Wonderful. It came off to me almost as an American retelling of Princess Mononoke, rife with old magics and nature’s power. These ancient ways are conWonderful. It came off to me almost as an American retelling of Princess Mononoke, rife with old magics and nature’s power. These ancient ways are contended with by a community of 1666 Puritans, already a frightened, superstitious bunch. They both fear the Earth’s mysteries around them and desire to conquer them. To bend them to their will.
Just as they exploit the land they stole.
It’s very Princess Mononoke meets The Crucible, The VVitch, and Midsommar. All of which (witch?) are great.
But in invoking old magic —in this case, the most ancient magic of the universe— some important aspects of the story get sidestepped.
Being a story set in early American history, Brom does include the Puritanical community of Sutton’s relationship with the indigenous Pequot people they colonized Connecticut from. Their peace is uneasy, relying wholly on the Native peoples’ conforming to colonizer customs to survive…always under threat of musket fire. Existing so close, they each have unique reactions when magic stirs up:
Sutton’s Puritans fear Satan.
Main character Abitha, daughter of an English cunning woman, has faith in the fairies and fae.
The Pequots get a bit closer to the truth of it, recognizing it as a power from the Earth, itself.
But when we have the POV of the magic, of its central force in the book, we learn that it is much older than any culture’s belief system, religion, spirituality, etc. So ancient, so cosmic that not a single human could even conceive.
My quibble is this: Being a book where the main character and her community are living off stolen land, side-by-side with the people they stole not only the land from, but are actively eradicating their traditions and way of life — the affects of which will be felt for generations on, having a POV of an all-knowing magic power proclaiming how it had been present in North America “before the humans came south from the Ice Age”, aka before Indigenous Americans were in America, is somewhat invalidating.
It’s a sentiment that groups all humans, oppressors and their oppressed, into the same category: That all are insignificant compared to the ancient power around them. All their beliefs are equally wrong… regardless of who is forcing their beliefs on whom. Regardless of whose beliefs are being eradicated. Regardless of who stole from whom…
It shuts down the conversation when the answer is, “Well, the magic was on the land before any humans were, so…”
And that’s not the best stance for a book that previously explored early America’s colonialism to take.
It’s very much a privilege thing that I can acknowledge this and still have found so much enjoyment in this book. The care put into establishing Sutton’s setting and the period accuracy of the characters’ speech was so satisfying to me. And I loved the inherent spirit to all things in Abitha’s world, adding color to what was an austere, Puritan environment.
Since this is an octopus book, I'll say what things about it I'm a sucker (haha) for: 1. Finding family aThis was simple and lovely.
But it lacked bite.
Since this is an octopus book, I'll say what things about it I'm a sucker (haha) for: 1. Finding family and community 2. Exploring our interconnectedness as humans 3. A small-town setting on the Puget Sound 4. A magical element re: an animal
While Shelby Van Pelt was able to realize each of these in a mostly satisfying way in her debut novel, it all happened too cleanly.
Everyone was who they needed to be, found each other as needed, and acted as they should.
Money was rarely a concern, even for the more disadvantaged characters. Cameron's aunt conveniently had $2,000 saved for a vacation she could transfer to him when he was in need, a sum he manages to pay back easily on a cleaner's pay. Tova, a single and childless woman in her 70s unable to work, had another $2,000 she could drop on a vintage t-shirt without blinking. That financial safety net Tova maintains the entire book, curtailing many difficulties people can face while aging alone.
And so many things that should have been difficult happened so easily.
That rare t-shirt is available for pick-up within driving distance, despite being sold online by an eBay seller. Tova, an uncertain driver, navigates the highway to pick it up without any incident.
She sells her family home, built by her father and the last place her deceased son and husband lived, without much regret or emotion. She retires in her 70s without much fanfare. Cameron makes an impulsive decision and then quickly corrects his course. Brothers die, but it's okay because they aren't that close.
Places are found to crash on short notice. Miscommunications get cleared up without any animosity. Rare t-shirts get replaced. Lost luggage gets returned undamaged.
Everything's fine. Much like this book — just fine.
As for the octopus: I found Marcellus' POV accordingly charming, but uninspired. There is little in his POV that provides unique octopus insight as to what is going on. Rather, his heightened intelligence is demonstrated by his similarity to humans. So his POV is more or less the same as any of the human characters, despite him remarking how dense the humans around him are.
And it isn't likeness to humans that makes octopi — or any animal, for that matter — fascinating; at least not to me. They all have different tools to make decisions and problem solve as non-human animals. These special circumstances demonstrate their intelligence and inspire.
Not the way they’re presumed to be like humans....more
2 stars because I had a magical experience with this book the night I started reading it. The writing was so tight, with each short chapter building b2 stars because I had a magical experience with this book the night I started reading it. The writing was so tight, with each short chapter building beautifully on the last, creating a compulsively readable mystery.
The next morning, it was like I had picked up a different book. I don't know if it was me or The Last One, but it suddenly unimpressed me.
Every twist was so dumb. The characters' actions made no sense under their circumstances. And the gripping, cliffhanging writing style I had previously admired resulted in a conclusion that was so hackneyed I audibly groaned....more
It opened so strongly with great descriptions of 1980s life and culture; I think these early scenes where Abby and Gretchen's frieThis was very sweet!
It opened so strongly with great descriptions of 1980s life and culture; I think these early scenes where Abby and Gretchen's friendship first takes shape were my favorites. Oddly, it started to lose me a bit when the possession narrative amped up. Too much of what happened matched events from other media like Mean Girls, Jennifer's Body, and Heathers, so it didn't feel like anything particularly new.
But the climax left me unexpectedly teary-eyed. Overall, it was a fine book :)...more
As someone who tends not to read many mystery/thriller books, this was a slam dunk for me. I loved it.
Here's why:
It's not a thriller that keeps you onAs someone who tends not to read many mystery/thriller books, this was a slam dunk for me. I loved it.
Here's why:
It's not a thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Rather, it makes you tuck into your seat's deepest reaches. Not because it's a cozy, comfy time, but because its every revelation is so disquieting. It makes you draw yourself close.
Deaths happen, but they aren't bombastic or gory. They aren't even the driving mystery, but are really just footnotes in an unnerving family history. And as that history unravels, what it shows aren't shocking twists.
Just truths the characters, and subsequently the reader, can't avoid forever....more
In her impressive debut novel My Year of Meats, Ozeki follows American factory farming shortcuts and deregulation to Can Ruth Ozeki miss? I think not.
In her impressive debut novel My Year of Meats, Ozeki follows American factory farming shortcuts and deregulation to their international - and individual - implications.
To avoid government oversight regarding what hormones cattle can be treated with, an American beef manufacturer begins selling their product in Japan, where no such regulation is in place. As a culture strongly influenced by Buddhism, however, the Japanese diet contains comparatively little meat. To boost sales, the beef manufacturer develops a reality TV show called My American Wife. Each week, Japanese audiences are introduced to a new American family, with the wife demonstrating how to cook a meat-laden dish.
And through this TV show, the lives of two very different women intersect.
Jane Takagi-Little is a Japanese-American aspiring documentarian from MN, desperately in need of a job when she's given the chance to produce My American Wife. While the show wants to repeatedly portray families reflecting an American stereotype (straight white parents with straight white kids), Jane prefers to capture the country's diversity. As she interviews families from all across the country to showcase, she begins to see a pattern of detrimental effects from the very product she must sell, meat.
Akiko Ueno is the Tokyo housewife of one of the My American Wife's Japanese producers - the one most insistent Jane stick to the stereotype. Having given up her career as a mangaka to fulfill her society's expectation that she become a wife and mother, Akiko lives in quiet dissatisfaction, her marriage loveless and never having once become pregnant. As her husband has her test the recipes from the TV show, she sees the diverse America Jane depicts, and begins to realize her life can be something more.
The story follows their individual discoveries - Jane of the meat industry and Akiko of herself - until their two journeys have them meet...through meat. It is a beautiful, humanist tale of the many things that connect us as humans and a very fulfilling read.
My one issue with this book is both a blessing and a curse:
While it does depict many realities of American factory farming, the focus is firmly more on its human impact than on its animal one. Being someone very sensitive to depictions of animal cruelty and death, especially for meat consumption, there are some difficult scenes to read through, but not enough that they're this book's main takeaway. I appreciate that the animal scenes aren't scarring, but I'm afraid they wouldn't do enough to instill empathy for meat animals into the uninitiated.
Especially when paired with the book's genuinely scintillating descriptions of meat dishes....more
Ordinarily for short story collections, I'd skip the overall rating and rate each entry individually.
But Kim Fu is no ordinary author.
And Lesser KnowOrdinarily for short story collections, I'd skip the overall rating and rate each entry individually.
But Kim Fu is no ordinary author.
And Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century is no ordinary book.
This is an easy 5 stars from me, her specific way of combining words marveling me just as much as her novel The Lost Girls of Camp Forevermore did. Nothing gets lost in this short-form content, and so much is gained - like reading what magic Fu can work in genres weird, horrific, sci-fi, and fantastical.
So, if I were to give individual ratings, they'd look like this:
While he was hospitalized for pneumonia in 2003, Tabitha King started a reno project on her husband Stephen’s home office. Upon his discharge, seeing While he was hospitalized for pneumonia in 2003, Tabitha King started a reno project on her husband Stephen’s home office. Upon his discharge, seeing his workspace bare and his things in boxes, inspiration struck for a story:
The experience of a famous author’s wife during and after his death.
While Lisey’s Story isn’t necessarily Tabby’s Story — King says as much in his author’s note —, she clearly provided much more inspiration beyond boxing his things up. Tabitha King has lived a truly singular life, being married to arguably the world’s most famous writer. Throughout their partnership, her own accomplishments, literary and otherwise, have been eclipsed by his incomparable success.
Even the most famous anecdote about Tabitha is one in service of Stephen, retrieving the discarded pages of what would become Carrie from the trash, urging him to continue the story that would become his his debut and breakthrough.
Like the titular Lisey, Tabitha King has often been defined in the media by her relationship to her husband…including, probably, regrettably, in this very review. As recently as 2019, she and Stephen spoke out against an article on their donation to the New England Historic Genealogical Society that credited them as “Stephen King and his wife”.
“Wife is a relationship or status. It is not an identity,” she wrote.
And identity is what gets explored in Lisey’s Story.
In part.
In its strongest parts. Parts that hint that the story goes beyond inspiration, but subtle revelations of this famous couple’s private life.
Lisey met Scott Landon in college (just as Tabitha and Stephen met). Scott found unprecedented success as a writer, his books winning multiple awards, and providing the couple a very comfortable life (sound familiar?). Both before and after Scott’s death, Lisey must navigate how the disparity of her situation with Scott impacts her relationship with her two sisters, resentful Darla and troubled Amanda, who live in very different circumstances.
A quick Google search tells me Tabitha King has three sisters instead of two, but King admits in his author’s note that, while the fictional Debusher sisters aren’t 1:1 parallels of Tabby and hers, he was inspired all the same by observing their sororal dynamic through the years.
Another clue hinting at Lisey’s Story’s special importance to the King family was his listing it among his top five favorites of his own work in a 2021 Colbert interview promoting Billy Summers. There, he revealed he had held onto the story rights for years before finally selling it to Apple TV for adaptation.
All this in mind, I wish my regard for Lisey’s Story was so high.
Really, the best way I can describe this book is “Stephen King does Hannah and her Sisters”.
Like Hannah in the 1986 movie, the well-established Lisey must be a source of financial support and emotional labor for her sisters. Simultaneously, she receives minimal help when she needs it after Scott’s death, as if wealth and success are cocoon enough against life’s harsher realities. And, again like Hannah, resentment for her advantages precludes others from seeing her needs.
All of this is great. Being one of three sisters myself, I adore sister stories — it’s why my knowledge of this one movie is so thorough, despite my disdain for its director.
But here’s where Lisey’s Story loses my favor:
In Hannah and her Sisters, there’s a cheating subplot linking several of the characters. In Lisey’s Story, the through line is ~*~magical mental illness~*~, a trope I find inelegant.
Scott had it. His brother had it. His father had it, as had untold generations of Landon men before them. It took several of their lives, either by suicide or murder.
But it also gave them access to a fantastical other world, referred to by Scott as Boo’ya Moon, a beautiful, but dangerous place populated by…clinically depressed people? Like Lisey’s sister Amanda, comatose in real life after a suicide attempt? And “curing” Amanda is a simple as traveling into Boo’ya Moon to bring her back?
Anyone should be allowed to make whatever metaphor for mental illness they want; in that same vein, the reader can decide how they feel about that depiction. For me, it’s reductive (miracle cures) and problematic (Scott incorporates Boo’ya Moon into several of his bestselling books; that old trope of mental illness as a fount for creativity).
But I don’t feel like this book was meant for me or my critique. It was for the King family, for the Spruce family.
For Tabby, an incredible human in her own right ...more
I loved this. It's taken me so long to review this book because I'm not sure how well I can articulate how much I loved it.
Here's my best attempt:
It'sI loved this. It's taken me so long to review this book because I'm not sure how well I can articulate how much I loved it.
Here's my best attempt:
It's become rather trendy recently to "reclaim" the Persephone myth from Greek mythology: The story of Persephone's abduction by her uncle Hades, forced to become his wife in the Underworld. All the other Gods just let it happen, but finally agreed to allow her to leave when her mother, the Harvest Goddess Demeter, caused considerable famine on Earth through her grief. Before she could leave, however, Hades tricked her with an ensorcelled pomegranate seed, requiring her to spend a season each year with him in the Underworld.
Each year, the world withers and grows cold for Demeter's grief at being separated from her daughter. And that's how we got Winter, the worst season.
But recent reimaginings of the myth are much softer. They depict Persephone and Hades sweetly as a couple slotting perfectly into the Grumpy/Sunshine trope. They depict Persephone as being oppressed by an overbearing mother in Demeter, eager for an escape. They depict Hades as awakening the darkness inside Persephone, allowing for her agency to bloom in the Underworld.
Among other things.
None of these have ever sat right with me. These reclamations are wolves in sheep's clothing, pretending to be about female agency and empowerment while maintaining the framework that still sees a woman kidnapped and forced into the life of a man.
I don't think these stories are about Persephone at all. I really just think they're a way of romanticizing Hades, the OG dark, broody, taciturn hawt boi. And the onus is on Persephone in these stories to either bring light into his life through her love, or embrace the darkness within her to conform to his ~*aesthetic*~ and ~*lifestyle*~.
And I think this is a real-life trap a lot of people, but especially women, fall into. Having to change so much and do so much emotional labor for a partner who won't do the same for you.
It happened to me just once, but once was enough.
I was 18 and spent many miserable hours watching a guy attempt metal music on his guitar, sitting underneath that Pulp Fiction poster. You know the one. He talked mad shit about his ex-girlfriends, but didn't want me to even allude to any past relationships. He ate meat, smoked weed, and drank; I did not (still don't). And when he couldn't keep hard (ahem...all the meat and weed ...more
In 1965, Stephen King turned 18. The same year the U.S. entered the Vietnam War.
It was a time when, in the words of P. F. Sloan as sung by Barry McGuiIn 1965, Stephen King turned 18. The same year the U.S. entered the Vietnam War.
It was a time when, in the words of P. F. Sloan as sung by Barry McGuire, "You're old enough to kill but not for votin'", as the 26th Amendment wouldn't be ratified until 1971, lowering the voting age from 21 to 18.
Like so many young men, King reported to his local draft board, his draft number 204. Upon failing the vision test, he was determined to be unfit for military service.
That same year, he published his first short story, I Was a Teenage Grave Robber, the initial entry into what would become a truly singular writing career.
But the shadow of Vietnam still loomed over his work. How could a horror author not be haunted by so many dead young men of his generation?
Nowhere is this more prevalent than in The Long Walk. A book about the sacrifice of boys, distinguished only by their assigned numbers to the powers that be, dying for an uncertain gain.
Unpublished until 1979 under the pseudonym Richard Bachman, it was actually the first novel King ever wrote, penned in his freshman year of college between 1966-67.
It is a dystopian novel of a near-future totalitarian America of considerable lack. Among the few opportunities afforded to its citizens is an annual walking contest for a chance at money and prizes. Each year, 100 teenaged boys enter and must walk at a nonstop pace above 4mph. They are only allowed three warnings if they stop or slow. If the pace isn't picked up, they're shot dead.
And the walk goes on until only one boy is left alive.
It is a major entertainment event for the country, watched on the news as a sort of proto-reality tv. People line up along U.S. Route 1 and wait for the walkers, cheering them like rock stars. Anyone there to protest the walk is subject to force.
Being boys, the characters first lavish in this attention. But the walk goes on. They get thirsty. They get hungry. And the crowds still watch them, betting on them like racehorses and commodifying their bodies until even their excretions are treated as collectibles.
But, also being boys, they find camaraderie in each other, strength in numbers despite the futility of it. They befriend one another and develop rivalries, even though none of it can last, good or bad. There can only be one winner. And they share prurient ideas about girls, short-shorts, breasts, and sex.
Because they're teenaged boys. They're children. They should be allowed to explore these prurient ideas in safety. In places that'll allow them to become men who, hopefully, outgrow such juvenile fixations.
And the tragedy of The Long Walk - and of any situation that cuts a young life short - is that they never will. They'll stay boys forever, celebrated for what they died as, not for who they could have been....more
This was technically a reread for me - Pet Sematary was among the first Stephen King books I picked up in middle school.
I've lived a lot of life sinceThis was technically a reread for me - Pet Sematary was among the first Stephen King books I picked up in middle school.
I've lived a lot of life since then.
While I can say with my whole heart that this remains a very well-structured book with some truly beautiful, brutally honest themes of loss, grief, and familial decision-making, I'd be untruthful if I said the depiction of the chronically ill and disabled in this book isn’t harmful.
When I was a healthy middle schooler, Zelda Goldman, Rachel Creed's deceased sister who suffered from spinal meningitis, just seemed like another spooky element of the story. I accepted the language that othered her unwell body, compelled by the demonization of her characteristics to agree with Rachel, our protagonist's wife, that she was an eerie burden on her family - worthy of relief upon her death.
But, again, I've lived a lot of life since then. A life informed by my experiences with cancer starting at age 19, the effects of which I still struggle with now into my 30s. A life where a different cancer recently took my big brother; a tumor in his brain that necessitated my caring for him in the last year of his life.
I've no doubt there are some who felt King gave voice to their struggles caring for sick loved ones; that there are no perfect patients and no angelic caretakers. Sure, I can agree with this.
But what doesn't sit right with me is that Zelda is depicted as being made spiteful by her illness - a sentiment reinforced by main character Louis Creed, himself a medical doctor. Rachel remembers Zelda being gleeful when her illness made her do something unpleasant for her family to attend to.
This depiction is ableist and it is wrong. These beliefs about the chronically ill and disabled are ableist and wrong.
I know from his more recent works that the Stephen King of today is a more conscientious man than he was in 1983; I think (or I hope) most people are. I've no doubts he would write Rachel's experiences with Zelda differently were he to write out their dynamic today.
But Pet Sematary is still being printed, read, adapted, and watched to this day. It is a book that so many, myself included, have nostalgia for. In particular, Andrew Hubatsek's portrayal of Zelda in the 1989 adaptation is still remembered as one of the most frightening performances for a King movie, solidifying her status in his work as one of his “monsters”.
Critique of ableism in horror is much needed. And considering Stephen King has had such a massive impact not only on the genre, but culture at large, his work should not be exempt, not regardless of nostalgia, but because of it.
Zefyr Lisowski's contribution "The Girl, The Well, The Ring" is a most insightful examination into the demonization of two chronically ill/disabled characters, Samara from 2002's The Ring and, of course, Zelda Goldman, as well as Lisowski's experience as a chronically ill queer transwoman.
Edited to include new revelations on my particular dog at the end lol - 4/25/2024
Cujo is one of those books I've never not known about. This speaks a Edited to include new revelations on my particular dog at the end lol - 4/25/2024
Cujo is one of those books I've never not known about. This speaks a lot to Stephen King's presence in American culture; that even as a baby/toddler/child, long before I would ever read his books, I knew about Carrie soaked in blood, Pennywise speaking from the gutter, and Cujo the rabid St. Bernard.
Even though I had absorbed so much via cultural osmosis, I always skirted around Cujo. Too much of an animal lover all my life.
But I read about Patrick Hockstetter's "secret fridge" in It. I read about the unfortunate fate of Lloyd Henreid's bunny in The Stand. I read about what Hugh Priest did to poor Raider, all for a foxtail, in Needful Things.
I can now report that anything that happens in (or to) Cujo is much less brutal than any of that.
Of the million things I love about King's The Stand, one of them is the latter part of Ch. 52: the dog Kojak's POV, crossing the US in search of Glen Bateman. It's easily one of the sweetest things I've ever read.
Sharing much of Cujo's POV, both pre- and post-rabies, imbues the book with so much pathos. No matter how sick, he's still just a dog. Even when he does his most aggressive acts, you know it's not out of genuine malice. Just the actions of a sick and dying dog, still trying to do his best.
I found the writing of Donna's and Tad's entrapment in the Pinto to be tight and tension-filled. The build of these scenes, however, was cut somewhat by switching POV to Vic's PR nightmare in NYC & Boston, Charity Camber's attempts to reorient her son, and just the character of Steve Kemp in general.
While these plots weren't uninteresting - I was genuinely piqued by Vic's marketing schemes - the way they came together in the end didn't completely justify the attention they took from the clear and present danger.
But, back to my first point on Stephen King's ubiquity in American culture; Cujo is a very fascinating time capsule of another cultural phenomenon:
Star Wars is mentioned throughout this 1981 publication constantly. The characters can't get away from the grip that franchise has on their world - the kids have Star Wars action figures and coloring books, Star Wars t-shirts are roaming the wild - I loved every single mention of it. These people had just learned Darth Vader was Luke's father, but still wouldn't know what Jabba the Hutt looked like until 1983. Iconic. It was so unexpected and easily my favorite element of the book
As with Stephen King, there was never a moment where Star Wars wasn't part of my life. I loved reading of one cultural titan tipping his hat to another...more
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