strength, getting strong in the woods where she hunts and forages to keep herself and her infant daughter alive after they are left by the wealthy castaway boyfriend, Bennett.

The book takes some twists and turns, and Rosie grows older, hardened, yet still a loving soul, just like Finn writes of the trees on the barbed wire fence line in the forest: “The trees absorbed the cruel wire, grew straight and tall, regardless.” What an apt metaphor for women in this world: we absorb the traumas, the violence, the sleights to our sex, and grow strong, regardless.

I felt so close to the setting, too, I could often hear the fallen leaves crunching underfoot, or smell the woodstove smoke on a crisp winter evening. The complicated relationship between mother and daughter, cocooned together in a life of survival and secrets in a cabin in Vermont, is also captured well here.

Finn is a master of complication made visible through taut and beautiful words. I highly recommend this book.

The Hare by Melanie Finn. Two Dollar Radio, January 2021.

Reviewer bio: Samantha Kolber of Montpelier, Vermont, is a poet, editor, and author of a poetry chapbook, Birth of a Daughter (Kelsay Books, 2020). Learn more at www.samanthakolber.com.

Guest Post by Elizabeth Genovise

If you’re hunting for some fresh fiction from a small press, check out Gilbert Allen’s newest book, The Beasts of Belladonna. This book features fifteen linked tales of quirky characters in a South Carolina foothills community. Expect the unexpected in these unsettling yet often hilarious stories, in which characters rub up against their own failures, yearnings, and secrets.

A minister nails a bird to a couple’s front door; a woman accidentally kills her cat and finds an unconventional way to grieve its loss; a man’s foxy neighbor goes to outrageous lengths to destroy his marriage. Domestic animals have a hefty influence on these people’s lives, sometimes comical and sometimes tragic; the same could be said about church as we’re introduced to the Mosquito Ministry, the Faster Pastor Challenge, and couples who pass witty notes during sermons. We meet “treenappers,” a Grandfather Against Garbage, and a character known as the Jesus of Malibu, and in these encounters are powerful flashes of raw humanity in all its complexity.

The Beasts of Belladonna by Gilbert Allen. Slant Books, October 2020.

Reviewer bio: Elizabeth Genovise is an MFA graduate from McNeese State University and the author of three short story collections, the most recent being Posing Nude for the Saints from the Texas Review Press. https://www.elizabethgenovisefiction.org/

Guest Post by Robert Lamb

It was Union Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman who said, “War is hell.” If you have any doubt that the general was dead right, run and get a copy of The Wishing Tree by Matthew A. Hamilton. You’ll see war up close and personal in his excellent account of the Armenian genocide by the Turks in the early 1900s.

Hamilton, a Richmond, VA writer and former Peace Corps volunteer, shows us through the eyes of a young Christian girl in Armenia how war unleashes unspeakable human savagery in the name of ethnic cleansing.

It is April 1915 and the Turks’ Ottoman Empire, which has lasted for centuries, is on the verge of defeat by the allied forces of Great Britain and the Arabs. In the novel’s first few pages, the heroine, Valia, a teenager, sees her parents, siblings, and neighbors, all Christians, murdered by Turkish “police soldiers,” and flees for her life.

Thus begins an odyssey the reader won’t soon forget. The author’s account of Valia’s struggle to stay alive and hopeful is a hymn to the human spirit, and the story is nothing short of realistic and gripping.

Adding a nice touch of realism, even Lawrence of Arabia and Arab Prince Faisal make cameo appearances near the story’s end.

OK, film producers; you can’t say I didn’t give you a heads up on this novel.

The Wishing Tree by Matthew A. Hamilton. Winter Goose Publishing, September 2020.

Reviewer bio: Robert Lamb is the author of four novels and a book of short stories; he review books for the New York Review of Books; and he has a website at www.robertlamb.net.

Guest Post by Jack Graham.

It’s incredibly rare that a novel can leave you feeling as ecstatically powerless as Ruth Ozeki’s A Tale For The Time Being, a strikingly well-crafted novel following the tribulations of both Naoko Yasutani, an early 2000’s teenager and of the more contemporary character of Ruth—an uninspired author reading the diary of the aforementioned Japanese teen.

Ozeki’s texts demonstrate a handshake between two separate periods within time, misting and tearing apart any conceptions of what it means to be ‘contemporary.’ The reader is simultaneously inundated with early references to popular and zany Japanese Maid Cafès and Hello Kitty merchandise (a Japanophile’s dream) in the form on Nao’s diary whilst Ruth provides a far more grounded account of modern normality—one of mundane and domesticated living.

When reading from the perspective of Nao, a readership is forcefully delved into an environment mostly motivated by suicidal thoughts. Being a Western reader, it became increasingly intriguing to be given some understanding into a Japanese mindset in regards to the romantic sentiments surrounding self-killing, one very foreign to my own.

On the other side of the coin, however, Ruth is a character who lives a decade or so after Nao’s accounts, the physical embodiment of dramatic irony. As a reader of Nao’s diary, she can locate Nao within time, using the internet as a tool to fixate her somewhere after 2001 but prior to the Fukushima Nuclear Reactor Incident of 2011—she’s a literary archaeologist of sorts. It is through Ruth that I, the reader, was stripped of all control. It is at Ruth’s pace of reading that we unveil the life of Nao, it is only at the will of her determination that I found myself turning the page, heavy with anticipation.

A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki. Penguin Random House, 2013.

Reviewer bio: I’m Jack Graham, currently studying my Masters in English Literary Studies at Durham University.

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Guest Post by Eric P. Mueller 

Rarely, if ever, is the narrator of a novel so personal that it’s like they’ve invited you for tea. Juliana Delgado Lopera’s Francisca does that and more, balancing colloquialisms and two languages with stage-speaking authority. Readers learn a lot and a little of Francisca—she is at least in her mid-20s while telling her story, but we mostly stay locked in on one special summer.

Fiebre Tropical reminds readers of monotony that can ensue during long breaks in high school. Living in Miami with little freedom and resources to explore her surroundings, Francisca is limited to watching her neighbor play computer games, watching telenovelas with her abuela, and interacting with the faith-based community her mother almost forcefully wants her to join.

Christian communities are ubiquitous and highly accessible for youths. This novel explores what happens to identity when one joins these spaces. Will Francesca the all-black wearing “heathen” be transformed by God and his followers, or will followers of Christ find themselves shadowed in Francisca’s queer darkness?

Lopera alternates languages almost seamlessly, creating an authentic intimacy that makes the novel’s tone fresh and inviting as opposed to alienating. The distinct voice keeps the novel consistent; as the reader traverses through the plot, they learn more about Francisca’s mother’s and grandmother’s histories, explored in a way that’s not far off from a Junot Diaz or Toni Morrison book.

The novel explores the relationship between mother and daughter, generational trauma, immigrant experience, coming of age as queer, and queerness repression. The book is also about heartbreak. With the pandemic quarantine reminding us of what it means to be powerless and stuck at home, Fiebre Tropical is a reminder of the vulnerable yet necessary act of connection, of it’s rewards and consequences.

Fiebre Tropical by Juli Delgado Lopera. Amethyst Editions, March 2020.

Reviewer bio: Eric P. Mueller is an essayist based in Alameda, CA. His work has appeared in Foglifter, Thought Erotic, and elsewhere. He reads for Longleaf Review. Follow him and his two dogs @realericmueller on Twitter or Instagram.

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Guest Post by Manasi Patil

Marybeth, Hollister and Jane is a fictional story set in the rural area of  Callicoon, New York.  The book has a very realistic vibe to it and all the characters seem believable. It follows the journey of a handful of people trying to locate the Eagle Diamond, stolen in the 1960’s. At the start, most of them are from the same organization, LVAJ, whose job is to locate stolen arts, artifacts, etc. and then pass them to someone else. But as the story unfolds, the head of the organization, Peter Reece, is too weak to manage the organization, and eventually all the members separate and begin the search on their own.

All through the journey of reading this book, I was on a rollercoaster. The scenes are sketched out in a way that makes the words leap off the page. All the characters too, are perfect for their roles. Author Vera Jane Cook has done an exceptional job. I particularly like Brock Stanley with his wise, witty, and caring nature (for Jane).The unexpected twist of The Sisters and Jane was my favorite scene from this novel.

The ending could have been much better, though. It winded up too simple and easy and I felt that the story had promised a different sort of end. Nonetheless, Marybeth, Hollister and Jane is a great read, and I will certainly be reading more from this author.

Marybeth, Hollister and Jane by Vera Jane Cook. Chatter Creek Publishing, September 2020.

Reviewer bio: Manasi Patil is a young author with a passion for writing.

Guest Post by Amy Ballard

Which is more important, the clan or the individual? In Jean Auel’s 500-page series opener, Cro-Magnon Ayla navigates the customs of her adoptive Neanderthal people while pondering what it means that she is “Other.” To assimilate, she must comply with clan rules with which she disagrees. Sometimes she chooses defiance. When her practice of hunting with a sling (a man’s privilege) is discovered, she is placed under a death curse. Ayla isolates in a secret cave, an apt metaphor for the forced solitudes of today’s coronavirus pandemic. As clan political dynamics shift, she must determine whether she can live under the rule of a leader who, despite her valued status as a medicine woman, systematically abuses her.

Since its publication in 1980, the novel and its five sequels in the Earth’s Children series have generated a body of criticism, favorable and unfavorable, around its historicity, feminism, and treatment of race, among other topics. For the quarantined in 2020, though, The Clan of the Cave Bear does what it emphatically must: transport the reader to another world.

The Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean M. Auel. Penguin Random House, June 2002.

Reviewer bio: Amy Ballard writes and teaches in southern Idaho. Her fiction has appeared in Barely South Review and elsewhere. Find Amy at www.amyballard.com.

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Guest Post by Jacqueline Williams

Given to me as a birthday gift, The Friend by Sigrid Nunez is a manifesto on shared solitude and the different ways in which we try to overcome grief. One of the intriguing things about the book is the author’s choice to leave the narrator unnamed along with most of the characters. However, at no point does that choice prove as an obstacle to the reading experience; instead, it renders visible particular details about the personality of the characters thereby allowing the reader to connect more deeply with them.

The book is a fairly easy read about the narrator’s journey of simultaneously losing and gaining someone and the idea of collective grief. As literary fiction, the book is peppered with trivia on various literary writers such as Adrienne Rich, T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, and Franz Kafka among many others. The characters too draw from the similar flavor of what it means to be a writer and the conflicts attached to the profession of writing.

My favorite part of the book is the bond shared between the narrator and Apollo the Great Dane. Nunez’s take on the human-dog relationship is unlike any other. She is spot-on in her representation of the contemporary nature of company that of being alone, together. She writes, “What are we, Apollo and I, if not two solitudes that protect and greet each other?”

The Friend by Sigrid Nunez. Riverhead Books, February 2019.

Reviewer bio: My name is Jacqueline Williams and I’m currently pursuing M.A in English. My field of interests includes Gender Studies, Cultural Studies and Medical Humanities.

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Guest Post by Kristín M Hreinsdóttir

The End of the Ocean is a novel by Maja Lunde who is a Norwegian author. I started to read this book because it was due to be the next book to read in my book club. When I started reading, I was not sure what I was going to find. I had not at that point read something written by Maja Lunde and was not sure I was going to like it—before my reading, I was told it was about some environmental tragedy and also set in the future. Maybe it is my inner fear or some underlying knowledge about a tragedy like that which makes me dislike the subject, as well as my long-lasting dislike for books or stories set in the future. Why don’t I like stories like that? It is because I think it can be so often overdramatic and superficial and not real. Maja Lunde does the opposite and did hold my attention from beginning to almost the end.

Yes, it is about an environmental tragedy in the future, but it can also be in our time when the water is beginning to be the most important thing, though most of us are not willing to accept that. The novel is also about how the individual handles crises and difficult times, and is a protest against our greedy action against nature. Greed is something we have seriously to think about.

I liked how the book is written but sometimes it lacked flow, but it did not spoil the story so much. The characters are interesting and so well set up that you start to have some strong opinion on them, growing to like or dislike them very much. The weakest part of the story is the end; it almost ended so suddenly that the reader gets the feeling that there is something missing. You are left wanting to know what happens next. But that is maybe a plus that you start to wonder about the end and make your own.

The End of the Ocean by Maja Lunde. HarperVia, January 2020.

Reviewer bio: My name is Kristín M Hreinsdóttir. I live in Iceland and have always like books and literature. I hold B.Ed. in information technology and media and an MA in museum study.

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Guest Post by Nick D’Onofrio

The whole Covid-19 pandemic got me into reading World War Z by Max Brooks. Published in 2007, the novel follows characters around the world as they struggle to survive a zombie outbreak that overtakes the globe. It takes place before, during, and after the zombie outbreak.

The narrator interviews a new survivor from a different part of the world for each chapter. Some chapters can be two pages long, while others can be twenty pages depending on what is being covered. From clearing the catacombs beneath Paris to managing satellites in space, the novel describes interesting scenarios that I would have never thought of when dealing with the undead.

All this being said, it does have a fair share of gore, which is expected in the zombie genre. So it is not for the faint of heart. What really drew me into picking up World War Z were the parallels people online were pointing out between the book and what has happened with the coronavirus. In the novel, the zombie outbreak starts in China and the government there tries to cover it up but it spreads. The United States is overconfident in its ability to contain the threat and promotes a fake drug, Phalanx, which supposedly cures the new disease. I could go on, but I don’t want to spoil too much.

I bought both the book itself and the audiobook. I follow along as it is being read, because that is how I absorb the information best due to my dyslexia. Even the audiobook has a different voice actor for each chapter. There were even some voices I recognized such as Nathan Fillion, Mark Hamill, Simon Pegg, and Martin Scorsese. However, I noticed the audiobook did have a few paragraphs and chapters missing in the beginning but that didn’t bother me that much.

World War Z by Max Brooks. Penguin Random House, October 2007.

Reviewer bio: I grew up in South Carolina but have lived in Switzerland. My traveling experiences have sparked my creativity and inspired me to write.

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Guest Post by Gerty Haas

In my several decades of reading, I have never encountered the likes of Zero Mirrors.

The narrator is a sentient dress worn by the main character, a woman living in a city of boredom. Her companion is a kidult: an adult who had his body modified so he’s the size of a child, because that’s the only time of his life when he was truly happy. The dress is a WAD (Wearable Assistive Data-integrator) worn by Melony, who is a Sashayer in EasyLiving City (not a dancer, because dancing is illegal). Her dearest friend is Robben, the original pilot of the Tree, the area’s greatest building and a grounded spaceship.

Abetted by her companions, Melony’s goal is to sashay through time to save her land from a Plant Plague arriving from the future. Along with being thoughtful and hilarious, this time travel story deals with gender identity, ageism, and family leadership. A key theme is the nature of human movement, from dancing to fleeing to slipping through time.

I’m not going to delineate the story except to say it has three endings: past, present, and future. I’m not able to tell you how often I had to stop reading because the book was making my brain rattle from astonishment or my stomach churn from hilarity or my eyes tear from a poignancy beyond the reality we’re stuck with. A word I hate to see in the description of any artwork is “visionary,” but the word is appropriate here. H. C. Turk has a vision of the future that makes our present seem insubstantial and ignorant, a timeframe that should be left behind. With this book, the reader can abandon that mediocrity for an enthralling experience beyond the norm, exactly equal to the book’s unique, stylish energy.

“You can’t imagine how heartsick you can be when you don’t have a heart.”

Zero Mirrors by H. C. Turk. September 2020.

Reviewer bio: Recently retired from the construction industry, Gerty Haas is an avid reader and art lover living in Florida, which thankfully is not part of The South.