Book Review: GUN LOVE by Jennifer Clement

Gun Love, about a mother and daughter who live in their car in a Florida trailer park and the “gun love” and trafficking they get tangled up in, is always dark but never heavy; Jennifer Clement’s prose is so gentle and beautiful that I’m convinced she could write a textbook about the most awful subjects imaginable and it would still be a joy to read. Gun Love has the close-focus, raw feel of an indie movie–in fact, it has a lot in common topically and tonally with 2017’s The Florida Project–but it’s never brutal or tortured. It’s an “issue book” that’s actually enjoyable to read–and what an enormous accomplishment that is, especially when the issue (America’s toxic relationship with guns) is so fraught and urgent.

You can read my full review below.


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Gun Love by Jennifer Clement

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: Hogarth Press (an imprint of Penguin Random House)
  • publication date: March 6, 2018
  • length: 256 pages
  • cover price: $25.00

My mother was a cup of sugar. You could borrow her anytime.

My mother was so sweet, her hands were always birthday-party sticky. Her breath held the five flavors of Life Savers candy.

And she knew all the love songs that are a university for love. She knew “Slowly Walk Close to Me,” “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?,” “Born Under a Bad Sign,” and all the I’ll-kill-you-if-you-leave-me songs.

But sweetness is always looking for Mr. Bad and Mr. Bad can pick out Miss Sweet in any crowd.

Gun Love, page 1

There’s a corner that stories written in the first person get backed into, and it’s that in the real world, most people don’t articulate their thoughts very well. First person stories need to sound authentic–you can’t sock-puppet haunting, lyrical prose from someone who wouldn’t speak and think in haunting, lyrical ways–but stories also need to be well-written, and those goals are sometimes at odds.

Gun Love is written in the first person from the perspective of a 14-year-old girl, Pearl France, who’s been raised all her life in a car parked in a decaying trailer park. She’s malnourished and tiny for her age; she’s being slowly poisoned by the dump behind the park and the Raid her mother sprays every night to keep the mosquitos down. School is a joke with no bearing on her life, and she doesn’t even have a proper birth certificate. Worst of all, her mother has fallen in love with Eli, a man with a deep undercurrent of trouble that Pearl senses from the start.

Pearl has every right to hate her life and never see the beauty in it. What’s amazing about Gun Love, however, is that it’s a book very deeply concerned with beauty, even in the most difficult of places. Pearl’s voice is as haunting and lyrical as they come, but it somehow rings completely true.

A frequent complaint I have on this blog is that some books revel in darkness and grittiness in ways that are tortuous to read. The events of Gun Love are shocking and horrible–unsurprisingly, it’s thick with gun violence–but Clement’s touch is so light that I never found myself dragged down by it. In one scene, a pair of conjoined alligator twins are found in the river near the trailer park. Reporters and gawkers rush into the trailer park to take in their beauty and strangeness; then, overnight, someone shoots the twins to pieces with a machine gun. It’s a senseless and yet understandable act. In Gun Love, beauty and death entwine in intoxicating and original ways that you can’t look away from–you don’t even want to look away.

It helps that every single character in the novel is fascinating and empathetic, even the murderous ones. My particular favorites were Mr. Brodsky, an aging Jewish foster parent who takes in “shoots,” children whose biological parents have been murdered, and Noelle, an autistic 30-year-old woman who loves Barbie dolls and speaks mostly in fortune cookie quotes. If Clement were less skilled, these people might have come off like pathetic caricatures of poverty and desperation. Instead, they are vibrant, resilient, and full of agency, lovable even when they do unforgivable things.

Over the course of the novel, Pearl hardens and freezes as her mother softens and melts, a testament to how hard it is to grow up at all, much less to grow up in circumstances so literally toxic. (Gun Love definitely has YA crossover appeal.) The mother/daughter relationship in this book reminded me of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, though the mothers in question couldn’t be more different. The through-line of violence traveling through generations is powerful and adds even more depth to the novel.

Another favorite through-line of mine was Selena Quintanilla’s murder. A Mexican couple at the trailer park traffic in guns (as do most of their white neighbors) but they also idolize Selena and mourn her murder daily, especially the wife, Corazón. It’s a taut irony that drives the narrative home without feeling overdone.

In Gun Love, guns are Pandora’s box–its characters can’t live with them yet can’t live without them; they can’t live with the hatred and suffering they dole out yet also can’t live without the power and joy they bring, too. This novel is a nuanced and empathetic gift. Don’t miss it. 5/5 stars.


My copy of Gun Love came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.

In Review: April 2018

In Review posts are a chance for me to catch my breath, note that I am actually making progress towards my Goodreads reading goal, and give each month’s blog posts a little extra love. (I normally post these on the last day of the month, but yesterday got away from me, so it’s going up today instead.)

After a truly hellish few months, April felt like the sun breaking through the clouds for me. I didn’t read or blog as much as I would like, but I still managed to break my own record for most posts written in a month (12!). I read some great books, and respected my own time and energy enough to set aside one I loathed. I even updated my review archive to include archives by genre and star rating as well as title.

I can’t wait to see what May brings! In the meantime, for your skimming pleasure, here’s my April in Review.


I read 6 books this month:

  • White Chrysanthemum by Mary Lynn Bracht (Goodreads)
  • Too Afraid to Cry: Memoir of a Stolen Childhood by Ali Cobby Eckermann (Goodreads)
  • The Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater: Essays on Crafting by Alanna Okun (Goodreads)
  • Orphan Monster Spy by Matt Killeen (Goodreads)
  • The Parking Lot Attendant by Nafkote Tamirat (Goodreads)
  • Gun Love by Jennifer Clement (Goodreads)

 

I reviewed 7 books this month:

 

I borrowed, bought, and received 9 books this month:

I have read 21 books so far in 2018!


How was your month in books? Feel free to link to your own blog posts in the comments!

Friday Bookbag, 4.27.18

friday bookbag

Friday Bookbag is a weekly feature where I share a list of books I’ve borrowed, bought, or otherwise acquired during the week. It’s my chance to buzz about my excitement for books I might not get the chance to review.

This week my bookbag is packed with all sorts of goodies: a mind-bending short story collection, a midcentury mystery, a “dystopian” literary novel with a twist, and a memoir of the complicated legacy of missionary work in Haiti. Let’s dive in!


All the Names They Used for God by Anjali Sachdeva

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9780399593000the premise: This collection of nine short stories spans centuries and genres is “united by each character’s struggle with fate,” according to the inside flap. The stories also explore science, religion, and the overlap between them, with settings ranging from Andrew Carnegie’s fiery steel mills to the Old West to futuristic genetic labs. At least, I think that’s the premise–short story collections are very hard to summarize before I’ve read them, so I hope I’m doing this one justice.

why I’m excited: This book’s cover is sublime, and I’m not too proud to admit that that’s what drew me in first. Second was the fact that short story collections are a delight to read; I love getting the chance to catch my breath between each story in a way that can’t happen between chapters in novels. Third, Anjali Sachdeva is playing with the boundaries of literary fiction and sci-fi in ways I find delightful. This is right up my alley.

Little Deaths by Emma Flint

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9780316272476the premise: In the summer of 1965, the two children of Ruth Malone–a single mother and cocktail waitress–go missing. Malone herself is immediately suspect, her fashionable clothing and makeup, taste for booze, and interest in men making her a target of gossip in her tight-knit Queens, New York community. As the investigation and trial unfold, journalist Pete Wonicke is assigned to cover the case, and he finds himself increasingly entangled in Ruth’s mysterious web: is she a heartless murderer or an unlucky victim of misogyny and the rumor mill? The answer might lie in between…

why I’m excited: I eat up Midcentury stuff with a spoon (Mad Men is hugely flawed but one of my favorite shows for this reason), so a murder mystery set in 1965 New York? That’s a slam dunk for me. I also love books about journalists (check) and ones that dive deep into misogyny and the toxic and contradictory expectations we place on mothers (check). I can’t wait to get lost in this book.

Our Endless Numbered Days by Claire Fuller

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9781941040010the premise: Peggy Hillcoat is kidnapped and taken to the middle of nowhere by her ultra-survivalist father when she is eight years old. He lies to her and tells her that the rest of the world has been destroyed, and the two share a harsh, isolated life in rural Britain for years before Peggy stumbles upon a pair of boots that lead her back to civilization, her mother, and a secret that threatens to tear her apart.

why I’m excited: I was trying to figure out why this title sounded so familiar when I realized that Our Endless Numbered Days is also the title of an Iron & Wine album. It’s the perfect title for this story, which puts a great twist on typical apocalypse stories. I grew up homeschooled on an extremely isolated and dysfunctional farm in rural Minnesota; like History of Wolves rang true for me back in October, I think this book is going to feel heartbreakingly personal, so I’ll keep a box of tissues handy when I read it.

The Gospel of Trees by Apricot Irving

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9781451690453the premise: Apricot Irving grew up in Haiti as the daughter of an environmentalist missionary determined to reforest the country’s devastated hillsides. In The Gospel of Trees, Irving reckons with that past, writing about the bitter legacy of colonization and the unintended consequences of trying to “save” a country you barely understand.

why I’m excited: Missionary work fascinates me because it’s so contradictory. It’s a supposedly altruistic act that often has terrible consequences. It’s rife with painful family drama (The Poisonwood Bible, anyone?) even though it’s all about bringing more people into a Christian fold that idealizes family. And its racial and colonial dynamics are particularly traumatic and messy. I’m excited to read this book, both because Irving has led an interesting life and I think it will be interesting to read about, and also because I hope it will help me sort out my own complicated feelings on this subject.


What’s in your bookbag this week? Do you have any exciting weekend reading plans? Let me know in the comments, and feel free to link to your own book reviews and blog posts!

Book Review: THE PARKING LOT ATTENDANT by Nafkote Tamirat

The Parking Lot Attendant is so drenched in postmodernist style that the actual story drowns beneath the weight. The novel opens on a ginger-scented island known only as B—; the conceit is that an unnamed narrator, an Ethiopian American teenager from Boston, is slowly recounting the mysterious and terrible events that drove her and her father to the island. If you adore the dark humor and twists and turns of writers like Kurt Vonnegut, Louise Erdrich, and Zadie Smith, you might find a lot to love here–or, like me, you might love those authors and still be left cold. Something about this book feels hollow, and while I love its stylish prose and enormous ambition, reading it was a chore and I can’t say I recommend the experience.

You can read my full review below.


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The Parking Lot Attendant by Nafkote Tamirat

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: Henry Holt and Company (an imprint of Macmillan)
  • publication date: March 13, 2018
  • length: 240 pages
  • cover price: $26.00

…I had never been to Ethiopia, and didn’t much care that I hadn’t; I just assumed it would happen one day. Whenever a teacher first heard my name and feigned curiosity as to its origins, starting or ending with an insincere “It’s so pretty!” I wanted to protest, I’m American! What’s an Ethiopia? How does one come to be there? How does one come to leave it to go to an America? But in truth, I was only almost American, so I gave my explanations and nothing else of myself until the bell rang.

The Parking Lot Attendant, page 73

In my day-to-day life, I don’t spend much time thinking about literary theory. I’m glad that some people do, the same way I’m glad that select groups of people pay close attention to power grids and internet connections so I can sit at my laptop writing this post. Someone should; it just bores me, personally.

I think that boredom is why my reaction to The Parking Lot Attendant, Nafkote Tamirat’s debut novel, is so negative. It’s a book that pays tremendous attention to literary technique to the point where everything else about it fades to the background. By 10 pages in, it felt like a book I’d assigned myself for my own edification rather than a book I was just reading in my free time. And that’s such a shame, because this is a startlingly unique novel, one I wanted to adore but that left me icy instead.

The Parking Lot Attendant centers on an unnamed first-person narrator, an Ethiopian American teenager in Boston. Her parents want the best for her, but they’re terrible at being parents; she excels in school but struggles socially and seems to sleepwalk through life. The novel starts on a ginger-scented island named B– (that we never know the name never stopped feeling pretentious) that is home to a community of Ethiopians seeking to build a new homeland; the narrator and her father live here, tolerated but disliked. As the novel progresses, the narrator works backwards through the events that brought her to the island, especially her friendship with Ayale, an older man beloved by the local Ethiopian community who is full of dangerous secrets.

The Parking Lot Attendant is at its best when it’s a coming-of-age novel. Tamirat’s unnamed narrator is funny, cutting, and sad by turns, and I wanted to spend more time with her. Unfortunately, even though the novel is told in first person and we never leave the narrator’s head, she still seems to vanish into the background, as if she were a documentarian rather than a participant.

That might have been okay had this novel not been so chaotic to begin with, but there are constant twists and turns that tangle up the threads of the plot without moving it forward, and the fact that the narrator doesn’t know where she stands mean we don’t know where anything stands. Most frustratingly, there are entire pages of dialogue in this book where I had no idea who was speaking, since dialogue tags like “he said” and “she said” are almost always absent.

The narrator and Ayale fight; they make up. The narrator and her father fight; they make up. The narrator’s mother flits in and out of her life. Other characters pop in and out for seemingly no reason, their every word feeling shoehorned into whatever mood Tamirat is trying to create in that chapter without feeling like something a real person would authentically say.

Worst of all, very mild spoilers ahead, the ending jumps so abruptly from typical teenage ennui stuff to straight-up murders, arson, suicide, and firing squads that I actually rolled my eyes. I just didn’t care, which is shocking to me, because I wanted so much to care. /spoilers.

There’s a strong possibility that what was hard to understand about this book for me would be obvious to a reader from an Ethiopian background. I want to be clear about that, since on one hand, I love that The Parking Lot Attendant is so chock-full of inside jokes and references to the Ethiopian diaspora. This is one of the most nuanced and cliché-free novels about immigrant identity I’ve ever read; there are also practically no white people in the book, which is refreshing, because it wouldn’t make sense for them to be there. I’m glad this book was able to be published without any obvious catering to a white American audience.

On the other hand, even those good qualities get lost beneath Tamirat’s studied, dense prose style. When I say it’s postmodernist, I mean really postmodernist, to the point where I thought about nothing else, and not in a good way–it felt like being stuck in a poorly taught and very dry Literature 101 class.

Every once in awhile, a particularly cutting sentence would jump out at me–one that got the heart of growing up and not knowing where you belong–and I’d get excited. Then, immediately, I’d be lost in another plot meander that went nowhere, and I’d get un-invested all over again. It’s maddening, because Tamirat’s talent for words is obvious, but her storytelling is remarkably uneven.

The Parking Lot Attendant is a frustrating brain-teaser of a novel, one that demanded a lot and only barely paid off. I hope it blazes trails and makes room for future novels with as much vision and ambition, but I won’t be revisiting this one anytime soon. 3/5 stars.


My copy of The Parking Lot Attendant came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.

Is cataloging your home library worth it?

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Every few years I get a wild hair to document exactly how many books I own. (Spoiler alert: lots!) I’m charmed by impeccably organized shelves (yes, even the color coded ones), by personalized bookplates and meticulous handwritten lending records, and most of all, by home library catalogs that boil down all my books to one neatly alphabetized list.

It’s unsurprising, then, that I’ve tried many, many times to create a comprehensive library catalog of my own. I’ve used LibraryThing (meh), Goodreads (another meh–it’s more social network than catalog), and even Google Sheets and Excel to do it, but I always give up.

I’m a perfectionist who owns, at minimum, several hundred precious books. Cataloging them is a lot of work! Knowing how many books I have? Great. Avoiding duplicates? Double-great. Being able to look over titles and authors at a glance so I can easily come up with blog post ideas? Best of all. But even those benefits can’t quite get me over the hump of actually doing it.

Despite all that, I’m trying again. I’m using Libib.com because it’s got a clean interface and it’s free (up to about 10,000 books, that is); I’m bundling the task into spring cleaning, motivating myself by imagining old books sold back to the bookstore and new books purchased with the store credit.

Will it be worth it in the sense that cataloging my library will save me at least as much time and effort as I put into doing it? Probably not. But cataloging has always been about more than efficiency for me. It’s about the smell of old books and the realization that it’s impossible to finish everything we start.

I know I’ll never, ever read or re-read all the books on my shelves. (After all, I’m always adding more.) In a weird way, there’s something comforting about remembering that. A catalog–even a half-finished one–lets me roll around in the idea that even though I might never re-read, say, Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine again, it’s always there just in case. I can scroll through a list of titles and authors and think happy thoughts about all the lazy afternoons I plan to spend stuffing my face with words.

Is home cataloging worth it? Not exactly. Will I do it? I’ll try. It keeps me humble.


Have you ever tried cataloging your books? Did you succeed? Worth it? Waste of time? I’d love to hear all about it in the comments!

I’m not sponsored by any of the cataloging websites and software I mentioned in this post. Opinions are all mine.

Book Review: ORPHAN MONSTER SPY by Matt Killeen

It’s hard to think of a novel I’ve read recently that seems more destined to make the leap into film than this one. Orphan Monster Spy–about a blonde and blue-eyed Jewish girl who becomes a spy at a Nazi boarding school after her mother’s murder in 1939–is a thrilling, risky, messy, wonderful firecracker of a novel. Dialogue is a weak point, and sometimes the novel’s little nods to the rise of Naziism in the U.S. today threatened to pull me out of this ostensibly historical fiction. But I can’t be too harsh–Matt Killeen works magic on every page, and Orphan Monster Spy is unlike anything else I’ve read. It’s technically YA, but I’d recommend it for anyone who loves taut, cinematic thrillers in the vein of Atomic Blonde (a.k.a. The Coldest City) and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

You can read my full review below.


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Orphan Monster Spy by Matt Killeen

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

  • publisher: Viking Books for Young Readers (an imprint of Penguin Random House)
  • publication date: March 20, 2018
  • length: 432 pages
  • cover price: $18.99

Finally, the car came to a stop. With difficulty, Sarah opened her eyes, blinked to clear her vision, and looked up from her hiding place in the footwell. Her mother was slumped in the driver’s seat, her head against the top of the steering wheel. She was gazing through the spokes to where Sarah crouched. Her mother’s eyes were almost the same, wide and pretty. Her pupils were so big Sarah could nearly see herself in them. But now they seemed dull. Her mother was no longer in there.

Orphan Monster Spy, page 1

Sometimes one book makes me fall in love with all books all over again. Orphan Monster Spy is that kind of book, not because it’s perfect, but because it’s a damn good read. Its almost unbearable tension and sadness is balanced with humor and small victories that had me pumping my fist as much as I was biting my nails.

15-year-old Sarah doesn’t keep kosher or go to synagogue, and she even has a “good Aryan” Gentile father, but she can’t erase her mother’s Jewish heritage. Trapped in the Jewish ghettos of Berlin and Vienna in the 1930s, blonde and blue-eyed Sarah and her actress mother are targets of the increasingly hostile Nazi government. When they try to make a run for the Swiss border in 1939, just before Germany invades Poland, Sarah’s mother is brutally murdered, and Sarah finds herself on the run.

That’s where the book opens, and from there, the plot moves at the speed of light. Sarah saves an enigmatic British spy from suspicious Nazis, and in turn, he protects her, employs her, and places her undercover at an elite Nazi boarding school where she must befriend the daughter of a scientist building a “grapefruit bomb” (nuclear weapon) that could level whole cities in minutes.

The setup is quick and direct, leaving plenty of time to dig deep into Sarah’s character (fascinating) and life at the Nazi boarding school (even more fascinating). The high-stakes final act, in particular, is breathtaking.

I love the breadth and depth of YA novels that exist now, more than existed even a few years ago when I was a teen. (I’m only 23!) I don’t read much YA anymore, but I picked this one up because I like WWII history and literary-ish thrillers. Boy, was I not disappointed. I was shocked at how much depth and historical detail Killeen managed to cram into this book without compromising the taut, gritty narrative. It’s a YA book that feels perfectly YA (as I define it: young protagonist, fast pace), but it’s unique and edgy enough that I’d also recommend it to someone who thinks they’re above YA. (Like myself, sort of.)

A couple of things don’t ring so true, though.

One, Killeen does the thing I hate in multilingual novels: he has characters say things in their native language (mostly German, here) and then has them immediately “repeat it” in English. It doesn’t make any sense and I wish authors would either only use words that I could pick up through context clues or would just use the English versions. I know it’s set in Germany; I don’t need to be constantly yanked out of the story by something that feels like the author being clever instead of being authentic to the characters.

Two, speaking of being authentic, this book is at times heavy-handed with its social commentary at the expense of its characters. I struggled with how to phrase this criticism because Orphan Monster Spy’s subject matter is inherently timely and social justice-y and I don’t want to ding it for that. That’s part of why I chose to read it, after all, and I wish more stories faced anti-Semitism and oppression as head-on as this one does. Still, there are times where it’s so blatant it practically breaks the fourth wall.

For example, in one conversation with Elsa, the Nazi scientist’s daughter whom Sarah is tasked with befriending, Elsa lets slip that America is full of Nazis. Sarah, deep in character as another good Nazi girl, reminds Elsa that America is not to be trusted. Elsa just laughs and tells her that American Nazis are even more dangerous than German ones because they have to hide their true colors.

I mean, I can’t fault Killeen’s accuracy on that count, but it’s such a transparent aside that it felt like it had been sung out by the gospel Greek chorus from Hercules(It certainly doesn’t feel like natural conversation.)

In the end, though, this book is so dazzlingly ambitious, smart, and compulsively readable that those things barely impacted my enjoyment of it.

Orphan Monster Spy is a desperate book for desperate times; its mission statement–take down Nazis, get revenge, survive–shouldn’t feel so relevant in 2018, but it does. For those tired of fighting the good fight, this book is a heady infusion of entertainment, energy, and pure steel. 4/5 stars.


My copy of Orphan Monster Spy came from my local library and I was in no way compensated for this review.

Friday Bookbag, 4.20.18

friday bookbag

Friday Bookbag is a weekly feature where I share a list of books I’ve borrowed, bought, or otherwise acquired during the week. It’s my chance to buzz about my excitement for books I might not get the chance to review.

This week I’ve got a YA novel about resilience, the Civil War, and zombie slaying (a killer combo!) and a nonfiction book about ten great cultural critics in my bookbag. Let’s dive in!


Dread Nation: Rise Up by Justina Ireland

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9780062570604the premise: In Justina Ireland’s vision of the past, the American Civil War was never won because zombies rose from the battlegrounds of Gettysburg, forcing America into an uneasy peace, united against the undead. The Negro and Native Reeducation Act forces Black and Native people–many just children–to train to protect white people from zombies, and protagonist Jane McKeene is training as an Attendant to protect the wealthy–a cushier gig than the front lines, at least. She dreams of someday returning to her Kentucky home, far from the privilege and intrigue of the East Coast…until she accidentally gets tangled up with enemies even more dangerous than the undead.

why I’m excited: Like Orphan Monster Spy in last week’s Friday BookbagDread Nation: Rise Up is an explosive YA novel that tackles history and oppression from a fresh new angle. I love alternate history (even the zombie-infected kind) and I can’t wait to get lost in Ireland’s world, which seems to have a lot to say about our own world, too.

Sharp: The Women Who Made an Art of Having an Opinion by Michelle Dean

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound

9780802125095the premise: Sharp tells the story of ten cultural critics who have (according to the inside flap) “what Dean calls ‘sharpness,’ the ability to cut to the quick with precision of thought and wit.” Those women are Dorothy Parker, Rebecca West, Hannah Arendt, Mary McCarthy, Susan Sontag, Pauline Kael, Joan Didion, Nora Ephron, Renata Adler, and Janet Malcolm. In Sharp, Dean blends biography with her own cultural criticism and commentary.

why I’m excited: Dean’s chapter on Joan Didion was excerpted in Buzzfeed as “How Joan Didion Became Joan Didion,” and it was excellent, so I requested this book from the library right away. I love history, I love feminism, I love literary criticism, and I love the inside baseball of literary criticism. This book looks to have all four, which makes it a must-read for me.

I’ve been hoping to improve my cultural criticism skills (I play around with them on this blog, but I’d love to do more work with actual media outlets with editors someday), and though Sharp isn’t a how-to book, I think I could do worse than to read about the greats. Plus, Dean’s own work as a journalist and critic is really great.


What’s in your bookbag this week? Do you have any exciting weekend reading plans? Let me know in the comments, and feel free to link to your own book reviews and blog posts!