Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 31

The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer | Book Review

The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer

Published by Penguin, 2015 (first published in 1962)

My rating:

[image error]With biting hints of the rise in feminism that was to come, Penelope Mortimer’s The Pumpkin Eater chronicles the breakdown and attempted mental reconstruction of a woman left deeply unsatisfied by her role as wife and mother. There are whispers of scandal and rumour bubbling beneath the surface, and an oddly gripping quality to the somewhat scant narrative. That said, the book focusses on a perceptive look at society, and a sense of subtle power, over any salacious shock value. In that respect, it’s the kind of feminism that feels quietly revolutionary for its time, rather than anything particularly ground-breaking for the modern reader.

Speaking of this book feeling ‘of its time’, there are several uses of uncomfortably outdated racial and queer slurs. There’s an argument for making contextual allowances for this kind of thing in classic literature, but I can’t pretend it didn’t jar me out of the story. Once you get beyond this (and thankfully most examples come early in the book), Mortimer’s prose feels very sharp, particularly in her use of dialogue. There’s a bluntness to the heroine’s narrative voice, and this allows for moments of dry, deadpan humour.

By moving back and forth through time to examine several formative relationships and experiences, we see how often the protagonist has sought happiness in the wrong places, based on external pressures and societal expectations more than genuine desire. We also see how often she has lacked autonomy, with various men (her father, her doctor, her therapist, and her husbands) repeatedly assuming they know exactly what she wants and how she feels without bothering to ask her. In this respect, the book looks at the everyday ways in which women were (and sadly still are) betrayed by the men in their lives, the roles ascribed to them, and sometimes even the fellow women they thought they could trust.

Having divorced several times, and accrued an ‘army of children’, the protagonist remains nameless throughout, having been consistently defined by her relationship to the man in her life at any given time. Her many children also remain nameless and numberless, hinting at the sense of disconnect she feels from her own life. There is one notable exception to this rule – her adolescent daughter, Dinah. Beautiful, on the cusp of adulthood, and thus beginning to emerge from the indeterminate mass of children as her own person, the reason for singling her out remained frustratingly unexplored. I wondered if perhaps the narrator, and Mortimer, saw Dinah as something of a second chance; a glimmer of hope that the next generation of girls may have the power and opportunity to forge their own identities. There was real potential in this thread, and I wish more had been done with it.

When the book is at its most honest and observant, it can be wonderfully poignant, like this section, in which our heroine realises she’s been left so jaded by life that she doesn’t even know how to be happy anymore: “I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I’m like, how can I know what I want? I only know that whether I’m good or bad, whether I’m a bitch or not, whether I’m strong or weak or contemptible or a bloody martyr – I mean whether I’m fat or thin, tall or short, because I don’t know – I want to be happy. I want to find a way to be happy.”

If there had been a little more of this, a little less casual prejudice, and a little more punch and cohesion in the overall delivery, this could have been fantastic. As it is, it’s still a worthwhile read, and a perfectly valid cornerstone in the literary feminist canon.

***

If you’d like to give The Pumpkin Eater a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Ernest Hemingway & William Blake | Two Mini Reviews

Full disclaimer: If you love the literary canon, you’re probably not going to be a big fan of this post. I don’t read dead white guys all that often, and these reviews prove why it’s probably for the best that I tend to keep my distance.

***

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

Published by Arrow Books, 2004 (first published in 1952)

My rating:

[image error]Consider me shook by how much of this book is actually about fishing. From the way people talk about it, I expected rich allegory, thematic depth, and philosophical musings. But no, the only time the old man ever stops talking about fishing is to talk about baseball, or to club a dolphin over the head. Not my jam.

In all seriousness, I know some people adore this, and I get that it’s considered a fable about pride, perseverance, and whatnot. But honestly? I think that’s a generous stretch. The plot is so dull and repetitive, the characters so nondescript, and the prose so lifeless, that I just never cared enough to bother trying to decipher any deeper meaning.

I usually reserve a one-star rating for books I find outright offensive, but I truly can’t think of anything positive to say about this. I mean, it won the author a Pulitzer and the Nobel Prize for Literature, so needless to say I expected a lot more. At least I’ve ticked Hemingway off my very unofficial list of classic authors to try at some point. Sadly, he and I aren’t going to be friends.

If you think you’ll have better luck with it than I did, you can pick up a copy of The Old Man and the Sea from Book Depository by clicking here.

Oh, and if you do read it, here’s a fun drinking game: Take a shot every time he uses the word phosphorescence. You’ll be hammered by the half-way point, which should make it seem at least somewhat entertaining.

***

Tyger, Tyger by William Blake

Published by Penguin, 2016 (first published in 1789)

My rating:

[image error]Blake’s poetry is the kind of thing most people think of when they hear the word ‘poetry’. By this, I mean it’s full of archaic language, strict rhyming schemes, and a lot of religious imagery. As such, it’s also the kind of poetry that sadly puts a lot of people off. This kind of work has its place, of course, but it does little to spark excitement in me as a reader. There are some nice lines, especially those that draw on nature, but there’s just not enough variation in themes or ideas to make the collection feel fresh, engaging, or relevant to the modern reader.

You can pick up a copy of Blake’s selected poems from Book Depository by clicking here.

***

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The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui | Book Review

The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui

Published by Abrams Books, 2017

My rating:

[image error]In this deeply personal yet outwardly ambitious graphic memoir, Thi Bui recounts her family’s experience of displacement following the collapse of South Vietnam in the wake of the war, and their attempts to resettle in the US.

The book opens with the birth of Bui’s first child. Becoming a parent forces her to evaluate her relationship with her own parents; a relationship that has been tempered by supressed emotion carried with them from their homeland. By exploring her parents’ childhoods in relation to her own, she hopes to better understand why they became the people they did. Though on the surface the book thus functions as a multi-generational family memoir, this serves largely as a framework, allowing Bui to look at the notion of inherited trauma and whether or not it’s possible to break the chain of fear, anger, and resentment that refugee parents often unknowingly pass on to their offspring.

The timeline is fluid, rather than linear, creating an anecdotal feel. Instead of walking us through everything step-by-step, Bui weaves past into present; her own childhood into her parents’ childhoods, and so on. This ties nicely into the book’s central theme, reflecting the idea of shared heritage. It also allows her to highlight the similarities and differences in their experiences, as well as the culture divide between Vietnam and America.

The graphic memoir format works very well for this particular story. Traversing several countries throughout their lives, and speaking different languages (English, French, and Vietnamese) depending on their location and circumstances, art serves as a consistent universal language that binds everything together in a coherent, visual way. The style itself employs simple yet expressive watercolours, with muted peach tones running throughout.

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An example of the art style, courtesy of Thi Bui and Abrams Books.

There are uncomfortable truths to be gleaned from the Bui family’s experiences, like the immense class divide, the impact of poverty, the strict surveillance, and the harsh persecution that reigned during French colonisation and the resulting war between the North and South, but also long after US troops had left Vietnam (something the Western media did little to reflect at the time). It also shows how unwelcome many refugees seeking a better life were made to feel in the US (parallels with the world’s current political climate are hard to ignore). Through all of this, Bui asks herself how much of this refugee experience informs who she is, and how much is down to her alone. More importantly, she wonders if immigrant families will always carry the burden of their lineage, or if future generations may be free to grow up independent of that stigma.

I found this eye-opening on a historical and political level, as well as engaging on an emotional one. The book was supposedly a long time in the making, but I think Thi Bui has crafted something quite special, offering a unique and overlooked perspective on an important piece of recent history.

***

If you’d like to give The Best We Could Do a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Sadie by Courtney Summers | Book Review

Sadie by Courtney Summers

Published by Wednesday Books, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Sadie is that rare look at trauma, and the dark side of humanity, that manages to be unflinching without ever feeling salacious. The story is told in two parallel narratives. The first follows our title character, hellbent on tracking down and killing the man that murdered her younger sister. The second is the transcript of a podcast, produced by a journalist investigating the case who is attempting to catch up with Sadie.

The duality of the plot’s structure and style is very effective. It taps into our morbid fascination with true crime, lending everything an unsettling air of realism, and allowing the author to relay facts at the right moment without it ever feeling like a convenient info-dump. On the other hand, Sadie’s first-person sections ensure that everything stays grounded in visceral human emotion.

The characters are handled with real skill, being far more complex than first impressions would imply. Sadie, for example, is an enormously sympathetic and empowering character, yes, but she is also realistically flawed, viewing her drug addict mother with an understandable but limited sense of villainy, and harbouring deep-rooted guilt and trauma of her own. As the true depth and motivation behind her vendetta becomes increasingly clear, the story takes on a whole other layer of poignancy and impact.

It’s worth noting that Sadie lives with a severe stutter, and though the stigma she faces is reflected consistently and convincingly, her disability is never the focus of the story, nor is it used as a device to further the plot or tick diversity boxes. This feels like genuine, reflective representation.

The pace is also handled well, as there’s a strong sense of tension building towards a final showdown, but I did think the book lacked a certain punch when it came to the climax itself. That said, I really appreciate that Summers chose not to wrap everything up too neatly in a bow. She provides enough closure to satisfy the reader’s investment in Sadie’s journey, whilst leaving enough open to invite further contemplation, crafting a conclusion that feels appropriately bittersweet. This sense of there being more to uncover reflects the lack of answers often present in real life cases of murder and missing people. As much as we may want everything to work itself out perfectly, life is rarely that kind.

Stradling the line between YA and adult fiction with ease, I think this would work for lovers of both. To explore the uncomfortably dark issues of abuse, paedophilia, grief, addiction, class divides, and revenge with the reverence they warrant, whilst completely avoiding gratuity, is not easy. Summers pulls is off here, telling a story that lends a voice to the victims too often forced to stay silent.

***

If you’d like to give Sadie a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Literary Witches by Taisia Kitaiskaia | Book Review

Literary Witches by Taisia Kitaiskaia, illustrated by Katy Horan

Published by Seal Press, 2017

My rating:

[image error]This gem of a book celebrates some of the most ground-breaking and inspiring female writers from throughout history. The title, and the book’s overarching theme, comes from the assertion that their way with words – their ability to conjure worlds and incite emotion – is in itself a kind of magic. Like those accused of witchcraft, many of these writers were vilified for refusing to adhere to societal expectations, but by challenging the norm and embracing their talent, they were able to forge their own power and agency.

Each writer receives a double-page spread. On one side, we are presented with a stunningly surreal and suitably gothic portrait produced by Katy Horan. Drawing on iconography from their work to add subtlety and meaning, I could happily display each and every one on my wall. Here are some examples to whet your appetite:

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Audre Lorde, Emily Brontë & Virginia Woolf

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Forugh Farrokhzad, Toni Morrison & Sandra Cisneros

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Alejandra Pizarnik, Angela Carter & Anne Carson

On the other page, we get a few short, third-person vignettes about the writer in question. Poetic, magical, and hugely evocative, they too draw on themes and ideas from the writer’s life and work to offer a unique and artistic snapshot of their experiences, inspiration, or mindset. Do they occasionally dip into self-indulgence? Arguably so. But the fairy tale-esque tone works perfectly within the context of the book’s framing. Here are a few excerpts from different writers’ sections to give you an idea of what to expect:

On Jamaica Kincaid: ‘By day, the island of Antigua sleeps like a white, sandy lion. At night, the lion opens his jaws to swallow young girls whole. When her childhood ends, Jamaica fights her way out of the lion’s mouth and swims all the way to America. […] Jamaica puts a pot of soup on the stove. It is hearty with hurt, the hurt of nations and families. She leaves the house and goes about her business. By evening, the soup boils down to a thick black sludge. Jamaica scoops it up with her pen and writes.’

On Virginia Woolf: ‘Crossing the street on a rainy day, Virginia leaps easily from one pool of consciousness to another. She loves these puddles, the creatures wrapping around her ankles in each. But before she can get to the next street, Virginia sees her own pool: it floods with rain, rises higher, becomes a deep, turbulent river. She will not survive this one.’

On Mary Shelley: ‘At night, no matter what she does, Mary’s laboratory becomes a cemetery. Lantern becomes moon, instruments become shovels, tables turn to coffins. Mary sighs. She places her hand into the enormous, awkward paw of the waiting Creature, and they walk together among the graves.’

Following several such paragraphs for each writer, we have a brief, more traditional biographical note, as well as some recommended reads from their oeuvre.

I was thrilled by how diverse this is. There’s a fantastic mix of literary giants and virtually unknown writers from across the world. I was reminded to pick up some of the greats, and discovered some fascinating new figures I’d love to learn more about. By not limiting itself to the widely accepted literary canon, we are also presented with lots of women of colour.

Informative, creative, and beautifully presented, I know I will come back to this regularly, both to pick up recommendations, and to enjoy Horan’s gorgeous artwork. This would make a fantastic gift for anyone who loves literature, feminism, art, and a little dash of the uncanny. But don’t just get it for others. By all means, treat yourself to this little treasure trove.

***

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Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata | Book Review

Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata

Published by Granta, 2016 (translated from the Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori)

My rating:

[image error]Contemporary Japanese fiction has a reputation for being straightforwardly written and shrewdly observant, yet quietly quirky. Convenience Store Woman certainly adheres to these traits. The story concerns a single woman in her mid-30s, who has worked at the same convenience store for 18 years. Living in a society that places a huge emphasis on continued success and progression both professionally and personally, she is put under constant pressure to ‘move on’, despite being content just the way she is.

Our protagonist, Keiko, spent her youth feeling like an outsider, struggling socially and failing to understand the trappings of everyday life. The formality of her routine at the store came as a form of salvation: Finally, someone told her exactly what to do, what to wear, what to say, and how to behave at all times, giving her the sense of purpose and belonging that she always craved. Whilst most of us balk at the idea of being a mere cog in a faceless, corporate machine, Murata asks us to consider if it’s always such a bad thing. To what extent should we sacrifice the things that make us happy, simply for the sake of fitting in and avoiding scrutiny?

The prose and characterisation are both fairly simple. The book has a point to make, and it does so with an easy grace, if a slight lack of flourish. That said, there is a quiet sense of poignancy and an understated humour, achieved through Keiko’s uniquely charming world view. There is undoubted irony in the fact that her efforts to blend in are what ultimately cause her to stand out. And despite the relative simplicity, it is a very worthwhile look at society versus the individual, with some subtle commentary on just how deeply engrained misogyny and class snobbery are within us all.

It’s also pleasingly meta. Despite being a successful and award-winning author in her native Japan, with several books already to her name, Murata continued to work part-time in a convenience store for years. It is only the international success of this particular novel that has seen her take the decision to finally become a writer full-time. I’m glad she, like Keiko, is living life at her own pace.

***

If you’d like to give Convenience Store Woman a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to her your thoughts!

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Triquetra by Kirstyn McDermott | Book Review

Triquetra by Kirstyn McDermott

Published by Tor Books, 2018

My rating:

[image error]This ‘what if’ sequel to Snow White embraces the dark heart of true Grimm fairy tales. At the end of the original, our heroine marries her handsome rescuer whilst her wicked stepmother is condemned to death, forced to dance in red-hot iron slippers until she collapses. Triquetra picks up several years later. The stepmother, alive but greatly weakened by her ordeal, has been locked away by Snow White, who visits her once a month so the two may share an enchanted apple, and exchange deliciously sinister death threats. With the Prince not the hero he first seemed, and both the stepmother and the mirror suggesting that Snow White’s young daughter is now the one at risk, Snow White must decide who or what to trust.

The atmosphere in this was fantastic. It has an air of the quietly off-kilter, perfectly suited to the timeless magic and gothic undertone of fairy tales. McDermott’s prose is lovely, adding a sumptuous flair without ever feeling overdone. The sense of paranoia and brewing madness is also excellent, with Snow White having to live with the trauma of what she went through, the guilt of her own actions (torturing the wicked stepmother), fear for her young daughter, and doubt about her husband (kissing the corpse of a young girl he found in the woods doesn’t seem so great when you reflect on it, after all…).

With the mirror exploiting everyone’s deepest desires and insecurities to play them against each other, and the stepmother seeming to offer an olive branch to help Snow White protect her daughter from a proposed threat, the whole thing becomes a mind game of trust and nerve. The pervasive proclivity for selfishness within us all goes head-to-head with a warped sense of sisterhood, and I felt genuinely tense right up until the final sentence, never sure if and when a twist may reveal itself.

For this to tell a gripping story that stands on its own as an unsettling, fantastical fairy tale, whilst also forcing us to re-evaluate everything we thought we knew about the original Snow White, is quite the achievement, especially within the brief scope of a seemingly unassuming novella. I will certainly be looking out for more from McDermott, and from Tor’s oft-dark fantasy novella series.

***

Triquetra can be purchased for Kindle from your usual retailer, or read for free online by clicking here.

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The Wildlands by Abby Geni | Book Review

The Wildlands by Abby Geni

Published by Counterpoint, 2018

My rating:

[image error]Abby Geni’s first novel, The Lightkeepers, was my book of the year in 2018. A few years prior, I thoroughly enjoyed her collection of short stories, The Last Animal. Needless to say, I entered this with a daunting mix of excitement and nerves. Thankfully, it stood up to my own high expectations, cementing Geni’s place as one of my favourite authors.

In The Wildlands, we follow four siblings, their mother long since dead. When their farm is destroyed and their father killed by a Category Five tornado, they must scrape by in a cramped trailer under the care of eldest sister, Darlene. Tucker, the only boy, struggles to cope with their loses, and flees soon after. Three years later, he resurfaces, badly injured during an act of eco-terrorism that saw him detonate a bomb in a cosmetics factory known to test on animals. Enlisting the help of youngest sibling, Cora, the two go on the run. With Tucker determined to bring Cora round to his extremist ways, and Darlene determined to find and bring her home, we begin to build towards an inevitably tragic conclusion.

The thing to love most about this book is its characters. They are all distinct and richly drawn; complex, flawed, and utterly believable. My heart was so taken by Darlene. Forced to grow up beyond her years, under constant pressure, and largely shunned by her community (who judge her for selling the family’s story to the press in order to make the money they needed to survive), we realise just how much she has sacrificed and suffered for the good of her siblings. Tucker, too, is a fascinating character. Through him, Geni examines the dichotomy between action and intent. Few would discourage Tucker’s desire to end animal cruelty and put humans in their place, but his increasingly violent means are never glorified. To present a character who is at once both sympathetic and damnable takes true writerly skill and narrative depth, but Geni pulls it off with aplomb.

I also noted some subtle though brilliant commentary on the pervasive quality of toxic masculinity. It’s no surprise that Tucker, the only boy, is driven to violence and rage by his unchecked emotion, sitting in stark contrast with his three sisters’ reactions. Once nine-year-old Cora is taken under his wing, he cuts her hair short, dresses her in boys’ clothes, and gives her a false name, as though her identity, and very femininity, are literally being consumed by his influence. Ostensibly, this is a means for them to avoid police detection, and a game of make believe that Cora initially finds fun. As the behaviour she finds herself drawn into becomes increasingly violent and unsettling, however, she becomes confused as to who or what she should be, wrestling with her two selves. Soon, she is eager to reject her boyish alter-ego, and the dangerous world it is forced to inhabit.

As with The Lightkeepers, I loved the thread in here about the power of storytelling, and the way we use it to protect ourselves from ugly truths. In this case, Tucker recounts his and Cora’s actions to his little sister, painting them as heroes, using the wonder of a good story to manipulate her into carrying out deeds she would otherwise abhor.

There is a very brief correlation drawn by one of the characters between bodily mutilation and a damaged psyche. In general, the ‘bad on the outside = bad on the inside’ trope is not good, but in this case, it felt like a genuine reaction from the character that made sense given context that I don’t want to spoil – rather than any internalised prejudice. I just wanted to flag it up quickly, since it’s a thematic device that irks me when handled poorly.

The prose itself is lovely, without ever feeling overdone. A sense of time and place are evoked incredibly well, the progression of summer and its mounting heat reflected in the palpable swell of tension as we move towards an unforgettable climax. The sense of conclusion was also incredibly satisfying, from a narrative and thematic standpoint. In it, Geni explores the kind of relationship we could have with nature, embracing necessary evils to work towards something better.

All-in-all, I found this utterly enthralling. It’s a powerful look at the bond of siblings; a searing critique of man’s false sense of power over nature; and an exploration of the animal instincts in us all to both lash out when we no longer understand our place in the world, and to protect the ones we love.

***

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Lanny by Max Porter | Book Review

Lanny by Max Porter

Published by Faber & Faber, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Max Porter is surely one of the most original, experimental, and thought-provoking writers at work today. In this, his second full-length offering, married couple Robert and Jolie have recently moved into a small commuter village with their young son. Lanny is a strange little boy who is drawn to nature; wise beyond his years and prone to unexplained behaviour. Over this village, there looms a mysterious, omniscient presence known as Dead Papa Toothwort, watching, waiting, and listening, weaving snatches of mundane goings on into a symphony of everyday life.

Though Porter very much plays with language and structure, there is in fact a distinct narrative that runs throughout. The book itself is split into three parts, adhering to a clear beginning, middle and end. In the first, we are introduced to Lanny and his family, as he befriends the eccentric local artist. This section explores the idea of outsiders, class divides, and community. In the second part (which is by far my favourite), we observe a series of vignettes, moving seamlessly from villager to villager, documenting the entire community’s polarising reactions to Lanny’s sudden disappearance. A chorus of voices joining together to make a greater whole, I thought Porter captured the ripple effect of tragedy, and the idea of lives moving in tandem with aplomb. In the final part, the flirtations with magical realism reach their fever pitch, as Dead Papa Toothwort steps from the shadows, and we discover Lanny’s fate.

Throughout, Porter ruminates on the notions of time and place, exploring the transformative power of art, and the beautiful yet unknowable link between man and nature. Were this book and its titular character entirely believable? No. But was I intellectually and linguistically stimulated throughout? Absolutely. Reaching a breathless and satisfying climax that in no way undermines the provocative journey it takes to get there, this part novel, part extended prose poem is sure to provoke a number of different reactions. Unique and beguiling, I look forward to discussing it!

***

If you’d like to give Lanny a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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If You Liked This… | Book Tag

I love this tag, and if felt about time I got involved again. It’s simple: Pick a popular book and recommend a lesser-known title that it brings to mind. The idea is that, if you enjoyed one, you’ll likely enjoy the other as well. Let’s get started!

1. The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell & House of Glass by Susan Fletcher

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Do you like historical fiction set in creepy, haunted mansions? How about a thick, brooding atmosphere, a tangled web of secrets to unravel, and a resourceful female protagonist eager to get to the truth, whatever the cost? If so, you could do far worse than these gothic delights, both of which I loved.

2. The Pisces by Melissa Broder & Animals Eat Each Other by Elle Nash

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The Pisces is undoubtedly polarising, and was easily one of the most controversial picks for this year’s Women’s Prize. I can see Animals Eat Each Other causing the same divide, as both books focus on a complex and not wholly likable heroine as she uses her body to seek validation and meaning, and to distract from her own self-loathing. Bold and unflinching, they really pack a punch.

3. Bird Box by Josh Malerman & The Silence by Tim Lebbon

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The recent (not very good) film adaptation of The Silence drew inevitable comparisons to Bird Box, but Lebbon’s book stands as its own valid offering. Both are horror novels that use sensory deprivation to tap into our fear of the unknown. In Bird Box, people must blindfold themselves against a mysterious force, the sight of which causes instant insanity. In The Silence, the discovery of deadly prehistoric creatures that hunt using sound forces survivors to live in complete quiet.

4. XX by Angela Chadwick and The Growing Season by Helen Sedgwick

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Both of these titles tackle the topical issue of reproductive rights, from a speculative, quasi-futuristic, yet highly plausible perspective. In the first, scientists have established a way for two women to conceive a child, using ovum-to-ovum fertilisation. In the latter, the development of artificial, external wombs allows anyone to carry a child. Gender equality, the pursuit of family, and the moral dilemma of scientific advancement are at the heart of both stories.

***

I’ll leave it there for now, but will hopefully put together another of these posts sometime in the not too distant future. Since I wasn’t officially tagged this time around, I’ll leave it open to anyone who’d like to take part. Let me know if you do it, so I can check out your recommendations! And if any of the books I mentioned caught your eye, just click on the title and it will take you to Book Depository, where you can pick up a copy with free shipping. Huzzah!

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