dumbidiotenergy's reviews
114 reviews

sometimes to be selfish feels necessary; sometimes you feel like you must cut off someone you love; sometimes to harden one's heart feels like the only path to survival and happiness. in Giovanni's Room, the reader knows that despite these harsh, cruel measures, David is a deeply unhappy person, and remains so, and is rendered even more so after the events of the book. 

these are not spoilers. the reader knows very early on that things do not end with a happy-ever-after. this is not a love story, though it contains love. this is a tragedy, and the reader knows so from the beginning. the dramatic irony is striking--it feels as though the reader is watching as a train is derailed, hurtling toward the backs of the characters, but they are too absorbed in themselves to turn around. yet the nature of the book, where time feels fluid, sometimes makes me feel that David and Giovanni both knew all along how it would end.

Giovanni's Room is elegiac and somber; Baldwin paints the characters with a fine brush and treats them as if they are to be revered. he seems almost to caress them in his own hands over a deep well before letting go and allowing them to plummet to their deaths. 

Baldwin's mastery in Giovanni's Room is not limited to his writing style or his ability to craft such a simple and devastating narrative. he makes broader claims, ones that dive very deeply into David's psyche and force the reader to consider: are they the same way? 

my favorite thing i picked up on in this regard was David's insistence for human connection, regardless of its source or target, and that when he found more convenient ways to achieve this connection he allowed his previous ties to be severed. there are multiple points in the story where David views his relationship with Giovanni, and sometimes with Hella, as a sort of microcosm. Giovanni's hands are anyone's hands; Hella's womb is anyone's womb. he is so starved for love, for purpose, for a true connection with anyone, that he will take all that he can get. with this in mind his selfishness becomes more clear, more understandable and tragic, but at the same time more damnable. the reader, upon reflection, understands that abandoning Giovanni was necessary to David-- he had found his mistress again, found the happiness and ease that comes with heterosexuality. yet we see David's rationalizations crumble as he is gripped by passion after Giovanni is rendered unattainable to him. no, David begins to think, *anyone's* hands are not enough. i need a man's, he thinks. i need Giovanni's.

and yet, though David feels entangled with Giovanni, and feels that their relationship is intimate and vulnerable... David himself is not actually vulnerable with Giovanni. he doesn't really express his fears or desires until Giovanni goads him. Giovanni is the leader-- what happens when David goes off on his own? what happens when the leader is dead? where is David left?

Giovanni's Room is about codependency. it is about knowing a good thing will end, but being ravenous for it anyway, and deluding oneself that maybe it can continue. it's about the insanity of characters who have almost nothing, but continue to lose and lose and lose the things they gain. but more than anything else, it's about humanity. i loved this book.

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it feels like my favorite kinds of books all share the same thing: utter tragedy. there is something wrong with me! but also i think tragedies give such a deep look into the human condition, the things people can and cannot stand, the ways people live when faced with despair... can't help being a pisces moon!

fun, cute, angsty. weird pacing, especially toward the beginning. boring at times, especially toward the end. too many anime references. great angst, amazing intimate scenes especially when santi is being bold and suave. a little too many coincidences for my liking, but hey, i had fun!

Lapvona's God is a facsimile, a placeholder, for it can take the form of craving, or pain, or tenderness, or love, or deprivation. Lapvona's God is mutable, taking shapes that fit its residents, anything to make the hardship of life worth living. thus, Lapvona asks the question: is an ever-changing God a real God? and are those residents who refuse to change, passionate in their rigidity

(Grigor, Jude)

, more holy than those who are less resolute?

i didn't expect to like this as much as i did. i'm not a huge Moshfegh fan, particularly because i found My Year of Rest and Relaxation to be... trite. but Lapvona was very engaging, and was a remarkably quick read for me. i found it hard to put it down. the atmosphere is Lapvona's strongest quality, and its overt social commentary, while interesting and valuable, feels secondary to the rich world Moshfegh creates. this is not negative-- in fact, while i am sometimes tempted to label Moshfegh as a somewhat heavy-handed author who writes from a moral pedestal, Lapvona has softened my opinion because of its casual delight in the grotesque. "what if there was a really fucked up witch lady with huge tits," Moshfegh says, and I say: "fuck yeah, man!"

(clearly, there is something to be said about Ina’s maternal and feminine presence in the novel, and her overall existence is not nearly as shallow as I am making it seem, but still)

speaking of Ina, she is a focal point by which a reader can parse the rest of Lapvona. she abandons her versions of God very obviously--for example, once she regains her sight, she starts to hate the birds who were once divine to her--and this sparks a thought in the reader to be on the lookout for more of this spiritual abandonment. Marek's religious changes one being adopted by Villiam are also very obvious, but who can blame him? and perhaps that is Moshfegh's point-- where can blame lie in a town like Lapvona, in a world so full to the brim with pain and filth that its residents have no choice but to break and act selfishly? every Lapvonian is doomed from the start, perhaps just by nature of their little village that has God in its shit and blood and hunger. 

in Lapvona, Moshfegh is like a god herself, looking down at this poor village of her own creation. she pulls her characters, puppet-like, between truth and falsehood-- only to reveal that there is no such thing as truth after all. she inflicts them with pain, and then with a wave of her hand that pain dissolves. she bestows divine inspiration, and then she makes the visions fade. her characters are all crazed. with a God as malicious as Moshfegh, who wouldn't go a little insane?

The Idiot doesn’t linger— it bounces from one strange situation to the next, chronicling narrator Selin’s thoughts about it all. and this book is aptly named: Selin is an idiot. 

witty, sly, and at times incredibly frustrating, this novel is enigmatic to me. i found myself puzzling over whether i liked it and whether everyone who had raved about it to me was out of their minds. early in the book, i tired quickly of its many attempts at giving me secondhand embarrassment; yet towards the middle, although the parts set in Hungary tended to drag, i loosened up and began having fun with it. 

i will say that for the many people who do love this book, i understand the appeal. but i do not find The Idiot as profound as i would have hoped, and perhaps that’s just me missing the point— maybe life doesn’t have to be profound, maybe it’s okay that Selin is tumbling through life one misstep after another. but i cant help it. i wanted more. 

i've been waiting on this one for a while now, and i'm so glad i was able to get it. I'm Glad My Mom Died is a riveting memoir. McCurdy doesn't shy away from exposing the nastiness of her struggles with abuse, child fame, addiction, and loss in intricate detail.

it shines less in its form than in its content, but the content there is riveting and heartbreaking. while the writing is simple and, at times, a bit uninspired, its matter-of-fact nature lends itself to the material in a way that surprisingly heightens the memoir's emotional output. it's as if someone is calmly telling you about a car crash that left the passengers mangled and bloody.

this was an extremely easy and quick read, mainly because of the bite-sized chapters and the unchallenging writing style. at times, though, I'm Glad My Mom Died can be disgusting. i found my hand reaching for my mouth to cover a gasp more than once. the delivery of these moments is so shocking because of how nestled they are into the narrative, how innocuously McCurdy presents them. it's as if blood-streaked vomit is the most normal thing in the world-- and that's what makes it all the more harrowing. 

The Woman Destroyed is simply flawless. and that’s an incredible thing. it’s amazing how de Beauvoir makes such intricate women’s minds leap from the page, and she does so in a way that makes you feel almost voyeuristic. the reader is privy to these three women’s deepest fears, insecurities, and regrets— and through them, the reader is enlightened. 

favorite story: The Monologue

Cluttered with repetitive themes and unimportant ramblings, One Day We’ll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter is a not entirely unenjoyable exercise in patience. some of the essays were strong-ish, particularly the ones about Koul’s Indian heritage, while others (particularly the first few) felt self-indulgent without much of a meaning. in fact i feel like these “essays” resemble long journal entries more than anything else. there were many times where i struggled to care at all about what Koul wrote. 

to be fair, these essays can be funny and insightful— but only sometimes. honestly, this very much feels like it’s an essay collection written by someone who works at Buzzfeed (and spoiler alert: it is). 

sharp, sad, suffocating, poignant, and surprisingly funny, The Bell Jar puts things into words that i could have never described before. it’s heartbreaking, yet hopeful, yet tinged with fear and irony. it is almost scary to read. 

poor Esther Greenwood is failed over and over again. the people around her fail her, her career fails her, her own mind fails her. she gets caught in her own head and starts assuming the world is out to get her. her spiral into insanity is so seamless that i hardly noticed it happening— i went from agreeing with her to nervously laughing at her to fearing for her. her devolution is slow yet deliberate, and Plath’s hand is steady and true in guiding Esther’s paranoia and depression in a way that seems almost rational. after all, *shouldn’t* Esther be paranoid, after all the duplicity she’s faced? 

Plath’s commentary is so succinct and accurate it made me tremble with its truth. the imagery of the bell jar itself, the depiction of female hysteria, the intricacies of navigating an unfair world— it all left me dazed. i’m so glad i got around to reading this. its classic status is well-deserved, and i hope to read more Plath in the future. 

On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is structured as a letter addressed to the narrator's mother, a Vietnamese woman traumatized by the war and struggling to be happy in America. through this lens, the reader gets bite-sized glimpses into her and her son's lives that come together to illustrate one whole experience of otherness and the different shapes love can take.

i went into Gorgeous not expecting to love it quite this much. i think the form of the novel was so enchanting and evoked such a particular sense of reflection that i found myself deep in its sadness, like i was struggling to keep my head above water but it felt so good to swim. i had to take the occasional break because at times Vuong's writing eluded me or challenged me in a way that warranted coming back later-- but this is a good thing, because it forced me to take my time.

it is clear that Vuong is a poet; Gorgeous felt like one large poem, rambling and beautiful, chock full of metaphors and symbols that at times could even (unfortunately) shroud Vuong's true meaning. i believe a book is often a communication between author and reader, while poetry is often indulgent of the poet. with this in mind Gorgeous did, occasionally, feel self-indulgent, and what Vuong was trying to communicate sometimes felt lost among the language. but i think readers have a responsibility to compromise with the author, as well, and these small moments of confusion or misunderstanding added to the realness and authenticity of the novel. 

this authenticity feels even more true when thinking about Vuong's relationship to the subject matter. i don't know much about Ocean Vuong but i feel that the line between Vuong and Little Dog blurs often, giving the reader a sense of intimacy, exposing the reader to the Vuong's own musings through Little Dog as a conduit. it is masterfully done, and feels oddly therapeutic in a way, as if through reading Little Dog's attempt at closure, i myself received closure with him as someone on the other side of the page. 

if i wanted to read a book entirely about how it felt to go to work as a woman i would just keep a journal. NSFW doesn’t add anything new to any conversation, yet somehow manages to be extremely preachy and self righteous.