My Father Stays in Lebanon to Know that He Exists

Posted on by Intern Electric Lit

Waiting for War in Lebanon by Vera Kachouh

I put my body into the sea in Lebanon only once. Its warm, salty water extended a liquid embrace, beckoning me like a lover I could never have. From the shore came my aunt’s laughter, rolling in at odd intervals on the back of the wind. I turned toward the horizon, away from my family, away from solid ground. I faced nothingness. A huge blue expanse stretched before me. The sea was so salty, so buoyant, that I didn’t need to swim. I could release all physical effort and let it carry me. I did, for a time, though I wasn’t brave. I stayed within earshot, going just beyond the point where my toes could touch. 

What word could I give to what I felt then other than love? The sea took my body and threatened to never give it back. Or maybe it was the other way around: A part of me broke off there, in the Mediterranean. All I could do was leave it behind and swim to shore. 

I was twelve years old, and it was my first time in Lebanon. We visited Raouché, Gemmayzeh, Achrafieh, Souk El Gharb. The land curved around the sea off the coast of Beirut and then soared up to the mountain villages before finally reaching the ancient cedars—the same old growth forests that had been there since the time of the Phoenicians, who used the cedar wood to build ships and conquer the Mediterranean. 

As we went from place to place, my father acted as a sort of missionary, unveiling the beauty of his country to the uninitiated—his two kids—one day, one landmark, one beach visit at a time. This was a family vacation, but underneath it all was another plan: to make his half-Arab children Lebanese. To make us fall in love with the place he had left behind two decades before. 

There were dozens of family members in Lebanon who I had never met: aunts, uncles, cousins, my maternal grandmother. There was also the grandfather who I hadn’t seen since I was a baby, whose scent I vaguely remembered as a mixture of cigarette smoke and old wool. I didn’t speak Arabic or French. I could not converse with any of them. The most I could do was occupy the same physical space as these familial strangers, break bread, and smile. 

My father always longed for his home country, and, wanting his love, I longed for it, too. It was not hard to love the Lebanon that lived inside of our rented apartment in New York throughout the 1980s: the sound of an oud, for instance, my father with his handsome friends gathered around it, laughing and pouring araq. Or the table that overflowed with mezze—soujouk, labneh, olives, whole sprigs of mint, spinach pies with sumac, oozing persimmons balancing on ice, cut from their undersides and spilling open like stars. The music of Fairuz reverberated against our walls, singing the nation’s mythology. 

But there was another Lebanon, too. It came to us through the nightly news in the form of assassination attempts, kidnappings, bombings, refugee camps, evacuation alerts, and airplane hijackings. My father would sit there, glued to the screen, waiting for newscasters to utter the name of his town or an adjacent one. He would jump to his sandaled feet, shouting “Souk El Gharb!” “B’Mekene!” 

My mother, sister, and I competed with the war for my father’s attention.

My mother, sister, and I competed with the war for my father’s attention. He was mentally there. We were physically here. He sent back money to his parents and siblings—the money for the house my parents would have bought in the U.S. had it not been for the war. 

I learned as an adult that my parents had originally thought they would raise us in Lebanon, for at least a part of our childhoods. They would enroll my sister and I at the French school in Beirut, and we would become trilingual, citizens of the world. 

When my father came to America in 1971, in pursuit of a “better life,” he left behind his mother and father, his brothers and sisters, many cousins, and countless childhood friends. No one there wanted him to leave. The plan was always that one day he would return. 

Less than two months after I was born, the 1982 Lebanon War began with the Israeli incursion into Lebanon. For the sake of “peace,” Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) planned to secure a 25-mile buffer zone from their border into Lebanon. Instead, they bombed 50 miles north into Beirut, laying siege to the city and killing thousands of civilians. They weren’t the only aggressor. Lebanese Phalangists (Christian militiamen) were instrumental in aiding the IDF in the massacre of 3,500 Palestinians and Lebanese Shia Muslims at the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. 

Lebanon was a hard place to love. 

On the day that I graduated from college, my father took a taxi straight from the graduation ceremony to the airport and boarded a flight to the Gulf. He moved to Dubai where, for the first time in his life, he was able to advance in his career. He told me once that in Dubai, his accent was an asset, not a liability. He wanted to be closer to his parents, whose health had begun to decline. Eventually, he moved back to the village where he was born, overlooking Beirut and the Mediterranean Sea. By that point, he had been away from Lebanon for over thirty years. 

For the past ten months, I have begged my father to leave while he still can.

It is August 7, 2024, and for the past ten months, I have begged my father to leave while he still can. The U.S. State Department sends him daily alerts, because he is registered as an American citizen at the U.S. Embassy in Beirut. After October 7, those messages escalated in intensity. He sent me a few, like breadcrumbs:

The State Department warns all American citizens living in Lebanon to evacuate while commercial flights are still available. 

The State Department is urging all American citizens living in Lebanon to leave immediately. 

The State Department would like to inform American citizens living in Lebanon that they will not be evacuated in the case of a wider regional war. 

Yesterday, Israeli war planes broke the sound barrier over Beirut three times. My father writes that 100,000 people have fled Beirut to his village of Souk El Gharb thinking that they will be safer there when war eventually comes. The Beirut–Rafic Hariri International Airport—the only operational airport in the country—is engulfed in chaos as thousands of people try to flee. All major European and American airlines have suspended their flights in and out of the country. The last Arab airlines with scheduled flights out of Lebanon will depart today.  

War will come and Lebanon, a failed nation that has been in a perpetual state of collapse for as long as anyone can remember, will sink further into the abyss. 

Still, my father refuses to leave.

Perhaps we spend our entire lives trying to reclaim the pieces of ourselves that we lost by loving something that could never love us back

I have puzzled for many months over why this might be the case. I still don’t have a good answer. There are logistical and familial concerns, of course, but I think the real reason has more to do with the messy and impossible human heart. 

How many times can a person leave behind what they love before they begin to feel that they, too, are being left behind with it? Perhaps we spend our entire lives trying to reclaim the pieces of ourselves that we lost by loving something that could never love us back—that hurt us with every gesture of love that we gave. 

I think my father stays in order to know that he exists. 

A few days later, I receive a text message from a friend: 

“I was wondering if your dad is still in Libano? I read in the news that the streets in Beirut are empty. Nobody is going out.” 

I wait a few moments before responding, “He is there. He is not leaving.” I add a heartbreak emoji, for her sake. I am past heartbreak. I feel nothing. 

It is now November 2024, and the war we’ve been waiting for has come. On September 17, Israel exploded pagers in the hands of Hezbollah fighters, blinding and maiming thousands, and killing 42 people, two of whom were children. Five days later, Israeli air strikes killed over 500 people in Lebanon, making it the deadliest day on record since the civil war. On October 1, Israel invaded Lebanon by land, in the first ground invasion since 2006, the fifth since the creation of Israel. 

The U.S. embassy continues to issue alerts to its citizens, urging them to take any remaining commercial flights out of the country that they can, but those flights are scarce, if they exist at all. To date, only one American aircraft has been sent to evacuate U.S. citizens. My father was not on that flight. 

Looking at a picture of Raouché, I stare at the Pigeon Rocks, into them, past them, and try to memorize their shape. In between these two massive rock formations that reach from the sea to the sky, there is a narrow passage. Just beyond that, the larger rock has a tunnel at its base. It is shaped like an eye with its gaze cast upon the sea. I look there, through the tunnel, and into the blue of the water, indistinguishable from the color of the sky. I see this portal and imagine a great escape across those waters, perhaps to Cyprus. 

“Baba, you are Phoenician,” I want to whisper to him, “remember? Knock down a cedar, go to the sea, and sail!”

I don’t say any of this out loud. Instead, I try to gloss over the present and look toward the future, to a time when we will be able to travel there again. When flights to Beirut have resumed and the streets of the city teem with life. When it will have persisted and, in the sheer fact of that, managed to exist. Maybe we will sit at the cafe cloaked in glass that overlooks Raouché and share a nargile. Maybe I will bring my son to those shores and we will put our bodies into the sea and together feel its warmth. Maybe I will be brave enough to swim away from the shore. 

Heather McCalden on Using Fragments to Write About Loss, Viruses, and the Internet

Posted on by Jo Lou

Heather McCalden’s genre-defying fragmentary memoir, The Observable Universe, begins with “this book is an album of grief. Every fragment is like a track on a record, a picture in a yearbook; they build on top of one another until, at the end, they form an experience.” And what an experience it is.  

When McCalden was a child, she lost both of her parents to the AIDS virus, her father when she was seven and her mother when she was ten. Years later, after becoming a writer and an artist, she noticed that “the internet was doing some really particular things and virality was being discussed constantly.” This led her down a rabbit hole that became The Observable Universe. In her book, McCalden employs a mix of poetic and plain prose to weave together her personal narrative with science and technology to examine our interconnectedness; how “our evolution has thus been driven in part by negotiating with viruses,” both biological and virtual, and how these viruses live in us and change us, as we change them. And yet for McCalden there is one virus that has often kept her separate from the rest of the world: her grief. 

As someone who also lost their parents at a young age and has written a book about it and just completed a second memoir, written in fragments, I felt compelled to reach out to McCalden to see if she was interested in talking to a fellow orphan and writer about her experience of writing her book. We spoke on Zoom about writing the self, fragmentary writing, what it’s like to be orphaned at a young age, and how it impacts a life and the creation of art and literature.

Erin Vincent: I must start off by asking, was it weird to be working on a book about viruses—the virus that killed your parents, the concept of “going viral” online, the internet and how we connect—at a time when a massive virus hit the world and forced us into our homes and communicating online?  

Heather McCalden: Oh, yeah, it was a giant headfuck. I’d spent these years researching and writing about viruses and HIV and then life literally came to a standstill because of a virus. So, that felt like… What’s going on here? Is life imitating art? The genesis of the book was completed before Covid but then, all of a sudden, I was existing in this alternative reality.

EV: At one point in The Observable Universe you write, “I felt like a ghost and quite often when I entered a room I felt people pull away from me as if suddenly encountering a cold front.” Did your parents dying when you were a child often make you feel like an outsider? 

HM: 100%. When you’re a child reality hasn’t solidified around you so your baseline for what normal is, well, you’re in the process of creating it. So in a sense what happened wasn’t, at the time, crazy disruptive, it was more surreal than anything else. I mean, what it did over time was hardwire into me that everything you love will die. However, that is true of life but, you know, it’s a truth of life that you shouldn’t have to absorb when you’re seven. I now have a really low capacity for things that are frivolous or bullshit, or things that are not transparent because I feel this constant urgency that life can just go out like a candle at any time for any of us, and when you have that knowledge at such a young age you can’t just fit into anywhere. I remember, in middle school my grandmother used to drive to my school so I could have lunch with her, so I wouldn’t have lunch by myself. There’s a section in my book called Culture = Life Content where I try to explain the sense of being an outsider. You know, there’s parental loss but there’s also this loss of being able to look out into the world and say, “Oh, I fit into this groove or this track.” Because I don’t. I don’t have the  same amount of skin as other people, I guess. When you don’t know how the world works yet and then something happens, you just get wired differently.  

EV: This leads me to something I’ve been thinking about a lot these past few years. After my first book was published, my writing faltered. I tried for years to write  another book but everything felt dead on the page. Then I started reading a lot of books  written in fragments and decided to try it for myself. Suddenly, everything clicked and I  finally was able to write my second book. And now I wonder… does fragmentary  writing suit me because I was fragmented in some way when my parents died? Does any  of that resonate with you?  

HM: Yes. People think I made this purposeful aesthetic choice, but I can’t write any other way. I think that prevented me from exploring writing sooner in my life than I did, because I just could never find the story with a beginning, middle, and an end structure, but I could do  all the components of writing, I just couldn’t do that one aspect. I got really frustrated and  then I had to make a life decision; I can be angry and frustrated that my mind doesn’t work in  a certain way or I can choose to see how my mind works, and maybe make something with what is available to me. I just gave myself permission to do that… It’s in therapeutic literature; we know that trauma alters your memory, it alters how you’re able to access  memory, it alters how you’re able to communicate, if you’re able to communicate. So, there is something about fragmenting narrative that I think is very truthful to that experience. What I think is also very interesting, though, which I discovered through the writing of this book, is that culture is now in the same position because culture is entirely fragmented and we absorb culture through the Internet or through apps. So, you’re not in linear time, you’re not receiving information in a logical fashion. People are sort of operating in this fragmented headspace which basically mirrors a trauma headspace. I mean, at this point I think we are kind of traumatized just because world events have gotten so bad. There’s a parallel there. I thought it was important to acknowledge that.  

EV: You write about halfway in the book that initially you thought you were writing a book about viruses, but then you write, “When I lifted my head from the  page, I saw something else – My book is about grief.” When did this occur to you and how did that feel?  

HM: Late in the process. Originally, I wanted to do an art installation about going viral and virality. So I just started researching that stuff but no visual imagery was occurring. I thought, how am I going to create art from this if I’m not getting any visual inspiration. I thought, the  more information I have, the better chance that a creative spark will ignite. I was like, okay,  viruses, biological viruses. But then I started to ask, maybe the bigger question is, what is metaphor? I went down the rabbit hole of just interrogating every thought. And then I had 300 fragments, pages of notes, and it was very clear it was never going to be an art installation and at the same time a very small part of my brain said you’re interested in going  viral because your parents died of a virus… maybe that’s actually what you should be talking about.  

EV: On The Writer’s Bone podcast with Daniel Ford you said, “I’m always trying to  create… something of beauty, something of harmony… I can’t flirt with darkness, I’m  not interested in it. I’m not going to mine my trauma for anyone.” You say that your goal is to try turn the things that have happen to you into art. I feel the same, but less artfully I call it my attempt to turn shit into gold. 

Over time [it] was hardwire into me that everything you love will die. That is true of life, but it’s a truth that you shouldn’t have to absorb when you’re seven.

HM: Yes. It’s a process of transmutation. It’s the only way that I’ve found that is kind of like healing. I’m a pretty kinetic person, I don’t like to feel stuck, either physically or in my  emotions or in my thought pattern. So, if there’s something that isn’t working, or that I feel is hurting me, the only way forward is to flip it or transmute it. Basically, it’s sort of the occult  practice of alchemy… take a substance, and through ritual, distill it to the most harmonious version of itself. And these darker feelings, well… Without darkness you can’t define happiness, right?  

EV: Yes! So, was this your first time writing about your parents and your grief? Was it  more difficult than you anticipated? This question particularly struck me when I read the section in your book titled Five Images of My Parents Dying of AIDS. I became quite sick when I wrote Grief Girl as I’d lied to myself about the impact my parents’ deaths  had had on my life. I used to say, “So my parents died, what’s the big deal?” When I  was in my twenties and thirties I would even say to my husband, “Isn’t it amazing I  came away unscathed.” Was writing this book the first time you deeply examined your  grief? If so, what effect did it have on you? Did your reaction surprise you? 

HM: Well, I knew that I wasn’t dealt a great hand of cards. It always felt like I was peering over a cliff’s edge, into the darkness of a ravine, but there was no place in my life where I could explore that, so I put it off limits. I don’t know how useful it is to fully delve. When I was writing the book I realized, oh actually, I can’t fully delve, and the book explains that. That’s why the book shifts to these very like clinical passages. By sleight of hand, I’m showing you that I can’t go there; arrows point to what cannot be said.  

EV: What has the response been? Are you finding that people want more orphan angst or some such thing?  

HM: I think some people want more trauma mining and they’re confused as to why the book doesn’t “come together” at the end. 

EV: Ha! The way life does! 

HM: Yeah, that’s my response. Like have you existed in life? When has anything fully resolved? I just have to respect that readers that have had certain types of experiences will automatically understand what I’m doing and why the book is the way it is, and people who don’t get that will either still appreciate some aspects of it, or they’ll just think it’s garbage. You know, it is what it is. I mean… how can you describe the unspeakable if you can’t speak it?  

EV: In the book you call your parents David and Vivian, not mom and dad. Was this a  way to have some distance or did you always call them by the first names? 

HM: It just felt weird to keep saying “my mother” or “my father.” I think that can become maybe too generic for a reader or it’s an opportunity for a reader to put in their idea of what a mother is or what a father is. It wasn’t consciously literary or consciously emotional either. It’s what naturally happened.  

EV: Do you think you’re done with writing about your parents. I thought I was done  but then I found I needed to look at it again from a different angle in a different form.  

HM: It’s hard to say because writing about them is really writing about absence, So it’s likely I’ll write about absence in some form or another, forever. I’m sure you know that what is really difficult about parental loss is that each year of your life it becomes clearer and clearer the extent of what you lost, and not just in terms of those relationships, but in terms of a support system, in terms of just learning how to be a person at certain ages. So, unfortunately,  it’s the gift that keeps on giving. People think someone dies, and you are kind of fucked up  for like two or three years, but that’s really not what it is. You’re just different, like you die with them. And then each year of your life you change and your relationship to that changes, so I can see myself writing more into this. It brings to mind when Lou Reed passed away and  they found an unopened tape of music that he mailed to himself when he was young. No one  had ever heard it, these songs that he made as a young man. There’s a version of “Heroin” on it, him singing it as a folk song, kind of in the style of Bob Dylan. So, this is a piece that was composed, let’s say, at like age 18. And he sang that song with different artists over a career  of 60 years. That’s remarkable, what started as something that you sang in your bedroom becomes a highly influential piece of music. That story is just wild to me. I’m here for that, or  whatever that could be in my future. 

EV: There’s part of me that thinks, oh no, am I going to keep writing about my parents, and loss and grief and death forever?! And then there is a part of me that thinks how  interesting it would be if someone did that. If they kept writing about the same thing in  a different way, so every time was a different experiment.  

HM: I’m only going to read something if I think it’s going to change how I view myself, the environment, reality, or geopolitical  circumstances. And I just think that many novels are about women that hate their lives, and  that’s not exciting to me or beneficial to anyone really. Except, you know, I am aware that most people aren’t reading to fill gaps in themselves. And I think, because we’re orphans it’s very natural that the art you consume is sort of like plugging these heart holes or you learn very quickly to divine knowledge from books or movies, to replace knowledge that you don’t get around a dinner table.

EV: Is there anything you hope readers will get from the book?  

Without darkness you can’t define happiness, right?

HM: Someone said to me, “Oh, I really liked your book because it made me feel less alone.” That was wonderful. I thought… my work is done, I can retire now. (laughs) And then… it’s  so hard to explain this, but I guess I would just hope that someone would pick up my book  and feel a spark in terms of… I don’t know. I just feel like so many people are having such a hard time right now, because they feel like their life is a mess, and the truth is, it’s not a mess,  life is messy and there’s value in that and if you can figure out what about it is exciting or curious or beautiful, there is value, and you can make something happen from that. There’s a lot of social conditioning that says if you don’t come from a conventional household, and you don’t think conventionally, there isn’t a place for you, and I just wanted to show through my  writing that yeah, I was fucking depressed for a really long time and I didn’t know how to communicate that to anyone, and the only thing I knew was that art would always be there for me in some shape or form. My goal in the writing was to show that even if you have horrible or weird circumstances, you can do something with that, you can take the mundane and make it remarkable, and then you can sleep at night and have nice dreams. 

EV: That really resonates with me. We’re not these destroyed people. We can create something beautiful. I’ve sometimes asked myself, is what happened to me a blessing or  a curse? It’s neither, it’s both, it’s so many things. I don’t think I’d change anything. It’s made me who I am; made me the creative person that I am. Would I have this way of seeing the world without it?  

HM: I feel the same way. I think I get a lot more out of the day than most people. That wouldn’t be the case if my life had turned out differently. I wouldn’t be at all like this. It’s an interesting game to play… blessing or curse. Yes, it’s both, it’s neither. I did think the other day, I was in London on the underground, and I was thinking all the stories are about orphans anyway. It’s never a kid from a happy household, it’s always the kid running away from something that is unsafe or total annihilation. I think that’s cool, it’s interesting that that exists in literature to kind of show us that it’s the outsider or the person that’s gone through something kind of heinous that is the hero. I’m definitely not saying I’m a hero by any means!

One Day the Rice Cooker Won’t Live on the Floor

Posted on by Preety Sidhu

Things I Say to My Partner

We will live, one day,
in a place with hinged doors.
The chairs will not whine
and the art will not be greeting
cards. Our basil will all be alive.

On cold days, because we will still
have cold days, we will gather
three dogs around the fire and keep
any sleep we find. One day,

we will not keep the rice cooker
on the floor. Our bedroom
will be its own room

with the right feng shui:
a flat ceiling, a full wall,

no doors at our feet.

August Peaches

We must eat the peaches today
for they are about to burst.

We left them like still
art until they softened
our longing
and stored each sunset.
But now, it is late
summer and no one
else is coming to visit.

In our palms, they crump
into twice-sliced
stars, pressed in
on the edges, sluicing
blushed juice. One brush
with water might bruise
its furred flesh,
we might dive
to kiss the counter, lick
the lines on our fingers,
and suck and suck
every ounce oozed
out. The first bite
will set off
its nectared geyser—
bright and quick,
tartsweet meteor,
chasing the inch
of our chins
our tongues cannot reach.

7 Heartwarming Cozy Fantasies by Asian Authors

Posted on by Jo Lou

Cozy fantasy is a fairly new term, and its definition is still being hammered out by the reading public. In my opinion, we should embrace the subjectivity of the term. “Cozy” is about how a book makes you feel. Since we all have different perspectives and life experiences, we may feel different things in response to the same book. I personally think that a cozy fantasy ought to be warm and comforting, but can still grapple with heavy themes.

I wrote my debut novel, The Teller of Small Fortunes, during perhaps the most difficult year of my life. We were all shut away in our homes and apartments, isolating ourselves against seemingly endless waves of COVID, when my family received the news that my father’s late-stage cancer had returned.

The doctors didn’t want to give an estimate, but when pressed, told us that they thought it unlikely that he’d survive another three months. What do you do in the face of news like that? What can you do?

Well, I quit my job, and began spending a great deal of time in the hospital. I found myself in ER waiting rooms, at his ICU bedside, waiting in the lobby for my mother to swap places with me. During all of this waiting, I turned to books for comfort, as I always have–but with everything around me feeling dark and turbulent, all I wanted was an escape. It was then that I discovered the nascent category of ‘cozy fantasy’–books with low stakes, warm vibes, and a great deal of heart. 

I read all the books like these that I could find, and when I ran out, it occurred to me that I might try to write my own. And so I did, and I wrote a main character of the sort I’d always wanted to see more of: an immigrant who looks like me, and who has to grapple with the sense of not-belonging that is so familiar to those of the diaspora. The Teller of Small Fortunes is the story of a fortune-teller on the run from her destiny who gets roped into a mercenary’s search for his lost daughter, and must decide whether to risk everything to help him. It’s also a story about found family, baking, and a slightly magical cat.

My father has since defied his prognosis and is now in stable remission, and COVID no longer looms quite as large over our everyday lives. It feels like the worst of both storms has passed. But even without the need for escapism, I still turn to cozy fantasy as a source of joy. I’ve been thrilled to see cozy fantasy blossom and become more diverse as more and more readers discover it.

I hope that these books bring some much-needed magic and joy to you when you need it most, as they did for me.

The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches by Sangu Mandanna

The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches is arguably one of the canonical works of the modern cozy fantasy genre. Featuring magic and witches aplenty—including plucky heroine Mika Moon, who posts witchy videos on social media because surely nobody would think she’s actually a witch—The Very Secret Society is a warm, delightful novel about finding a family in unexpected places. 

You see, in Mika’s Britain, witches meet rarely and only in secret (hence the title). The strict rules are ostensibly for their protection; if too many witches gather in one place, their accumulated magic risks exposing them all. But then Mika gets a message begging her to come to Nowhere House to teach three young witches how to control magic. It breaks all the rules, but she finds herself growing far too close to the inhabitants of the House, and must decide whether the danger is worth finally having somewhere to belong. A funny, delightful, and deeply kind book that’s impossible to read without smiling.

The Empress of Salt and Fortune by Nghi Vo

The first of Vo’s Singing Hills novellas, The Empress of Salt and Fortunes is a lyrical and atmospheric story-within-a-story. Chih is a cleric-historian traveling the land (along with their colorful bird companion) to collect stories for their sect. In their journey, they encounter an elderly woman named Rabbit, the last living servant of the previous Empress. Piece by piece, Rabbit tells Chih the story of the Empress and her exile, eventually revealing her own role in the Empress’ life. A subtle, moving novella that feels like being wrapped gently in a dream.

Sorcerer to the Crown by Zen Cho

Sorcerer to the Crown was published in 2015, well before the term “cozy fantasy” came into vogue, but offers a witty, lighthearted tone and plenty of fairy magic in a Regency England that suggests a cozy analogue to Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. In telling the story of a former-slave-turned-Sorcerer-Royal and his mixed-race magical mentee, the book handles serious topics aplenty–institutional racism, sexism, and the looming threat of war among them–but does so with deft charm and humor.

The Nameless Restaurant by Tao Wong

The Nameless Restaurant is a companion novella to Tao Wong’s LitRPG urban fantasy Hidden Wishes series, but can be read as a standalone. It’s about a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Toronto that’s magically hidden, featuring a reclusive chef and his patrons–some of whom are ordinary people, and others of which are heroes and powerful beings taking a break from their adventures to have a damn good meal. The novella lingers lovingly over details of the cooking process, featuring many luscious Malaysian dishes–if readers aren’t hungry before they start reading it, they certainly will be by the end. Light on plot, heavy on ambience and flavor.

The Full Moon Coffee Shop by Mai Mochizuki, translated by Jesse Kirkwood

This lovely little novel was a Japanese bestseller before being translated for English publication, and I fully understand why. The book follows a handful of modern-day protagonists whose lives intersect in more than one unexpected way. As each encounters a magical, pop-up coffee shop in the alleys of Kyoto run by talking cats who are more than they seem, they also find the wisdom and guidance they need to set their lives back on course. Dipping one paw out of fantasy and solidly into the realm of magical realism, The Full Moon Coffee Shop is a series of interconnected vignettes full of kindness, empathy, astrology–and, naturally, cats.

The Dallergut Dream Department Store by Miye Lee, translated by Sandy Joosun Lee

This novel follows Penny, a new employee at a department store that sells only one thing: dreams. People find their way to this store while asleep, in search of whichever dream they need most at that particular time, but have no memory of their visit once they wake. Lee’s worldbuilding is at once whimsical and full of thoughtful details, ranging from the method of payment for dreams (one half of the emotions elicited) to the roving talking cats that offer rented pajamas to nude dreamers. But the true heart of this book lies in the kindness with which Penny and her fellow dreamsellers treat their customers. From their well-stocked shelves come dream reunions with loved ones long gone, traumatic memories relived so that the dreamer can overcome them, creative inspiration for struggling artists–even an aging dog’s simple dream of its family returning home to play fetch. Through the eyes of the Dallergut employees, we come to think of dreams not as accidents of neurochemistry, but as works of art designed to heal and comfort.

The Rainfall Market by You Yeong-Gwang, translated by Slin Jung

The Rainfall Market is a novel-in-translation about a mystical market that appears only during the rainy season, its entrance hidden in an abandoned house, where humans can trade their misfortunes for happiness. Kim Serin is a young, impoverished girl with plenty of misfortune to barter, and she enters the market determined to buy herself a new life–but in sampling the lives on offer, finds that perfect happiness is more elusive than it seems. The Spirited Away vibes are strong in this one, as are the vibrant personalities of the market’s resident Dokkaebi (spirits/goblins) and the magically size-changing cat companion. A gentle, affirming story about finding happiness in those who love you.

8 Urgent Poetry Collections About Puerto Rican Resistance

Posted on by Intern Electric Lit

For Puerto Rican protest poets, one of the most important ways to appreciate and show love for Puerto Rico has been to write poems that underscore pride in their Puerto Rican cultural identity and heritage and denounce Puerto Rico’s status as a U.S. colony. As they explore Puerto Rican empowerment and expose how Puerto Rico has suffered multiple crises because of its relationship with the U.S., Puerto Rican poets utilize protest poetry as a means of resistance. By building on an agency of language, poetic forms, Puerto Rican history, Puerto Rican protest poets reconfigure the Puerto Rico-U.S. relationship on their own terms. For them, “poetry,” as Lucille Clifton wrote, “is a matter of life, not just a matter of language.” 

In my poetry debut collection, In Inheritance of Drowning, I described how I witnessed Puerto Rico’s colonial status during the aftermath of Hurricane María in 2017. Puerto Rico had the longest blackout in U.S. history—326 days, and many Puerto Ricans had a lengthy wait to receive basic supplies of water and food. These political poems are a part of a much larger conversation that the collection layers, especially as the poems call for a social transformation. I see my position as a writer of protest poetry to also testify to how Puerto Rico has been thrust into economic and linguistic precarity because of oppressive U.S. laws. Thus, I wrote what was political, personal, and absolutely necessary—a position that more and more protest poets likely find themselves in when there are so many communities being marginalized. 

Positing my work into the characteristics of protest poetry meant that my poems were more than just words on a page. They were challenges to frameworks that stifled social justice. And they were doing the work of being advocates of the Spanish language and confronting the assumptions that accessible literature means English only. The poetry collections mentioned here are doing important work. Embodying rich and vivid language, these books offer nuanced representations that readers will relate to, especially during this time where poets are urgently demanding change.

Before Island is Volcano by Roque Raquel Salas Rivera

Roque Raquel Salas Rivera has several poetry collections that feature a fearless writer. In this sixth collection, Salas Rivera not only calls for an independent Puerto Rico that is away from being under the thumb of the United States, but also a Puerto Rico that marvels in its freedom. This is a Puerto Rico that “won’t be sorry” without the United States, as the poet ironically asks, “won’t you get restless / with all that freedom?” I found myself full of delight with the imagery and line breaks: “we are braver than stalking anguish; / we are more beautiful than universal monarchies.” The candor and lyrical dexterity also made me read with rapt attention. By the end of the book, I was eager for more of these remarkable poems that address the complicated colonial history of Puerto Rico. The collection is available for readers in English and Spanish versions—both of which were written by Salas Rivera.

Transversal by Urayoán Noel

Urayóan Noel is a poet that has approached the tense and unbalanced United States-Puerto Rico relationship throughout his poetry collections. This seventh collection is a beautiful gem, especially as it showcases how poetics and politics go hand-in-hand. When he insists upon poems that bob between Spanish and English, Noel powerfully pushes back against the colonizer’s language and sovereignty and weak “attempts” to “help” Puerto Ricans after Hurricane María: “Throw stuff at the empire’s walls and see what sticks / Se acabaron los memes de conquista, / or tear down the walls you were standing on? The politics reveal the linguistic imaginary as a part of the Puerto Rican intersectional identity and landscape. Here, as Noel reveals, Puerto Ricans are free to use Spanish and English as they please. It is an accessible and intimate experience that readers will turn to time and time again. 

To Love an Island by Ana Portnoy Brimmer

Ana Portnoy Brimmer’s memorable debut, To Love an Island, left me with impressive sensory moments. This is the kind of collection that lingers in the mind, and makes you wonder why you had not read it sooner. As it showcases the power of Puerto Rican resistance after Puerto Rico endured Hurricane María and a series of earthquakes, the collection points the finger at the U.S. for crushing Puerto Rico with imperialist debt and capitalism and refusing to provide economic assistance: “Cancel the debt, that’s not our debt, won’t pay the debt, illegal debt, /colonial debt, fuck the debt, no longer afraid of your threat—prophet. / Won’t cancel the debt, this is your debt, no receipts, pay the debt, this legal / debt, forever mine debtors, forever your debt, fear my threat—profit.”  Portnoy Brimmer also captivatingly centers a decolonial future—one where Puerto Rico is still vulnerable, but free from the United States and overcomes historical trauma and grief: “Puerto Rico is ours, even if it trembles again and collapses on us entirely.” 

Adjacent Islands by Nicole Cecilia Delgado; Translated by Urayoán Noel

The adjacent islands of Puerto Rico, Mona and Vieques, are the focus in Nicole Cecilia Delgado’s third collection. Just like the merging of islands, the collection merges Delgado’s two previously published collections to extend this unforgettable poetic travelogue. The poems are splendid in their descriptions of nature, water, and animals against a backdrop of the painful history of U.S. militarism which has affected Puerto Rico: “Pineapples and papayas grow / To all your fences we say No / U.S. Navy’s got to go” and “No Trespassing. Authorized personnel only. Danger. Explosives.” As she poignantly recounts the U.S. military’s harmful occupation on these islands, Delgado courageously wrestles with Mona and Vieques reclaiming their natural beauty away from colonization. There is a strength and beauty in these poems that I feel privileged to have accessed.

Excelsior: New and Collected Poems by Bonafide Rojas

This twenty-year stunning collection by Bonafide Rojas is brimming with invention, honesty, and daring inspection. Excelsior: New and Collected Poems shines in its narratives and bridges between Puerto Ricans and other BIPOC communities. In “One Man’s Fight for Love,” “the cancer babies of Vieques” are sick and dying because of the U.S.’s military bombing, and their suffering is linked to the Black and Brown males that have died from police brutality: “the last breath of Trayvon, Floyd & Anthony Baez.” Rojas builds upon this tension to ultimately say what we have known all along: “Poetry is revolutionary / just like love.” The love here is Puerto Rican pride, which moves across Puerto Rico to New York and beyond, and circles again.

Deuda Natal by Mara Pastor; Translated by María José Giménez and Anna Rosenwong

Winning the Ambroggio Prize of the Academy of American Poets, Deuda Natal by Mara Pastor, hypnotizes readers with each poem. This is a collection that not only elegantly mirrors how Puerto Rico has suffered disaster and environmental capitalism, but also compassionately recognizes everyday Puerto Rican life: “the man that sells crabs” and “a beach where the sun goes down.” The resistance voice heats up in poems like “After the storm” and “Domestic Tourism” that contain insight to Puerto Rico’s economic exploitation by the United States. By opening readers to this world, I found the collection to be the perfect match between politics and language with deft skill and precision.

Papi Pichón by Dimitri Reyes

Dimitri Reyes maneuvers Puerto Rican resistance in their daily lives, historical acts, and language in his profound debut Papi Pichón. The palpable poems shape Puerto Ricans and their participation in the 1974 Puerto Rican riots in Newark, and NJ and the circumstances of Hurricane María. What I was enthusiastically drawn to was the essential core of Papi Pichón–the reclamation of what it means to be Puerto Rican, including the traditional guayabera shirt in “Papi Pichón Shops for Guayaberas in a Department Store.” Here, Reyes tangibly transforms the speaker to Puerto Rico: “How I wish clothing rack guayaberas / would turn any Suncup into a piña colada, / shake my Tropicana carton into a mojito.” The poems made a lasting impression, especially as they gracefully propel readers to affirm Puerto Rican culture and identity.

Tertulia by Vincent Toro

“In 1950, American jet fighters struck the towns of Jayuya / and Utuado. It was one of two occasions in which the U.S. / bombed its own citizens,” Vincent Toro writes in “On Bombing” from his second collection Tertulia. He deliberately strikes a fine balance between history and protest to give readers keen insight about the fraught relationship between Puerto Rico and the U.S.: “Some Puerto Ricans had made it / clear that they were not thrilled about being occupied by / organizing a rebellion to expel the invaders.” The collection sings and pulses, so that readers are left with a fluidity guiding them through the pages. Along the way, the “Areyto” poems link to the Taíno Indians of Puerto Rico as powerful moments where Puerto Ricans can remember their past as a way to go forward; “Pa’lante!”

Jenna Tang on Translating a Seminal Novel That Defined Taiwan’s #MeToo Movement

Posted on by Jo Lou

Fang Si Chi’s First Love Paradise is a seminal novel that helped kick off the #MeToo movement in Taiwan and has sold millions of copies worldwide. But only two months after the novel’s publication, the author Li Yi-Han passed away due to suicide. Shortly after, her suspected abuser was also acquitted of charges. Despite the novel’s critical acclaim and huge commercial success, this did not protect Yi-Han from harassment, nor bring accountability towards her abuser. 

That same environment which enables abusers and isolates victims serves as the backdrop for Fang Si Chi’s First Love Paradise. Thirteen-year old Fang Si-Chi grows up in a privileged environment, where she and her best friend are gifted students and voracious readers of classics. When a neighbor in their apartment complex offers to tutor the two girls for free, he sexually assaults and grooms the young Si-Chi, whose only option is to convince herself that the hell she suddenly finds herself in is in fact her “first love paradise.” By examining how Si-Chi’s community repeatedly fails her, the novel sheds light into the systems of harm that allow groomers and perpetrators of domestic violence to act without consequence. 

I spoke to Jenna Tang about Taiwan’s reputation as a progressive country, the significance of bringing this novel to an English-speaking audience for the first time, her translation choices, and how we choose who gets to interpret which stories.  

Hairol Ma: What drew you to this book? 

Jenna Tang: I returned to this quote constantly during my translation process: “Every single thing in this world belonged to a hometown that Si-Chi would never know again.” There is a quietness in the author’s language and a sense of place she built about Taiwan that brought me closer to myself while I was translating this novel, especially to a part of me that I thought had been lost forever. Taiwan as a “home” has done more harm to me than care. While I translated the book, I constantly thought about what “homecoming” would mean to me if I were to give this book a voice in English.

HM: Your sentiment about Taiwan doing more harm than care as “home” is certainly echoed in this book. Tell me about how Taiwan reacted when this book was published. Years later, what has been this book’s impact in Taiwan? 

Nobody is perfect, so how is it possible for anyone to become a ‘perfect survivor’?

JT: It’s all extremely ironic. Taiwanese media are notorious for their unethical behavior and lack of sensitivity. Back then, many reporters were trying to uncover the author’s personal life to judge how “autobiographical” this novel was—which completely defeats the point of reading fiction. Why do writers have to explain or justify how much of themselves is placed in their stories for audiences who interrogate them in such brutal ways?

From 2017 to 2024, a lot has happened and changed in Taiwan, and what’s even more ironic is that Taiwanese society started touting Fang Si-Chi during 2023’s wave of #MeToo across multiple industries. Of course I trust that there are readers who do cherish and care about this book, but at the same time, I wonder if some people brought out this book to show that now they “care” about the topics the author had raised so many years ago.

HM: Lin Yi-Han tragically passed away only two months after this book was published, and this is the first time this is being brought to an English audience. What has translating this book meant to you personally? 

JT: It has been a long journey bringing this book to English readers. Translating Lin Yi-Han’s language comes from my desire for Mandarin readers to focus more on the literary merits of this book instead of what the local media wanted us to see. Another part of it comes from my wish to emotionally reconnect myself with childhood friends who have disappeared a long time ago. This book has been by my side in very meaningful ways since I first moved to the U.S. It gave me just the right amount of courage and rage to move forward. By bringing Fang Si-Chi into English, I hope with my love for languages, the novel and the author will be able to claim their space in this world.

HM: Are there any easter eggs that we can watch out for in this translation? 

JT: Of course. Here are a few considerations I made: 

I have intentionally steered away from the standard Mandarin pinyin systems (Wade-Giles or Hanyu) for characters’ names. Instead, I’ve focused on how the names are physically pronounced. I tried to mimic the sounds as much as possible, so it’s hard for English-speakers to pronounce the names in ways that might sound too different from the original.

I specifically distinguished “Yi-Wei” and “Iwen. Both of their first Mandarin characters could both be spelled as “Yi”—but Yi-Wei is a perpetrator of domestic and sexual violence, while Iwen, his wife, is someone who is full of care and love—I put “I” for her, which can still sound like “Yi”, hoping to give more of her back to herself. 

For Teacher Lee, I spelled it specifically as “Lee” and not “Li” (you may notice I spelled the poet’s name as Li Bai)if ever there’s a word that starts with “r” right after “Lee”, then “leer” will appear all over the story, showing how rampant his harm is hidden in this “paradise” that he created.

In Mandarin, 樂園 can be interpreted as “amusement park” or “wonderland”, although it all depends on the context. Since the chapter names are connected to Milton’s Paradise Lost, the word “Paradise” brings out that sense of irony—how do we define paradise, physically and emotionally? 

HM: The multi-dimensional interpretations of paradise and innocence are constantly interrogated throughout this novel. We watch as Si-Chi is repeatedly failed by the women close to her, even as she reaches out for help. “Innocence” is a virtue defined by men and perpetrated by women — the acquittal of both Harvey Weinstein and Johnny Depp, the vitriol directed at Amber Heard only a couple years ago comes to mind. What are your thoughts on how women in particular demand the “perfect survivor” and how do you see this perpetuated in both Taiwan and the West?   

Why can’t non-native English speakers translate into English? What about the knowledge a translator could have between these cultures?

JT: Survivors are imposed with particular labels and images: they must be given sympathy and they need a certain type of help. These beliefs come from a place of assumptions, rather than actually providing the understanding and support that’s truly needed. “Innocence” becomes an irrevocable state of being, something that can be broken, and if it’s damaged, it has been ruined, and there’s no way back. Nobody is perfect, so how is it possible for anyone to become a “perfect survivor”?

HM: In this regard, literature and storytelling is uniquely equipped to not have to demand credibility. What sort of legacy and connection do you hope readers will form with this book? 

JT: The world we live in is full of stereotypes, stigmatization, and all kinds of societal expectations. Sometimes we don’t even realize when we’re being influenced by these acts of gaslighting and blame. Fang Si Chi is an act of protest against this: the structure, the convoluted consciousness, voices, and emotional landscape breaks the world we are familiar with and builds a new world of its own. I see this novel as an attempt to accompany survivors—to show that we are never alone. 

HM: You’re heavily involved in the BIPOC translating community, and committed to reversing the monopoly that white men have had on translating sinophone literature. What is the relationship between literature and activism to you? 

JT: I was born and raised in Taiwan. I love languages, and translation plays an extremely important role for me as an individual. Literature and language builds me, and builds where I come from. In America, I came to learn how underrepresented Taiwanese literature is in the English-speaking world. Through language, we can do so much beyond the act of writing or translation. Taiwanese literature—like literature from every culture—deserves attention and respect, and such dynamics come from establishing inclusive communities instead of toxic competition and racial hierarchy. 

In Taiwan, white-worshipping culture runs rampant: on a day-to-day basis, you can see restaurant owners making exceptions for white or international customers while locals have to wait in a long line; you can see in Taipei Main Station that folks guide European tourists around when they’re lost and ignore migrant workers who seek help. Growing up in Taiwan, I was told and am told to this day that Taiwan is a physically “safe” place, and that people are kind—but is that true, when kindness is afforded primarily to whiteness, and those with proximity to it? 

Another bigger question concerning the treatment of translators: Why can’t non-native English speakers translate into English? What about the knowledge a translator could have between these cultures and their understanding of linguistic influence between different languages? Why do we have to put our heads down and always let others “correct” or “guide” us, as if they were our savior? Why are we still working to define what being “native speaker” means if we are to move out of literary colonialism? Why can’t people be more conscious about it, and what kind of changes can I bring as a translator?

HM: Can you elaborate on that concept of  literary colonialism and how that lens impacted your translation process? 

JT: Cultures outside of the European or North American sphere oftentimes are otherized or foreignized. There is this big question of “Who gets to translate what?” and the question of what counts as cultural appropriation. By monopolizing or demanding that literature from different cultures should be interpreted or translated or told in a certain “standard” way that fits better to the European or North American convention or understanding, other traditions remain on the margins, their cultures exploited and colonized. 

There are many institutions in Taiwan that set up a protocol that if one identifies as a “non-native” English speaker, they won’t be able to officially take part in translation projects into English, especially for books. Many hire white expats as their “consultants” and think by doing so will ensure nothing goes wrong. But what about Taiwanese, or other non-English-native speakers who are proficient in English? Why are non-native English speakers paid less in educational settings? These things happen not only in Taiwan, but across Asia and beyond—similar things happened in South Korea, Japan, Thailand, and more. Ultimately, choosing to translate a book is not just about cultural enthusiasm—it’s about how much we care about the authors and the books, and how we connect ourselves with them. I want to believe that people who care about Taiwanese literature goes beyond race—but it’s hard to think about it when some encounters and situations proved otherwise, and the fact that introducing Taiwanese literature tends to be monopolized by certain institutions that feed into certain toxic cycles. 

On the other hand, in America, I often heard people from the literary landscape express: “I’m confused by the structure.” “This doesn’t make sense to me.” when it comes to specific dynamics that are closely tied to my culture, or cultures from other parts of the world. There’s always a need to “explain” or “clarify.” 

I was asked often in my MFA program questions like, “Could you tell us more about how Taiwanese do A and B?” Initially, it sounds like some genuine curiosity, but time and time again, I get tired of explaining where I come from, or “how we do things in Taiwan.” My work, as well as other Taiwanese authors’ works are not part of some imagined zoo (and I don’t like zoos)—we don’t need labels, explanations, or certain restrictions to show people who we are. Just read the story, read the work, and be open to differences.

When I worked on this project, there were many times I was told to explain the concept of cram school, or was asked inappropriate questions about whether “teacher-student love” might be something specific to Taiwan. Hearing the latter gave me a feeling that Taiwanese culture, in some ways, is looked down upon. The subtext behind this question always felt like the suggestion that perhaps sexual grooming was normalized in Taiwan. 

I’ve also felt the pressure of Taiwanese #MeToo has to be, in some ways, “big enough” to matter. I had to do so much for a less represented country to really matter in the international literary world.

Her Corpse Is a Wild Animal

Posted on by Preety Sidhu

“No Man’s Mare” by Djuna Barnes

Pauvla Agrippa had died that afternoon at three; now she lay with quiet hands crossed a little below her fine breast with its transparent skin showing the veins as filmy as old lace, purple veins that were now only a system of charts indicating the pathways where her life once flowed.

Her small features were angular with that repose which she had often desired. She had not wanted to live, because she did not mind death. There were no candles about her where she lay, nor any flowers. She had said quite logically to her sisters: “Are there any candles and flowers at a birth?” They saw the point, but regretted the philosophy, for buying flowers would have connected them with Pauvla Agrippa, in this, her new adventure.

Pauvla Agrippa’s hair lay against her cheeks like pats of plaited butter; the long golden ends tucked in and wound about her head and curved behind her neck. Pauvla Agrippa had once been complimented on her fine black eyes and this yellow hair of hers, and she had smiled and been quite pleased, but had drawn attention to the fact that she had also another quite remarkable set of differences—her small thin arms with their tiny hands and her rather long narrow feet.

She said that she was built to remain standing; now she could rest.

Her sister, Tasha, had been going about all day, praying to different objects in search of one that would give her comfort, though she was not so much grieved as she might have been, because Pauvla Agrippa had been so curious about all this.

True, Agrippa’s husband seemed lost, and wandered about like a restless dog, trying to find a spot that would give him relief as he smoked.

One of Pauvla’s brothers was playing on the floor with Pauvla’s baby. This baby was small and fat and full of curves. His arms curved above his head, and his legs curved downward, including his picture book and rattle in their oval. He shouted from time to time at his uncle, biting the buttons on his uncle’s jacket. This baby and this boy had one thing in common—a deep curiosity—a sense that somewhere that curiosity would be satisfied. They had all accomplished something. Pauvla Agrippa and her husband and her sister and the boy and Pauvla’s baby, but still there was incompleteness about everything.

Nothing was ever done; there wasn’t such a thing as rest, that was certain, for the sister still felt that her prayers were not definite, the husband knew he would smoke again after lunch, the boy knew he was only beginning something, as the baby also felt it, and Pauvla Agrippa herself, the seemingly most complete, had yet to be buried. Her body was confronted with the eternal necessity of change.

It was all very sad and puzzling, and rather nice too. After all, atoms were the only things that had imperishable existence, and therefore were the omnipotent quality and quantity—God should be recognized as something that was everywhere in millions, irrevocable and ineradicable— one single great thing has always been the prey of the million little things. The beasts of the jungle are laid low by the insects. Yes, she agreed that everything was multiple that counted. Pauvla was multiple now, and some day they would be also. This was the reason that she wandered from room to room touching things, vases, candlesticks, tumblers, knives, forks, the holy pictures and statues and praying to each of them, praying for a great thing, to many presences.

A neighbor from across the way came to see them while Pauvla’s brother was still playing with the baby. This man was a farmer, once upon a time, and liked to remember it, as city-bred men in the country like to remember New York and its sophistication.

He spent his summers, however, in the little fishing village where the sisters, Pauvla and Tasha, had come to know him. He always spoke of “going toward the sea.” He said that there was something more than wild about the ocean; it struck him as being a little unnatural, too.

He came in now grumbling and wiping his face with a coarse red handkerchief, remarking on the “catch” and upon the sorrow of the house of Agrippa, all in the one breath.

“There’s a touch of damp in the air,” he said, sniffing, his nose held back so that his small eyes gleamed directly behind it. “The fish have been bad catching and no-man’s-mare is going up the headlands, her tail stretched straight out.”

Today she felt inconvenienced because she could not understand her own feelings—once or twice she had looked upon the corpse with resentment because it had done something to Pauvla.

Tasha came forward with cakes and tea and paused, praying over them also, still looking for comfort. She was a small woman, with a round, wrinkled forehead and the dark eyes of her sister; today she felt inconvenienced because she could not understand her own feelings—once or twice she had looked upon the corpse with resentment because it had done something to Pauvla; however, she was glad to see the old man, and she prayed to him silently also, to see if it would help. Just what she prayed for she could not tell; the words she used were simple: “What is it, what is it?” over and over with her own childhood prayers to end with.

She had a great deal of the quietness of this village about her, the quietness that is in the roaring of the sea and the wind, and when she sighed it was like the sound made of great waters running back to sea between the narrow sides of little stones.

It was here that she, as well as her brothers and sisters, had been born. They fished in the fishing season and sold to the market at one-eighth of the market price, but when the markets went so low that selling would put the profits down for months, they turned the nets over and sent the fish back to sea.

Today Tasha was dressed in her ball-gown; she had been anticipating a local gathering that evening and then Pauvla Agrippa got her heart attack and died. This dress was low about the shoulders, with flounces of taffeta, and the sea-beaten face of Tasha rose out of its stiff elegance like a rock from heavy moss. Now that she had brought the cakes and tea, she sat listening to this neighbor as he spoke French to her younger brother.

When they spoke in this strange language, she was always surprised to note that their voices became unfamiliar to her—she could not have told which was which, or if they were themselves at all. Closing her eyes, she tried to see if this would make any difference, and it didn’t. Then she slowly raised her small plump hands and pressed them to her ears—this was better, because now she could not tell that it was French that they were speaking, it was sound only and might have been anything, and again she sighed, and was glad that they were less strange to her; she could not bear this strangeness today, and wished they would stop speaking in a foreign tongue.

“What are you saying?” she inquired, taking the teacup in one hand, keeping the other over her ear.

“Talking about the horse,” he said, and went on.

Again, Tasha became thoughtful. This horse that they were speaking about had been on the sands, it seemed to her, for as long as she could remember. It was a wild thing belonging to nobody. Sometimes in a coming storm, she had seen it standing with its head out toward the waters, its mane flying in the light air, and its thin sides fluttering with the beating of its heart.

It was old now, with sunken flanks and knuckled legs; it no longer stood straight—and the hair about its nose had begun to turn gray. It never interfered with the beach activities, and on the other hand it never permitted itself to be touched. Early in her memory of this animal, Tasha had tried to stroke it, but it had started, arched its neck and backed away from her with hurried jumping steps. Many of the ignorant fisherfolk had called it the sea horse and also “no-man’s-mare.” They began to fear it, and several of them thought it a bad omen.

Tasha knew better—sometimes it would be down upon the pebbly part of the shore, its head laid flat as though it were dead, but no one could approach within fifty feet without its instantly leaping up and standing with its neck thrust forward and its brown eyes watching from beneath the coarse lashes.

In the beginning people had tried to catch it and make it of use. Gradually everyone in the village had made the attempt; not one of them had ever succeeded.

The large black nostrils were always wet, and they shook as though some one was blowing through them— great nostrils like black flowers.

This mare was old now and did not get up so often when approached. Tasha had been as near to it as ten paces, and Pauvla Agrippa had once approached so near that she could see that its eyes were failing, that a thin mist lay over its right eyeball, so that it seemed to be flirting with her, and this made her sad and she hurried away, and she thought, “The horse had its own defense; when it dies it will be so horrifying perhaps that not one of us will approach it.” Though many had squabbled about which of them should have its long, beautiful tail.

Pauvla Agrippa’s husband had finished his cigar and came in now, bending his head to get through the low casement. He spoke to the neighbor a few moments and then sat down beside his sister-in-law.

He began to tell her that something would have to be done with Pauvla and added that they would have to manage to get her over to the undertaker’s at the end of the headland, but that they had no means of conveyance. Tasha thought of this horse because she had been thinking about it before he interrupted and she spoke of it timidly, but it was only an excuse to say something.

“You can’t catch it,” he said, shaking his head.

Here the neighbor broke in: “It’s easy enough to catch it; this last week three children have stroked it—it’s pretty low, I guess; but I doubt if it would be able to walk that far.”

He looked over the rim of the teacup to see how this remark would be taken—he felt excited all of a sudden at the thought that something was going to be attempted that had not been attempted in many years, and a feeling of misfortune took hold of him that he had certainly not felt at Pauvla Agrippa’s death. Everything about the place, and his life that had seemed to him quite normal and natural, now seemed strange.

The disrupting of one idea—that the horse could not be caught—put him into a mood that made all other accustomed things alien.

The disrupting of one idea—that the horse could not be caught—put him into a mood that made all other accustomed things alien.

However, after this it seemed quite natural that they should make the effort and Tasha went into the room where Pauvla Agrippa lay.

The boy had fallen asleep in the corner and Pauvla’s baby was crawling over him, making for Pauvla, cooing softly and saying “mamma” with difficulty, because the little under lip kept reaching to the upper lip to prevent the saliva from interrupting the call.

Tasha put her foot in the baby’s way and stood looking down at Pauvla Agrippa, where her small hands lay beneath her fine breast with its purple veins, and now Tasha did not feel quite the same resentment that she had felt earlier. It is true this body had done something irrevocable to Pauvla Agrippa, but she also realized that she, Tasha, must now do something to this body; it was the same with everything, nothing was left as it was, something was always altering something else. Perhaps it was an unrecognized law.

Pauvla Agrippa’s husband had gone out to see what could be done with the mare, and now the neighbor came in, saying that it would not come in over the sand, but that he—the husband—thought that it would walk toward the headland, as it was wont.

“If you could only carry her out to it,” he said.

Tasha called in two of her brothers and woke up the one on the floor. “Everything will be arranged for her comfort,” she said, “when we get her up there.” They lifted Pauvla Agrippa up and her baby began to laugh, asking to be lifted up also, and holding its little hands high that it might be lifted, but no one was paying any attention to him, because now they were moving his mother.

Pauvla Agrippa looked fine as they carried her, only her small hands parted and deserted the cleft where they had lain, dropping down upon the shoulders of her brothers. Several children stood hand in hand watching, and one or two villagers appeared who had heard from the neighbors what was going on.

The mare had been induced to stand and someone had slipped a halter over its neck for the first time in many years; there was a frightened look in the one eye and the film that covered the other seemed to darken, but it made no objection when they raised Pauvla Agrippa and placed her on its back, tying her on with a fish net.

Then someone laughed, and the neighbor slapped his leg saying, “Look what the old horse has come to—caught and burdened at last.” And he watched the mare with small cruel eyes.

Pauvla Agrippa’s husband took the strap of the halter and began plodding through the sand, the two boys on either side of the horse holding to all that was left of Pauvla Agrippa. Tasha came behind, her hands folded, praying now to this horse, still trying to find peace, but she noticed with a little apprehension that the horse’s flanks had begun to quiver, and that this quiver was extending to its ribs and from its ribs to its forelegs.

Then she saw it turn a little, lifting its head. She called out to Pauvla Agrippa’s husband who, startled with the movement and the cry, dropped the rope.

The mare had turned toward the sea; for an instant it stood there, quivering, a great thin bony thing with crooked legs; its blind eyes half covered with the black coarse lashes. Pauvla Agrippa with her head thrown a bit back rested easily, it seemed, the plaits of her yellow hair lying about her neck, but away from her face, because she was not supported quite right; still she looked like some strange new sea animal beneath the net that held her from falling.

Then without warning, no-man’s-mare jumped forward and plunged neck-deep into the water.

A great wave came up, covered it, receded, and it could be seen swimming, its head out of the water, while Pauvla Agrippa’s loosened yellow hair floated behind. No one moved. Another wave rose high, descended, and again the horse was seen swimming with head up, and this time Pauvla’s Agrippa’s hands were parted and lay along the water as though she were swimming.

The most superstitious among them began crossing themselves, and one woman dropped on her knees, rocking from side to side; and still no one moved.

And this time the wave rose, broke and passed on, leaving the surface smooth.

That night Tasha picked up Pauvla Agrippa’s sleepy boy and standing in the doorway prayed to the sea, and this time she found comfort.

The Best Books About Horses For Adults

Posted on by Intern Electric Lit

It’s no coincidence that there are horses on the walls of caves in Lascaux, atop St. Mark’s in Venice, under the derriere of Marcus Aurelius in Rome, and alongside the Terracotta Army in China. Since they were first domesticated more than three thousand years ago, horses have been our transport, farming equipment, war machines, source of meat and milk, and a fine reason to bet your paycheck. While in reality they are partially-colorblind herbivores with fragile digestive systems and anxiety disorders, horses, nevertheless, have come to symbolize freedom, speed, courage, and beauty.

Pony Confidential by Christina Lynch book cover

The pony’s contribution to history, on the other hand, is sorely overlooked. A subset of horses measuring 58 inches or less, ponies are mostly famous for biting children and/or launching them into the dust. There isn’t a single epic poem that honors a pony! Shakespeare natters on about trading kingdoms for horses, but there’s nary a pony mentioned in any of his plays. We honor explorer Ernest Shackleton, but not the pony he ate to survive.

My new book, Pony Confidential, aims to right this literary wrong. The first ever novel for adults narrated by a pony (not kidding), it’s a retelling of The Odyssey (also not kidding) starring an old pony who is searching for the one little girl he really loved, twenty-five years after he last saw her so he can tell her off for having got rid of him. (Ponies, you realize, are sold and sold and sold when we outgrow them.) Grumpy, opinionated, and bent on revenge, this self-described “furry fury” discovers that Penny, his long-lost owner, is now an adult accused of a murder he knows she didn’t commit. Though he’s arthritic and lacks opposable thumbs, he sets out to save her. Yes, it’s meant to make you laugh out loud, but there are also serious undertones about how we treat animals and each other.

Since I can’t give you a list of pony books for adults, here is instead a list of horse books for adults. These books have stuck with me over the years because of standout moments that conjure images so clear in my mind that I feel they happened to me. For each of these wonderful stories I’ve noted what that seared-into-the brain detail is. And to my own hero I can only say, “Sorry, Pony, to once again laud famous horses—maybe one day you will be just one of a long list of ‘Pony Books for Adults.’”

Black Beauty by Anna Sewell

Though now we think of Black Beauty as a children’s book, it was written in 1877 for adults. Author Anna Sewell was horrified by the treatment of horses (the main mode of transportation in her era), and her novel—told in the first person from a horse’s point of view– was an attempt to make people recognize that the animals they were beating, working to death, and starving had feelings. Black Beauty was so successful that it led to the creation of animal protection organizations and laws against animal cruelty in many countries. Of course, what makes its potentially cloying anthropomorphism effective is that it’s a well-told tale. Beauty is born to a kind master in the countryside where he has all the things horses need to thrive, but through the vagaries of fate endures a series of deeply unfortunate events. The searing detail for me is the death of a main animal character, an event which broke my heart as a child but also inspired a very funny spoiler alert line delivered by a goat in Pony Confidential. Beauty’s kindness despite his pain, fear and powerlessness still resonate today and have kept it the urtext for horse girls.

Horse Crazy by Sarah Maslin Nir

This series of essays by a prizewinning New York Times journalist interrogates why we (and she) are so obsessed with horses. She examines our culture’s love of equines from every angle, including her own upbringing in New York City and how riding was an escape from trauma, but also an invitation to a rarified world that as an outsider she couldn’t quite gain entry to. The searing detail here is a moment during a competition when her horse falls and rolls over her—I can see the scene in slow motion horror as if I were ringside. Maslin Nir uses her journalistic eye for detail to explore far flung corners of the horse world and in doing so reveals surprising things about power, privilege and passion.

In Deep by Maxine Kumin

Pulitzer Prize winner Maxine Kumin was the U.S. Poet Laureate in the early 1980s, and these essays are a gorgeously written, lyric chronicle of her life on a New Hampshire farm raising kids and horses as she writes and teaches. Kumin is deeply in love with the landscape and all the creatures in it, but also honest about the challenges of country living—black flies, squatter raccoons, unruly young horses, and jicama that doesn’t grow where it’s supposed to. The killer detail for me is picturing her spreading the pages of the New York Times Book Review to mulch zucchini and tomato seedlings in her garden. Take that, Gray Lady! I blame Kumin’s seductively beautiful prose for the moneypit ranchette I now own.


Horse by Geraldine Brooks

This 2022 novel by the brilliant Australian-born journalist-turned-novelist Geraldine Brooks is a triple narrative of an enslaved young man working as a jockey in the antebellum South and Lexington, the horse he forms a relationship with; a 1950s art dealer interested in a painting of that horse; and a 21st century researcher at the Smithsonian who crosses paths with both the horse’s skeleton and an art historian researching the painting. Brooks masterfully weaves the stories to create tension and suspense. The memorable moment for me is the jockey’s flight from danger through a warzone on Lexington’s back –I was on the edge of my seat for every hoofbeat. Based on the real Lexington, Horse is a nod to the many African-Americans whose foundational contributions to the sport of horse racing in this country are only now being acknowledged and celebrated after centuries of erasure.


Horse Heaven by Jane Smiley

Jane Smiley is one of those rare writers who can make you laugh out loud on one page and weep on the next. A sprawling novel set in the world of Thoroughbred racing and told from many different points of view, including a Jack Russell terrier named Eileen and several racehorses, Horse Heaven chronicles lives that are familiar but utterly poignant—down on their luck gamblers, too-tall jockeys, insatiable rich people, all desperate for a win. My favorite character is Justa Bob, a downwardly mobile Thoroughbred who passes from owner to owner without losing his optimism (a certain pony would have bitten all of the humans who let Bob down). Smiley’s prose is eagle-eyed but also laced with kindness, making Horse Heaven a world that keeps pulling you back in even as it breaks your heart.


The Eighty Dollar Champion by Elizabeth Letts

One of our best horse historians, Elizabeth Letts here tells the heartwarming true story of Snowman, a skeletal nag rescued from a slaughter truck in Pennsylvania by Harry de Leyer, a recent immigrant from Holland and WWII survivor struggling to support his growing family in his not-so-welcoming new country. The bag of bones turns out to be a phenomenal natural jumper who blossoms into a champion and holds the de Leyer family together through difficult times. The searing moment here is when Harry is delayed by a snowstorm and a flat tire and misses the auction, arriving in time to see a white nose sticking out of the slats of a truck headed to the slaughterhouse. I’m not crying, you are.


Rough Magic by Lara Prior-Palmer

This is the kind of adventure story that nails you to the couch until you have read to the last page. To say that this is a memoir of Lara Prior-Palmer’s victory in the world’s most grueling horse race is like saying H is For Hawk is about a bird. Prior-Palmer is nineteen, unmoored, and not an especially experienced rider when she decides to enter the Mongol Derby, a 600-mile chase through one of the most remote areas of the world. The ten days she spends trying (and often failing) to stay atop a revolving set of untrained mounts is not a pretty travelogue about the beautiful steppe and the picturesque nomadic inhabitants, but instead an existential descent into what it means to be a young woman in the world. Killer moments abound, but Prior-Palmer’s intense rivalry with the other leading woman in the race, a hyper-competitive American rider named Devan, make me laugh—and cringe– to this day.


The Horse Boy by Rupert Isaacson

Horses have always been humans’ unacknowledged therapists—it was Winston Churchill who said that the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man. We’re back in Mongolia with this memoir of a father’s attempt to communicate with his profoundly autistic son Rowan through horses. Isaacson and his wife are living in Texas and at the end of their rope when he decides (yes, marital tension ensues) to take Rowan to shamans in remote Mongolia to see if they can break his son free of the barriers to communication that he sees as imprisoning Rowan and destroying the family’s lives. What follows is both a wild adventure saga, a heartwarming love story, and a fascinating exploration of the fuzzy boundary of faith and science. This book inspired Penny’s relationship with her daughter in Pony Confidential. The moment when Isaacson is thousands of miles from home, sitting in a tepee with drumming reindeer-herding people and their chanting shaman, desperately hoping they can help his son, is definitely hot-grill searing.

The Best Books of the Fall, According to Indie Booksellers

Posted on by Jo Lou

Fall is the biggest season for literature, the most anticipated titles are released in September and awards season commences in November. To sort through this glorious deluge, we asked our trusted friends with the most impeccable literary taste for their recommendations for the buzziest new books, the ones they’re most excited for and can’t stop talking about. Here are what indie booksellers across America are reading this autumn: 

Titles below link directly to the bookstore (when available), while book covers are Bookshop.org affiliate links. If you are a bookseller and would like to participate in this feature, send us an email at books@electricliterature.com.

Lesser Ruins by Mark Haber

“In Lesser Ruins, a retired/fired community college professor, grieving the recent death of his wife to dementia, is obsessively writing a book-length essay on Montaigne, though the only progress he’s made thus far are the thousands of titles he’s brainstormed. His son Marcel calls incessantly on his hated smartphone, rambling endlessly about electronic dance music of which the narrator has no interest. Lesser Ruins is a wickedly funny novel of obsession, Montaigne, coffee, art, smartphones, and EDM. One of my favorite books of 2024!”—Caitlin L. Baker, Island Books in Mercer Island, Washington

My Lesbian Novel by Renee Gladman

“My Lesbian Novel is a momentous achievement from the iconic poet, novelist, essayist, visual artist, and innovator Renee Gladman. Here is the conceit: a fictionalized Renee Gladman is interviewed by an unnamed interviewer as to the process of writing her first lesbian novel, and swatches of the novel itself are spliced into the interview text. Gladman achieves more in 150 pages on both a formal and an emotional level than other writers strive to achieve in works 3-4 times the length. She is one of the most exciting contemporary writers working today, one who defies boundaries of genre and form to create works that are truly singular, endlessly thought provoking, and that push literature as a whole into the future.

The book feels epic despite its slim size, and what is distinctly marvelous and monumental and exceptional about it is that it is equally successful as a metatext and formally inventive work as it is as a swoon-worthy, stomach butterflies producing work of romance fiction. Readers will be enraptured by the charms of both the fictionalized Renee and her fictional protagonist in the novel within a novel, June. A must read for any who have ever wondered if fiction and prose as a whole are still constantly evolving.”—Meghana Kandlur, Open Books Logan Square in Chicago, Illinois

Graveyard Shift by M.L. Rio

“Five people smoking cigarettes in the graveyard of an abandoned church—insomnia and aimlessness the only things they share in common—discover a freshly dug grave, thrusting them into a night-long investigation that’ll unearth disturbing secrets and personal revelations. With an engaging mystery and an instantly memorable cast of characters, set in a streetlight-drenched world both creepy and creepily familiar, it only took one page to lock me in for the next 24 hours. A perfect Spooky Season read, and one I look forward to revisiting. (Also: be sure to check out the recommended playlist in the back!)”—Nik Long, P&T Knitwear in New York

“The Breakfast Club meets The Last of Us meets, yes, Scooby Doo in this quiet, uncanny Gothic. Our tale begins with five acquaintances from different walks of life, bonded only by their chronic insomnia and pervasive loneliness, discovering an empty grave one sleepless night. Then come the rats. The ensuing unraveling of both a sinister conspiracy and our heroes’ collective sanity unfolds hour by hour, from midnight to 10a.m., as they piece together the awful truth about their mundane university town. M.L. Rio creates atmosphere like few can, attending to each grim detail with the macabre glee of someone who loves horror. And let me just say: as a woman who spent many restless nights wandering the cemetery outside my dormitory, I felt deeply connected to this work.”—Charlie Monroe, Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill, North Carolina

How to Tell When We Will Die: On Pain, Disability, and Doom by Johanna Hedva

“Hedva, inspired by Sad Girl Theory, writes on the topic of Sick Woman Theory, integrating analysis of class, race, physical ability, and sexuality in places where Sad Girl Theory only touched on binary gender. Hedva utilizes their own experiences as a disabled and mentally ill person, while supplying critical analysis from anti-imperialist, anti racist, and disability justice activists and authors. The book, which has frightened many of my colleagues with its alarming title places ableism at the forefront as it argues for a revolution, and one that can take place by means of radical care. Positioning doom as liberatory and capitalism as unliveable, this book is a necessary addition to the disability justice movement and to your to read list!”—Ellie Younger, Unabridged Bookstore in Chicago, Illinois

The Repeat Room by Jesse Ball

“In 2017, Jesse Ball wrote an op-ed in the Los Angeles Times proposing that every citizen should serve short, random sentences in our country’s maximum-security prisons once every decade. Not only might this insure better conditions for people within the carceral system, but we who serve as a jury of our peers ‘would now know to what [we] were condemning those [we] condemned.’ The Repeat Room is a similar thought exercise, one that is well worth the paces it puts readers through.

The room in question allows jurors—one per case, selected through an opaque and demanding process—to inhabit the consciousness of the defendant whose fate they will determine. We follow Ball’s everyman protagonist, Abel, through the selection process; we follow a record of the defendant’s life, one marked by enormous psychological abuse and taboo intimacy. We are asked, in the ways Ball has become known by, to consider that we know far less about what it means to judge or love another than we care to admit. Consider this a summons.”—Joe Demes, P&T Knitwear in New York

Recognizing the Stranger: On Palestine and Narrative by Isabella Hammad

“To call this an essential text when explaining and educating people on the present Palestine conflict would be an understatement. Isabella Hammad’s impeccably done Recognizing the Stranger takes the issue head-on but in a much more nuanced, possibly more effective way than most.

The book’s first half is Hammad’s commencement speech at Columbia a week before the October 7th attacks, with the last 20 pages being an afterword titled “On Gaza.” Hammad’s crisp, concise, and accessible writing better explains this war’s direct actions and consequences. I will be thinking about specifically this afterword and Hammad’s voice for many years. No fluff, no filler, just pure compassion, care, and a voice to champion.”—Grace Sullivan, Fountain Bookstore in Richmond, Virginia

The Naming Song by Jedediah Berry

“Fans of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials, of R.F. Kuang’s Babel, of N.K. Jemisin’s Broken Earth trilogy, won’t want to miss this one. I’ve been waiting for a new Jedediah Berry book since The Manual of Detection 10 years ago, and The Naming Song did not disappoint. It’s hard to describe a book that is about the power of words, the weight of naming things, and the significance of storytelling, without wildly overthinking every word. Set in a future dystopian world where society is rebuilding itself, one Named object at a time, after the Great Silence, this novel follows an unnamed Courier, who travels the country in a train delivering new words as they are conjured up. The Courier slowly discovers the truth behind the stories she’s been told about her own past, as well as the ways that words—and memory—can be wielded to the advantage of the few people in power at the expense of the many. Every time I had to put it down, I couldn’t wait to get back in. And, as the parent of a toddler who is just learning to match words to the people, things, and events around her, The Naming Song gave me a unique appreciation of the importance of being able to describe the world, not just experience it.”—Emily Giglierano, The Astoria Bookshop in Queens, New York

Deja Brew by Celestine Martin

“Deja Brew is a delightful mashup of small town Stars Hollow vibes and Halloweentown spookiness. Celestine Martin invites readers in to a fun-filled magical story featuring our heroine, Sirena Caraway. She makes a wish for a second chance, and wakes up reliving the entire month of October. This is the book to cozy up with this fall.”—Tara Leimkuehler, Parnassus Books in Nashville, Tennessee

Bog Wife by Kay Chronister

“Bog Wife is a book that will make you feel unstuck in time. Deeply atmospheric, each Haddesley sibling is so set in their own world view that this book had me questioning what was real at each POV change. This is what all Appalachian folk horror wishes it was.”—Katherine Nazzaro, Porter Square Books, Boston Massachusetts

The Forbidden Book by Sacha Lamb

“The Forbidden Book is the perfect follow up to the masterpiece that was When the Angels Left the Old Country. When Sorel escapes from her home right before her wedding she quickly finds herself enveloped in a mystery. Steeped in Jewish folklore and magic, I could not put this book down. The characters are all amazing—Sorel is brash in the best way, and I love them, and the ending had the perfect pay off.”—Katherine Nazzaro, Porter Square Books in Boston, Massachusetts
Edition

The Great When by Alan Moore

“The grumpy god of graphic novels has fully moved into the prose realm (by his own admission)—and this first in a proposed series of five novels spanning the 20th century is a far more digestible read than his literary debut Jerusalem. But have no fear: it’s still as language-drunk and story-crazy as anything he’s ever done. It is the story, on its face, of a young man in post-Blitz London doing odd jobs for a bookseller only to come across a book that shouldn’t exist, a book straight out of fiction. This leads him into a wondrous and polyphonic adventure that brings us to another London, the Fire to our London’s Smoke—and truly unbelievable things ensue. Maximalism is *in* again, folks: strap in and have yourself a blast.”—Drew Broussard, Rough Draft Bar & Books in Kingston, New York

Make the Season Bright by Ashley Herring Blake

“Looking for a holiday romance that sparkles with charm and fun? Make the Season Bright by Ashley Herring Blake brings the magic of the season alive with a delightful queer romance filled with fake dating twists. It’s the perfect festive read, combining heartfelt moments and irresistible chemistry to warm up any winter day. “—Leah Koch, The Ripped Bodice in Los Angeles, California

The Sequel by Jean Hanff Korelitz

“The Sequel packs a double punch, as a twisty, addictive thriller and an astute (not to mention witty) satire of the publishing world. With its smooth prose and a captivating antiheroine, you’ll be furiously turning the pages to find out what’s going to happen.” “—Joelle Herr, The Bookshop in Nashville, Tennessee

Dating & Dismemberment by A.L. Brody

“A summer camp slasher monster finds herself in a slump and killing cranky campers no longer brings her joy. When a mysterious tentacled man threatens her hunting territory, Darla Drake, the Duchess of Death, must shake herself out of her ennui… except Jarko Murkvale is very attractive. A comedic horror romp that pokes fun at the slasher genre while still delivering bone-chilling visuals and excellent story-telling. Enemies to lovers has never been this much fun!”—Nikolas Leasure, The Book Loft in Columbus, Ohio

Comrade Papa by Gauz, translated by Frank Wynne

“A funhouse mirror version of the colonial adventure story, Comrade Papa pokes, prods, & mocks a whole suite of ideologies & assumptions. Gauz has an exuberant, nimble style & an off-center imagination that will keep readers on their toes.”—Josh Cook, Porter Square Books in Cambridge, Massachusetts

Women’s Hotel by Daniel Lavery

“The Women’s Hotel has an unexpected commonality with Seinfield, which is about “nothing,” but actually is a canny and compulsively entertaining examination of the quirks, misunderstanding, stratagems, assumptions, social connections, and cultural pulse of friends bound by time and circumstance in a very specific part of New York.

The Women’s Hotel is about a slowly fading New York specialty hotel for women, mostly young or youngish overseen by Mrs. Mossler, a vaguely kind but absent-minded manager who is happy to delegate most of her responsibilities to even kinder (to the extent of being a pushover), Katherine, whose reflexive generosity covers an uncertain sense of self and a burned bridges family scrapbook. Lavery shows an unflagging interest in the smallest details of the lives of its residents, who run the gamut from leftist activists to wannabe socialites to models, stock room workers, bartenders, shop girls, journalists, typists and office staff; they are all just scraping by. The residents are hunting for husbands, for independence, for friendship, for freedom, for an end to capitalism, for a celebration of it, for sobriety, and they are uniformly fascinating. This is due in no small part from the narrative tangents Lavery employs detailing bad bosses and worse mothers, the social repressions of gay culture in the 1960s, the small to medium shady practices some working and out of work women use to supplement their incomes, and especially, the often hilarious, often poignant interactions of borders with very different agendas. Lavery lavishes a good part of this slim book in setting the scene, which can be off-putting initially, but his observations are droll and acute, so the slower pace pays off. There is not much of a plot, other than the repercussions and rebellion against the new cost saving policy of eliminating free breakfast. But Lavery is able to string a wealth of character exploration, historical positioning and social commentary on this premise, it is well worth a visit.”—Toni Streckert, Mystery To Me Books in Madison, Wisconsin

War by Bob Woodward

“War chronicles the discussions and decisions that have marked not only the last four years of American politics, but of a world on edge. Drawn from dozens of in-person interviews, it is a brilliant first draft of how we have arrived at our current moment.”—Charlie Carlisle, The King’s English in Salt Lake City, Utah

Clean by Alia Trabucco Zerán, translated by Sophie Hughes

“Clean unfolds as housemaid Estela sits alone in a room, telling her story to an unknown audience from behind a glass wall. She has been working for the Jensen family for seven years—since just days before the birth of their daughter, who is now dead. What follows is an incisive and visceral exploration of class, resistance, power, and violence as Estela recounts the events that have led her to this moment. Utterly unpredictable and haunting.”—Madeline Mooney, The Bookshop in Nashville, Tennessee

The Wood at Midwinter by Susanna Clarke

“Merowdis goes out in the woods with her dogs and her pig, Apple—and comes back forever changed. This beautiful illustrated short story by the author of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell is a meditation on nature, magic, and the strange liminal spaces of childhood. It’s a perfect book to read as the seasons change, and would make a gorgeous holiday gift. Recommended for fans of Over the Garden Wall, The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse, and anyone who just can’t get enough of Clarke’s ethereal writing.”—Anna Newman, The King’s English in Salt Lake City, Utah

A Hunger Like No Other by Kresley Cole

“Cole is a giant of the paranormal romance world and I am so excited her classic Immortals After Dark series is getting republished. If you were just thinking to yourself, I really need a twenty book long series of interconnected standalone romances filled to the brim with spice and monster politics, then look no further. Once I started I absolutely could not stop with this series. Perfect for fall!” Katie Garaby—Parnassus Books in Nashville, Tennessee

Memorials by Richard Chizmar

“If Chizmar’s brand of horror was walking down the sidewalk towards me, I would cross the street at a dead sprint. This man’s work gives me nightmares, and having grown up on King an Koontz, that’s no easy feat. Memorials is a masterpiece in epistolary fiction, and I was white-knuckling it through the entire thing. Read with the lights on. At noon. And prepare to be terrified.”—Jen Fryar, Porter Square Books in Boston, Massachusetts

“Memorials is an Appalachian Folk novel that has elements of horror and is full of small town creepy vibes. It follows three friends who explore road side memorials for a research project. Billy’s parents met their end in a car wreck, so in honor of them, he chooses roadside memorials as his subject to study what they mean for people and the environment. The elements of grief make the book open to a wider audience than only horror fans.”—Matthew Aragon, West Side Books in Denver, Colorado

Twenty-four Seconds from Now… by Jason Reynolds

“Neon and Aria are relationship goals and if every young person could have a first time like these two they would be so so lucky. In the spirit of Judy Blume’s Forever, 24 Seconds From Now follows two young people in the seconds, minutes, days, weeks and months before they make the decision to have sex. A funny, loving, wonderful book that takes great care with its leads. I want so many people to read this book.”—Katie Garaby, Parnassus Books in Nashville, Tennessee

For She is Wrath by Emily Varga

“For She is Wrath is a Pakistani romantic YA fantasy that reimagines The Count of Monti Cristo. The selling point for me is that it is a revenge story where Dania seeks retribution against those who have betrayed her… including the boy she used to love. Expect strong feminine power, a high-stakes adventure, and a gasp-inducing end.”—Kaliisha Cole, Porter Square Books in Boston, Massachusetts

Every Valley: The Desperate Lives and Troubled Times That Made Handel’s Messiah by Charles King

“Like an oratorio, Every Valley brings multiple layers into harmony. It’s a collective biography, chronicling the lives of various powerful and obscure figures, from composer George Frideric Handel to West African prince Ayuba Diallo; a panoramic history of the violence and upheaval that shaped 18th-century Europe; and a triumph of artistic analysis, shedding radiant new light on old music. At once contemplative and dramatic, King’s take on Messiah will inspire wonder in even the most skeptical reader.”—Amy Woolsey, Bards Alley in Vienna, Virginia

Canoes by Maylis de Kerangal, translated by Jessica Moore

“Translated from the French, these stories explore identity and the human voice—and none of them fail to mention canoes, no matter how minimally. De Kerangal’s writing is beautiful, refreshing, and often thought-provoking. Keep an eye out for this one if you’re a fan of literary fiction!”—Camille Thornton, The Bookshop in Nashville, Tennessee

Pony Confidential by Christina Lynch

“Pony Confidential galloped straight into my heart from page one. This cozy mystery is narrated by a ornery pony trying to clear the name of his beloved former owner Penny. It features rats, cats, birds and dogs aiding our hero in his redemptive quest and—oh, did I mention—this is based on The Odyssey? Easter eggs galore for the clever classicist. If you enjoyed playing spot-the-character in Demon Copperhead, just wait until you meet Circe the goat. Perfect for lovers of Remarkably Bright Creatures and Lessons in Chemistry.”—Maggie Robe, Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill, North Carolina

The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer

“This book came to me the week Hurricane Helene devastated Western North Carolina and my heart. While witnessing the earth’s rage and strength of mutual aid in real time, reading of nature’s interdependence was my buoy among flooding of rivers, loss, and grief. In these times of greed-driven, scarcity-fueled climate change, this writing is a balm. In sweet and inviting prose, Robin Wall Kimmerer gifts us yet another powerful lesson from our ecosystem teachers. For emergent strategists, those weary of late-stage capitalism, and all earthlings who read.”—R.C. Coleman, Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill, North Carolina

“Robin Wall Kimmerer once again reminds us that we still have much to learn from the natural world. She asks us readers to prioritize quality and community over quantity and individualism, for this is how we will grow and survive. The Serviceberry is beautifully written and full of wisdom, you won’t want to miss it!”—Ashley Kilcullen, The Bookshop in Nashville, Tennessee

Private Rites by Julia Armfield

“Julia Armfield has created a hypnotic story that submerges you into a dystopia world that feels all too possible. But the book isn’t about the climate apocalypse that’s slowly eroding away at human life, and is rather about grief and estrangement and what it means to be a grown child. To say too much about Private Rites is to give it away, but it has the kind of atmospheric, haunting look at family life as Hereditary.”—Katherine Nazzaro, Porter Square Books in Boston, Massachusetts

“A suspenseful family drama, a speculative King Lear retelling, and an absorbing work of climate fiction all in one. Estranged sisters Iris, Irene, and Agnes are left in the harsh wake of their supremely wealthy father’s death in a world nearly swallowed by constant rainfall. The three now must cope with his haunting cruelty, his substantial inheritance, their broken bonds to each other, and of course, each of their less-than-ideal life situations. In other words, it’s like if King Lear had queer daughters, all at different stages in their lives when things spin wildly and unforgivingly out of control. The intertwining perspectives create such an empathetic and intimate portrait of how these sisters work (and don’t work) together. Every time I put it down I was itching to get back into their minds to figure out their next move. It feels like I could fall through Armfield’s words like a sheet of glass, as if I’m applying enough pressure just by reading them. Private Rites shatters in front of you—it’s sensitive, messy, and explosive. The reading experience aches, hypnotizes, and stings a little bit—savor every sentence.”—Emma Holland, Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill, North Carolina

“In Armfield’s second novel, we find ourselves in a reimagined King Lear in a speculative future with a climate crisis in full swing. Armfield’s prose is striking, her novel deeply haunted by family and rain. Her trio of sisters is both exasperating and captivating, the sinking city of the book is an eventuality that feels so near to hand; a combination that kept me reading compulsively. Lovers of Our Wives Under the Sea will not be disappointed. I, for one, could read Armfield writing about soggy queers forever.”—Meaghan O’Brien, Brookline Booksmith in Brookline, Massachusetts

Model Home by Rivers Solomon

“Rivers Solomon turns the haunted-house story on its head, unearthing the dark legacies of segregation and racism in the suburban American South. Unbridled, raw, and daring, Model Home is the story of secret histories uncovered, and of a queer family battling for their right to live, grieve, and heal amid the terrors of contemporary American life.”—Isis Asare, Sistah Scifi in Oakland, California and Seattle, Washington



7 Books About the History of Voting in America

Posted on by Jo Lou

Rutherford B. Hayes is one of those presidents that can be hard to identify. Sure, most people know the name and perhaps know he falls somewhere on that foggy list between the more well-known Abraham Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt. Yet the election of Hayes marked a pivotal moment in the history of voting. Hayes was elected in 1876, and in order to secure southern votes, he promised to end Reconstruction. Hayes made good on this promise after taking office and all across the south, the nightmare of Jim Crow descended. Thousands of freed slaves who had just received the right to vote lost it due to the machinations of Jim Crow. It would take decades for African Americans to fully receive the franchise again. 

When studying the history of voting, we see that even seemingly forgotten elections have a tremendous impact on the country. One election in 1876 meant decades of suffering for a large swath of people. The importance of voting history lies in the lessons that it teaches us; we see over and over how the path of history is dictated by the outcome of elections. 

We do not need to journey far into our past to witness this significance. For decades, conservatives preached a pro-life doctrine and vowed to reverse the Roe v. Wade decision. For decades, that desire appeared to be unattainable and many felt Roe v. Wade had become written in stone. The election of 2016 exposed that belief as a fallacy. Roe v. Wade is no more. 

My own exploration of voting history began in 2012. That year, the landmark Supreme Court case Shelby County v. Holder removed preclearance from the Voting Rights Act. The Voting Rights Act had done away with Jim Crow processes to deny African Americans and other minorities the vote in southern states. It made illegal the discriminatory practices of poll taxes and literacy tests. The Voting Rights Act required southern states to receive approval from the federal government, preclearance, to make any changes to their voting regulations. By removing preclearance, southern states could act on their own. Almost all of the southern states previously covered, including my state of North Carolina, began to change their voting laws to specifically target minority communities, making it more difficult to vote. 

I wondered why, suddenly, North Carolina sought such aggressive, and in the minds of many, unnecessary reforms. The result of trying to answer that question is the book Drawing the Vote. I did years of research to write Drawing the Vote and discovered a multitude of valuable resources. As one of the most critical elections in decades quickly approaches, here is a list of books that cover various significant aspects of the history of voting in the United States. 

The Right to Vote: The Contested History of Democracy in the United States by Alexander Keyssar

We will begin with a comprehensive examination of voting. This book touches on all of the major eras of voting, the seismic transformations in voting, the laws passed to expand voting, and the struggle for so many groups to gain access to voting. The book is like a survey course of American voting history.  

The Myth of Seneca Falls by Lisa Tetrault

Women’s suffragists have existed in America almost as long as the country itself. The Seneca Falls Convention of 1848 was the beginning of a concerted, focused women’s suffrage movement. The Myth of Seneca Falls deftly covers women’s voting at this time, the different factions that came together in Seneca Falls, and the aftermath of the convention. Why did it still take another 70 years for women to gain the right to vote? This book explains why in gripping detail.

For Freedom’s Sake: The Life of Fannie Lou Hamer by Chana Kai Lee

Fannie Lou Hamer is often overlooked or given cursory attention when the history of voting is discussed. That is a travesty. One of the true giants of the fight for voter registration during the Civil Rights era, Hamer’s life story is full of tragedy and triumph. What this book makes clear, though, is that her spirit and her willingness to stand for voting rights never wavered. She lost her job, was arrested, beaten—all because she just wanted to register to vote. She created a movement and ultimately gave a memorable speech at the 1964 Democratic National Convention. “If I fall, I’ll fall five feet four inches forward in the fight for freedom. I’m not backing off.”

The Second Founding: How the Civil War and Reconstruction Remade the Constitution by Eric Foner

The Reconstruction era witnessed radical changes in America and its Constitution. Within a five year period, from 1865 to 1870, three amendments to the Constitution were ratified. The 13th Amendment ended slavery. The 14th Amendment solidified equal protection of the law for all citizens. Lastly, the 15th Amendment prohibited voting discrimination based on “race, color, or previous condition of servitude.” These three amendments opened up life for a large swath of Americans and gave millions of people who previously could not vote, the franchise. This book expertly tells the intricate story, full of deals and counter deals, of how this all came about. 

Federalist Paper 68 by Alexander Hamilton

Want to understand why some of our founding fathers preferred the Electoral College? This is your primary source. Hamilton wrote: “A small number of persons, selected by their fellow-citizens from the general mass, will be most likely to possess the information and discernment requisite to such complicated investigations.” Hamilton posits that knowledgeable and judicious men are needed from each state to select the president and only a few in number were qualified.  While Hamilton argues the democratic principles of this proposal, one has to question some of the motives. 

March by John Lewis, Andrew Aydin, and Nate Powell

This graphic novel series shows the courage of an American hero. At times reading this book you will be angry. At other times you will be moved to tears. During the dark days of the Civil Rights movement, Lewis fought for voting rights for African Americans. To call attention to how people of color were not allowed to register to vote, Lewis helped organize the March on Selma. He was instrumental in the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965. The journey of John Lewis is one of uncommon determination. 

Vanguard by Martha Jones

Too often the history of women’s suffrage in the United State is a history of white women’s suffrage. The great historian Martha Jones rectifies this injustice in Vanguard. African American women not only had to overcome sexism, they also dealt bravely with racism, often relying on only themselves to claw for their rights. This is an important and much-needed work that greatly expands our understanding of American history. Jones is a skilled and moving writer.