Jones is a versatile, striking storyteller. This is her first collection, and, brevity notwithstanding, its braided stories are rich and world-containing, rough and queer and many-voiced. While I doubt anything will beat the book Mosquito for my favorite Jones, each of her books is its own powerful historical meditation, where legacies of cultural and familial violence meet contemporary relationships. Often, including in this text, this meeting manifests as Madness, and I am always impressed by the experiential knowledge Jones conveys with subtle certainty.
I won’t make too big of a deal of Jones’s erasure from 20th century literary genealogies, especially queer/Mad ones — nor my frustration at discourses of (white) (re)discovery of her work — I mean, she was edited by Toni Morrison, her “disappearance” from the archive could not be anything but intentional. Still, I wish that positive reviews of her work did not belabor her invisibility, if only because they further reinforce it/erase ongoing efforts to reissue her work decades after it was first released. Read this, and the rest of her oeuvre, not to check a box but on the basis of its own merit and spectacular innovation.