Book Review: THE TESTAMENTS by Margaret Atwood

The Handmaid’s Tale is such an iconic sci-fi novel that I’m surprised it took this long to get a sequel. Despite the decades Margaret Atwood has had to think over what Gilead might look like after the end of Offred’s story, I found The Testaments to be underbaked, full of interesting ideas (and interesting imagery, especially) that don’t blend all that well. Unlike The Handmaid’s Tale, which was narrowly, almost claustrophobically focused on Offred’s story, The Testaments sprawls across the lives of three new characters: an Aunt, a privileged Commander’s daughter, and a Canadian teenager who’s only dimly aware of the horrors of the totalitarian state of Gilead.

I think I would have liked The Testaments more if I had liked The Handmaid’s Tale less. Is it worth reading? Yes. But it’s significantly blunter and messier than I had hoped. Where The Handmaid’s Tale was a scalpel, The Testaments is a machine gun, crude and loud.

You can read my full review below.


The Testaments Cover
cover description: A minimalist illustration of a woman in a bright green cloak and white bonnet against a navy blue background. The opening of the cloak is stylized to look like a woman wearing a ponytail, her arms extended toward the sky.

The Testaments by Margaret Atwood

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  • publisher: Nan A. Talese (Knopf Doubleday)
  • publication date: September 10, 2019
  • length: 432 pages

You have asked me to tell you what it was like for me when I was growing up within Gilead. You say it will be helpful, and I do wish to be helpful. I imagine you expect nothing but horrors, but the reality is that many children were loved and cherished, in Gilead as elsewhere, and many adults were kind though fallible, in Gilead as elsewhere.

–from The Testaments by Margaret Atwood

Novels are not a visual medium in the way that TV and film are, so it’s notable that The Handmaid’s Tale spawned so much iconic imagery, even before the TV adaptation came to Hulu. The red and white Handmaids’ costume, the shops with pictures on their signs instead of words because women are no longer allowed to read, Offred rubbing margarine into her hands instead of lotion, because she is no longer permitted the luxury of lotion: I can picture all of that (and more) so clearly, despite how long it’s been since I’ve read the novel.

The Testaments is just as visually iconic as The Handmaid’s Tale, full of new visions of oppression and totalitarianism that will haunt my nightmares. But its underlying substance is significantly less memorable.

Though The Testaments is set in the universe of The Handmaid’s Tale, it feels surprisingly much like a rehash of The Blind Assassinthe novel that just barely beats out The Handmaid’s Tale for the title of my favorite book by Atwood.

There are three central characters in The Testaments: a powerful Aunt and architect of Gilead, a young daughter of a privileged Gilead family, and a Canadian girl with only a distant awareness of Gilead’s atrocities.

All of them have ties to the original novel (some of them wincingly obvious despite being framed as a “twist”), and all of them reminded me in some way of the protagonist of The Blind Assassin, Iris. There are even maids, called Marthas, who are reminiscent of Iris’s nanny Reenie, right down to making dough people for a privileged but heartbroken young girl to play with after a tragedy.

It’s not just that it shares themes with The Blind Assassin. That would be fine! Authors with an output as vast as Atwood’s tend to come back to the same wells from time to time. It’s that the parallels to The Blind Assassin are so obvious and so oddly self-plagiarizing that they repeatedly pulled me out of the story.

In fairness, the story of The Testaments is so sprawling and dense that it’s not hard to be distracted from it.

What I admired most about The Handmaid’s Tale wasn’t the worldbuilding of Gilead, despite that worldbuilding being extraordinarily good. What I admired most was Atwood’s laser focus on Gilead’s impact on Offred. The way that Offred’s life becomes so critically important to the reader even though she is just one tiny, literally anonymous part of this terrifying totalitarian regime rings true to the way real life totalitarian regimes swallow people whole and disappear them.

The Testaments shifts that focus from individuals in Gilead to the systems fighting to uphold it or undo it. It’s a bird’s eye view when I wanted a close-up, and it leaches all the urgency and terror out of Gilead. Maybe that’s the point! Maybe it’s supposed to feel hopeful, especially now that the real America feels closer to Gilead than ever. But it left me a little cold.

This loss of momentum and stakes is most obvious at the end, which uses the same device as the ending of The Handmaid’s Tale: a far-future academic conference on Gilead Studies. But where the ending of The Handmaid’s Tale felt chillingly open-ended and detached, The Testaments’ ending feels winkingly obvious and overwrought.

If you love The Handmaid’s Tale, you likely won’t be able to resist reading The Testaments, nor should you. There’s plenty of interesting stuff here that makes the novel worth reading. I especially loved the character of Agnes (a Commander’s privileged daughter), whose slow disentangling of her sincere religious beliefs from the poisonous spiritual abuse she experiences in Gilead is genuinely heartbreaking.

But in its attempt to satisfy readers’ curiosity about Gilead, The Testaments stifles it with too much detail instead, replacing an open door for our imaginations with one that firmly shuts. It’s a shame. ★★☆

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


I borrowed my copy of The Testaments from a friend. I was in no way compensated for this review.

I publish book reviews every Tuesday and Thursday.

Book Review: DREAM SEQUENCE by Adam Foulds

Dream Sequence is a thriller about a British actor whose star is on the rise and the broken-hearted, obsessive American fan who stalks him–at least, that’s what the jacket copy would have you believe. Unfortunately for readers expecting a sharp new take on Misery that skewers American anglophile fan culture, Dream Sequence is maddeningly muddy and dull. There are two electric and memorable scenes, but they don’t come close to compensating for the rest. I don’t recommend Dream Sequence at all.

You can read my full review below.


Dream Sequence Cover
cover description: Red and pink lipstick prints on a white background. The lipstick prints are in the rough shape of a face.

Dream Sequence by Adam Foulds

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  • publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (distributed by Macmillan)
  • publication date: June 11, 2019
  • length: 224 pages

Lion, little Lionel who loved her, had given her Spiderman one day without telling her. Spiderman had become a crucial part of the story. It all added up. Kristin picked up the remote and flipped on an old episode. When Henry appeared, she thought she would tell him about the wind and the snow and about what Laurie had said about seeds in winter in her next letter. She would start on it later. Letters flew past all that electronic noise and went straight to his hands.

–from Dream Sequence by Adam Foulds

Dream Sequence is a weak character study built onto a more interesting thriller’s skeleton: it follows Kristin, a recently divorced woman who fixates on the star of a British costume drama, and the actor himself, Henry. It’s instantly clear that Kristin’s fantasies about Henry will come to fruition in some awful way, but instead of capitalizing on that tension, author and poet Adam Foulds squanders it spectacularly.

Dream Sequence is a pastiche of the worst parts of both the thriller genre and the literary genre: it’s unpleasantly lurid and gross (there is more than one nauseating description of semen!) as well as boring and snooty.

The action in Dream Sequence is driven entirely by Kristin’s character–Henry is obnoxiously passive–but it doesn’t seem to care much about her. Instead we get an interminable 150-or-so page middle section about the inner life of Henry, who’s a douche and a milquetoast, terrible and boring.

The exact moment I fully loathed Dream Sequence came almost at the end, on page 194, when Henry (who is white and British) is shown a picture of his brother’s biracial children (their mother, Henry’s sister in law, is from Hong Kong):

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Henry’s mother asked.

They were. They had that refined, intelligent looking beauty of Anglo-Chinese children, dark eyes, sweetly geometric hair. There were two pictures, one in which they both looked serious and one in which Chloë’s head was tipped back and she was laughing, showing her tiny teeth.

I hate that section for two reasons: one, because “refined, intelligent looking beauty” is such a bizarre and stereotypical way to talk about Asian children, and two, because it’s a perfect example of Foulds using two or three adjectives when one or none would do, perhaps the worst sin of a novel full of sins.

It’s possible to write about an awful character without your whole book becoming awful, but it requires a strong point of view, which Dream Sequence never develops. It’s the difference between watching security footage of a bad person’s life and watching a skillfully made documentary about them. This is security footage.

Dream Sequence is already quite short at 224 pages but could have easily been cut down by two thirds. The amount of words Foulds wrings out of such an underdeveloped plot is mind-boggling.

There are two truly excellent parts on offer, however.

The first comes near the beginning of the novel, after Henry auditions for a dream role with an auteur director and desperately follows him to an art museum afterwards. The dialogue in the scene is pitch-perfect; the way Henry’s yearning for the director’s respect mirrors Kristin’s slavish adoration of Henry is subtle but effective.

The second great scene comes when Kristin seeks out Henry’s agent in the final pages. The two women have a conversation that’s so vivid and vulnerable and tense that it made me second-guess my by-then-solidly negative opinion of the book.

Had I simply misunderstood the parts I hated? Did Foulds have a solid hand on the reins of this novel after all?

I re-read the worst pages just to be sure. I hated them just as much the second time.

Despite its intriguing premise and a couple of tantalizing flashes of brilliance, Dream Sequence thuds. ★★☆

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


I got my copy of Dream Sequence from the library and was in no way compensated for this review.

I publish book reviews every Tuesday and Thursday.

Book Review: MY LESBIAN EXPERIENCE WITH LONELINESS by Nagata Kabi

After years of debilitating mental illness and insecurity, manga author and illustrator Nagata Kabi had never had sex or her first kiss. Desperate for connection, she makes an appointment at a lesbian escort agency…and the result is this book, a very funny, frank, and moving manga about exactly what it sounds like: her lesbian experience with loneliness.

This is a lightning-fast read (I finished in a short sitting) that will stick with you. I wish the ending had been a little less abrupt–we don’t get a good look at what comes after Nagata’s titular “experience,” which would have made the arc more satisfying to me–but that’s a minor quibble with a fantastic book.

You can read my full review below. Please note that this book has vivid descriptions of what it’s like to live with mental illness (including eating disorders), so if that’s a trigger for you, please read this review and this book with caution.


My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness Cover
cover description: A manga-style illustration of two women sitting on a bed facing each other. We see the back of one woman, who is confidently posed, and the front of one woman, who looks disheveled and nervous.

My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness by Nagata Kabi (translated by Jocelyne Allen)

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  • publisher: Seven Seas Entertainment (distributed by Macmillan)
  • U.S. publication date: 2017
  • length: 152 pages

Here I am, twenty-eight years old. I’ve never dated anyone, never had sex–and on top of that, never had a real job. It’s June 2015, the middle of the day. And I’m face to face with a woman from a lesbian escort agency.

–from My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness by Nagata Kabi

I first noticed My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness when it appeared in NPR’s 2017 book concierge. I don’t read much manga (I don’t read many American graphic novels and comics either), so I set the recommendation aside. But after finally making the time for it, I can state definitively that–even if you don’t like manga–if you like heartfelt and funny stories about queerness and/or mental illness, you’ll love this.

The manga starts right in the middle of its faux-lurid inciting incident: the author in bed at a love hotel with a lesbian escort. But Nagata Kabi quickly turns the sexy image on its head by zooming in on her trichotillomania-induced bald spot, her cutting scars, and extreme nerves.

She’s not a pornographic idea of a lesbian, or even the less-fetishized but still idealized version of a lesbian that typically appears in media. She’s awkward and messy and very, very real. This isn’t surprising on its own terms, since Nagata is telling her own true story, not writing fiction. But it is surprising given how little cultural room lesbians (and other queer women) are given to be anything less than stunningly beautiful and perfect.

It’s not that there’s anything inherently wrong with images of sexy queer women or power femmes or badass butches. (My love of Charlize Theron’s character in Atomic Blonde is proof!) Straight people have loads of idealized standards around sex to live up to, too.

But because there are so few representations of lesbians to begin with, this kind of offbeat and specific (rather than archetypal) representation is especially important.

My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness is packed with jokes (including plenty of the visual gags manga is known for), but there’s a strong undercurrent of sadness in all of them. Nagata has dealt with debilitating mental illness since leaving high school, and her experiences not being able to get a “real” job and feeling like a disappointment to her family were so relatable it hurt.

As much as My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness is about, well, lesbian experience, it’s just as much about disability. And this disabled lesbian appreciated that very much.

Like I said at the top of this review, I don’t read much manga, so it’s hard to place this in the context of genre conventions around length and arc. So, those of you who do read manga, please be gentle with me if I’m missing the point here. But my one complaint about this book is the abruptness with which it ends.

I didn’t realize there were sequels to My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness until it was pointed out to me on Twitter. That information isn’t listed anywhere on my copy. Once I learned that, the ending made more sense, as it’s clearly setting up a continuation of the story.

But if you’re looking for a standalone read, or you also didn’t know about the sequels, the final scenes of this warm, big-hearted manga might leave you a little bit cold.

I gave this to my wife to read as soon as I was finished with it because I couldn’t wait to talk about it. Not only did we both find it immensely fun and entertaining, it also sparked a great conversation between us about love and loneliness and mental health and identity. I hope it sparked those same conversations for others as well.

In its vulnerability, My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness is powerful.

I want more stories like this one–starting with Nagata’s My Solo Exchange Diary sequels. ★★★★☆


I purchased my own copy of My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness and was in no way compensated for this review.

I publish book reviews every Tuesday and Thursday.

Book Review: THE BORDER OF PARADISE by Esmé Weijun Wang

In the 1950s, David Nowak, a neurotic Polish American heir to a piano fortune, marries Jia-Hui Chen, a young woman from Taiwan with nerves of steel, and moves with her to remote northern California. Their relationship is volatile, but its legacy for their children will be much worse. The Border of Paradise is an astonishing historical novel that’s unlike anything I’ve read before, in the best possible way. If you love creepy thrillers like The Vegetarian by Han Kang or intimate portraits of trauma like History of Wolves by Emily Fridlund–or if, like me, you love both of those things–then this novel is a must-read. I deeply enjoyed The Collected Schizophrenias, Esmé Weijun Wang’s nonfiction essay collection, earlier this year. I’m pleased to say I like her fiction just as much.

Content note: Suicide and self harm are central to The Border of Paradise. If those things are triggers for you, then you should consider carefully before reading the rest of this review (or the book itself).

You can read my full review below.


The Border of Paradise Cover
cover description: An illustration of a sickly-looking person in a field of grass being held up by ghostly hands.

The Border of Paradise by Esmé Weijun Wang

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  • publisher: Unnamed Press
  • publication date: 2016
  • length: 292 pages

I’ve never known a man who has taken his own life, and so I’ve never read a suicide letter, seeing as how the final words of such uncelebrated and self-condemned souls are so privately guarded. Still, I can’t help but think such letters all must be the same, because what else can be said but, over and over again, Sorry, sorry, I am so sorry, in the way that someone newly smitten can only say I love you, I love you, I love you…

–from The Border of Paradise by Esmé Weijun Wang

In The Border of Paradise, Esmé Weijun Wang writes in long paragraphs that still feel light and airy, like a dense pastry that fluffs up in the oven. That’s a good thing, because the subject matter of this novel is almost unbearably heavy.

David Nowak, a teenage boy in 1940s-1950s New York, is a brilliant student and heir to a piano factory and accompanying fortune, but he can’t stop strange new neuroses from creeping in. He becomes unable to select clothes and dress himself. When he looks in the mirror, his body is impossibly distorted. He becomes hysterically attached to stuffed animals.

He knows something is wrong, but not what. The word schizophrenia is, to my memory, never used in The Border of Paradise, but we the readers can fill in the blanks.

David’s instability culminates in him being forcibly separated from his childhood sweetheart, Marianne, by her father, who is sneeringly cruel about David’s condition. Heartbroken, David cashes out the family fortune and leaves for Taiwan, where he marries a young woman named Jia-Hui, whom he renames Daisy.

Everyone warns Jia-Hui against David’s moods and volatility, but Jia-Hui has instabilities of her own–ones that have horrifying consequences for the couple’s two children.

I wouldn’t call The Border of Paradise horror, but it is horrifying. There is ample gore, disturbing sex, and piercing descriptions of what it’s like to live with untreated mental illness.

Of course, in the time period in which The Border of Paradise is set, there wasn’t really such a thing as treated mental illness. Wang uses this historical setting in unusual ways. Instead of yoking the story to real world historical events or intricate period detail, she focuses on internal, insular experiences instead.

In one word, The Border of Paradise is about isolation: the absolute isolation of being an immigrant woman of color, or a mentally ill person, or an abused child in the 1950s-1970s, when there was little awareness of these issues in the general public and no internet communities to turn to, either.

This novel is emotionally dense and deeply introspective, but it’s also extremely readable. It’s peppered with plot bombshells, dramatic and cinematic without straining belief. (I do wonder if Wang is trying to say something about the nature of delusion and hallucination here–how real life really can be stranger than the fictions our own brains can tell us.)

I raced to get to the end, using it as motivation to hop on the treadmill at the end of each day, knowing it would absorb me enough to make my workout fly by.

Specific and intense, The Border of Paradise is like a fever dream if your feverish brain were a top notch novelist. This novel is a gift. ★★★★★

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


I purchased my own copy of The Border of Paradise and was in no way compensated for this review.

*Programming note: Book reviews will appear every Tuesday and Thursday going forward. I look forward to being back on a regular posting schedule!

I’ve been afraid of changing, but…

…it’s time to shake up this blog a little.

(The changes won’t be nearly as sad as the song, I promise. I just like the song.)

I’ve been having more and more trouble keeping up with book blogging this year, for a few reasons. One is my health, which continues to be a royal pain in the ass no matter what I try to do to manage it. My descent into constant and severe chronic pain over the past several years has been a really tough one. I don’t have anything inspirational or plucky to say about it. It’s just tough.

Reasons two and three are that I’m feeling increasingly tired of reading and writing. Like it says in the sidebar, writing is my day job, which also involves a significant amount of research (i.e. reading). I’m writing, reading, or thinking about those two things nearly all the time, and at some point, it started to make this blog feel less fun and more dreary.

But I do love blogging. I love interacting with other readers and writers, I love writing reviews, and I love the sort of digital scrapbook of my literary self that I’m creating every time I post here. I’ve poured a lot of time and energy into this blog and gotten a lot of joy and satisfaction out of it in return and I don’t plan to quit now.

So, onto the two major changes that I think will make Maggie Reads work better for me (and hopefully better for my readers, too):

I will be posting book reviews, interviews, and personal posts only from here on out. No more Friday Bookbag, no more Throwback Thursday, none of the other weekly posting formats that I’ve tried. They’re too much work and I’m never fully happy with the result.

I am going to commit to writing one, and only one, book review per week. This gives me a more tangible goal to shoot for than just “read a lot of books and write about them.” It gives me more time to read things for fun (and for work) without the pressure of trying to post a bunch of reviews. It will also hopefully create a little more consistency for you, the reader. Most of my favorite blogs pick a regular posting schedule and stick to it, and I would very much like to be like my favorite blogs.

Maybe this will expand to two reviews a week down the line. Maybe not. This is a trial balloon and I’ll see how it goes for me.

I’m open to feedback about these changes from you, too, especially regarding which day of the week would be best for posting reviews. If you have a preference, let me know in the comments.

Slight tangent: If you’re disabled, I’d also greatly appreciate feedback on the accessibility of this blog. Are my cover descriptions helpful? Do I need to make layout changes? Are there content warnings or other content changes I could make that would benefit you? I would love if you shared. My disabilities do not affect my use of the internet and so I’m always trying to learn and improve this site for people who do face accessibility challenges on websites.

In short: Feedback. I want it. Got it? Good!

Thank you very much for reading this and for your continued support. I’m so delighted that this niche and oft-neglected blog has found an audience and I hope that audience continues to grow as I work to find more sustainable ways to create content.

Book Review: ALL THE LIVES I WANT by Alana Massey

Alana Massey’s funny, sharp, and just-the-right-amount-of-sentimental essay collection, subtitled Essays About My Best Friends Who Happen to Be Famous, is a banger. The celebrity subjects of the essays are diverse, from Britney Spears to the fictional Lisbon sisters of The Virgin Suicides to Lil’ Kim and Nicki Minaj. Massey intersperses the histories and cultural impacts of her subjects with episodes of her own life, including grimly dancing to Nine Inch Nails’s “Closer” in a strip club and a sad summer spent reading Joan Didion aloud to a distant boyfriend. It’s a book that’s intimate and expansive all at once, as well-cited and academic as a conference presentation yet as real life and relatable as a slumber party spent spilling your deepest secrets.

I adored this book. You can read my full review below.


All the Lives I Want Cover
cover description: The title “All the Lives I Want” is spelled out in red glitter against a stark white background.

All the Lives I Want: Essays About My Best Friends Who Happen to Be Famous Strangers by Alana Massey

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  • publisher: Grand Central Publishing (an imprint of Hachette)
  • publication date: hardcover in 2017, paperback in 2018
  • length: 256 pages

“Bitches be crazy” has become modern shorthand for “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” This line itself is a paraphrase of “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned/ Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorned.” Like its predecessors, it is a statement that seemed to be reclaimed ironically by women at almost the exact moment that it entered the vernacular as a way to disparage them. This line is repeated more often by a sage and mercenary woman, both in fiction and in reality, than it is by a man trying to insult one. It is a wink, an exaggerated shrug of the shoulders that women communicate preemptively, a shield against the accusation that their behavior is inherently irrational compared to that of men. The sentiment is ancient, of course.

–from “Long-Game Bitches: On Princess Di, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, and the Fine Art of Crazy Exing” in All the Lives I Want by Alana Massey

I find essay collections to be the most personal sort of book to read and the hardest to review. Even the ones I don’t ultimately enjoy–even the ones I find boring! –stir up something powerful in me, reflecting back my most intense shames and desires. It’s hard to slap a star rating on that.

Luckily, it’s easier when the essay collection in question is as good as this one. Five stars is an easier distinction than choosing two, or three, or four. Perhaps it’s funny to notice that relief in myself while reviewing a book that so eloquently navigates mysterious and unmeasurable cultural places.

The essays of All the Lives I Want are surprisingly cohesive given the breadth of the subject matter. Massey’s topics bounce from A-list celebrities like Scarlett Johansson and Gwyneth Paltrow to slightly more niche choices (for a book published in the late 2010s, at least) like Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen and Anjelica Huston.

And some of my favorite essays of the collection aren’t about traditional celebrities at all: the title essay, “All the Lives I Want,” is about Sylvia Plath and her legion of young women fans on Tumblr and in tattoo parlors across the country. “Broken-Bodied Little Girls: On the Horror of Little Girls Grown” is about the grotesque young girls of horror movies like Poltergeist. And “Our Sisters Shall Inherit the Sky” reimagines the Lisbon sisters from The Virgin Suicides as the true subjects and protagonists of their own story rather than as the objects of young men’s imagination.

Massey writes about race and class in a much more refreshing way than most white women culture writers, finding new angles to talk about power and privilege without the constant “I know I’m privileged, but–” path that many take.

“Run the World: Amber Rose in the Great Stripper Imaginary” avoids many of the gross oversimplifications and stereotypes of white women writing about black strippers (likely because Massey has been an on-again, off-again stripper herself). “There Can Be Only One: On Lil’ Kim, Nicki Minaj, and the Art of Manufactured Beef” is one of the best pieces on the subject of beefs that I’ve read, especially in the way it calls out white celebrities like Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus for simultaneously stealing from black icons like Lil’ Kim and Minaj and attempting to humiliate them.

Most of all, I loved the accessibility of All the Lives I Want. To me, creating accessible prose is not about the length of your sentences or the simplicity of the words you choose but rather about the common ground you make with your audience. Massey is a sort of citizen scientist of celebrity, passionate and humble and endlessly curious. Her writing is barbed without being condescending; frank without being crass.

These essays are short, smart dollops of joy and bittersweetness. I’m sure there’s an argument to be made for lengthening the essays and diving deeper into each topic; however, if that had happened, I think something vital and energetic would have been lost. On the rare occasions I noticed myself getting bored or lost, bam: the next essay was already beginning and pulling me in deeper.

I’ve long followed Alana Massey on Twitter. I find her particular blend of sly humor and genuine emotion (and shameless thirst traps) endlessly appealing. If you enjoy her Twitter presence as much as I do, you should know it’s only intensified here.

This is a terrific book about celebrity, girlhood, pleasure, and pain. You must read it. ★★★★★

Reviews and books you might also enjoy:


I purchased my own copy of All the Lives I Want and was in no way compensated for this review.

In Review: August 2019

InReview

In Review posts are a chance for me to catch my breath, note that I am actually making progress towards my reading goals, and give each month’s blog posts a little extra love.

August was a month full of good books and not quite enough time to read them! Or blog about them, even. I added much, much more to my TBR than I finished, and didn’t even manage to review everything I read. (I read but didn’t cover The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks. I enjoyed very much, even though it was absolutely bananas and very very violent.)

Will I catch up on that backlog in September? Absolutely not, but it’s a nice thought!

And with that, here’s what I read, reviewed, and added to my bookshelf this month.

I reviewed 4 books this month:

I borrowed, bought, and received [] books this month:

Friday Bookbag, 8.2

  • Rutting Season: Stories by Mandeliene Smith
  • Mars by Asja Bakić
  • The End of Youth by Rebecca Brown
  • Foreign Soil and Other Stories by Maxine Beneba Clarke
  • Crossings by Chuang Hua
  • Hello Kitty Must Die by Angela S. Choi

Friday Bookbag, 8.16

  • Girls of Paper and Fire by Natasha Ngan
  • Death is Not an Option by Suzanee Rivecca
  • The City Always Wins by Omar Robert Hamilton
  • We Went to the Woods by Caite Dolan-Leach

I have read 28 books so far in 2019!