Bonnie G. > Recent Status Updates

I have been hoping to find a book that fully explores the toxicity of 20th-century definitions of masculinity. I think I found one.

Though Ryan can get a little overwrought for me (Verity and her friends are such drama queens and so sex obsessed, totally apart from their bipolar illness), her stories are always intricate and immersive, and this one is definitely both.

Things are coming together. We know from the beginning that there are secrets around the early death of Verity's parents, but when we finally learn the story in the context of Verity's bipolar diagnosis (not a spoiler, there is an opening author's note that discusses this), it explains so much, and it is so well done. I am in love with Verity's aunts, who did not let their tragedy force them to lose their compassion.

The things we do for love. Romatic love, filial love, friendship, these are flowers that bloom in the acres of (amusing and brilliantly written) parched earth. False idols abound -- organized religion, spiritualism, governments, temples of one's familiar, even to some extent baseball -- but the love of family, legal and chosen, is what turns out to always hold the winning hand. I did not entirely see that coming.

I thought this was the great American novel, but is it really the great anti-American dream novel? Grit matters not. Nothing you do keeps you safe or happy. The harder you try to do the right thing, the more screwed you are. The less you question things, the safer and happier you will be. Ayn Rand would hate this

Ms. Ryan is hella dramatic. I am in the right mood for that now, but I expect some of the detailed descriptions of words pushing their way out of Verity and Monk's stratospheric ecstacy level, having found Verity, would feel overblown if I were not currently in a histrionic moment myself.

If you like Kennedy Ryan (I do), this will feel familiar and good, but it is more sex driven than most of her others. This is not a bad thing, I was just surprised to find myself reading about a 3-way a few pages in. No shade for the menage, but I feel like I want to know a few things about my main characters before I know their level of nipple sensitivity. But that is a me problem.

This qualifies as a contender for the great American 20th/21st Century novel alongside Gatsby and The Corrections. (2 of my favorite books in the history of American lit.) It has everything.

Leo is such an adorable bottom. I am in love with this relationship and how it makes Gabe and Leo better. I am not going to lie and say I did not know where all of this was going. (It starts where I now sit, in Forest Hills, and that is where the climax has to happen.) Knowing that ruined nothing. If this book doesn't make you believe in love at least a little, I don't know what to tell you.

He'd calculated that by considering the physical world "illusory" and burying his nose in metaphysical texts he could go on doing something comfortable while his ignorance and sufferings and hometown and troublesome family just fell away like so much ugly excess poundage.

Obviously, I question his calculations: to slough off half a self in hopes of finding a whole one is not my idea of good math. .

Technical obsession is like an unlit, ever-narrowing mine shaft leading straight down through the human mind. The deeper down one plunges, the more fabulous, and often the more remunerative, the gems or ore. But the deeper down one plunges, the more confined and conditioned one's thoughts and movements become, and the greater the danger of permanently losing one's way back to the surface of the planet.

This is a joy to read. Vellner is a good writer, and I love Leo completely. Love interest Gabe, and Leo's friends are so much fun that I don't mind the slowwwwww burn at all

Religion takes a hit in this book. The fanatical Adventist mother's bombastic preacher tears apart a happy family filled with curiosity and good trouble.

Babcock's brimstoning allowed each listener a total cessation of energy and thought, severed each from his neighbors, and reserved for each the dignity of his or her privacy until the embarrassment of their botched togetherness could end.

I don't read a lot of MM romance, but I was encouraged by a friend to read this one, and also Ed Z here on GR put in a good word, and I am really loving this. How cool is a sports romance that actually focuses on the sport! And so far, I love all of these characters (except the Russian homophobe, of course).

Dosteyevsky becomes more relevant as we deep dive into Christian religious fanaticism, renunciation of faith, and the search for other gods (plural). I still see no need to have read Karamazov, but I might not recognize the need because it has been so long since I read that book, and mostly I found it dull and pedantic. (Yes, I am a Philistine.) Mostly this is about family, its disintegration, and its lasting bonds.

There is a screwball comedy energy to the prose. I find myself laughing, but 99% of what is being said is not funny, and about 90% is downright tragic.

Some grounding in baseball is important; none is necessary in Russian lit. I have a glancing acquaintance with the game, and often go years without attending a single game, but I know enough rules and lore. If you don't, I think this would be baffling.

If Don DeLillo, Philip Roth, and Tolstoy teamed up on a book about a family in Oregon in the 1960's, it would be this, I think, but it is still early on.

Enjoying this very much. Baseball, arch siblings, and Jesus, what more can I ask for?

This is missing the flow of most Strout books, and the whole Jung theme, with Artie identifying his unconscious as the foundation for his choices, feels super clunky to me. Still liking this more than the majority of other books in the world. Even when not at her best, Strout is pretty wonderful.

Really moving and inspiring. It is taking me back to my time working in a prison. The wasted potential always amazed me, and sometimes broke me.

There is some smart stuff here, but Isgur states things as fact that are (at best) opinion way too frequently.

This is getting a bit too heavy-handed and oversimplified for me. I like a lot about that, and reading Strout is always like feeling a pleasant wind on your face, but I don't think we are headed for a 5-star.

Strout has pulled me in, as always. There is a lot of despair here, but also sly surprises. And I am pleased to get away from Lucy for a bit, love her though I do.

I don't think Shute understands romance. There is nothing approaching romance here, unless we count Mollie's love of Oldsmobiles. There is no relationship described that sounds warmer than the bond one shares with a pleasant neighbor. And lord, this is racist.

This is extremely slow and meandering, which is fine for me, but I imagine would drive a lot of people mad. The writing is unadorned, the empathy of the author on lovely display at all times.

Mid-century Australians. They're just like us!

Diverting enough, but I have been on a small town romance tear, and Paisley Hope is not half the writer Elsie Silver or Lyla Sage are, or even Bailey Hannah. This is not bad, but the conversations are shallow, and the FMC is not remotely interesting. Also, tastes vary on dirty talk. I generally like it. A lot. But at least for me, there is some off-putting dirty talk here.

A good old-fashioned morality tale. It is interesting to start off on a book that casts a progressive eye on racism at the time (this was published in 1956) and still casually and non-pejoratively uses terms like half-breed and half-caste. Also surprising and moving is the reminder of a world where one act, even a terrible one, was not supposed to define a person's whole life.

Isgur is smarter and more knowledgeable than I. I respect the hell out of her. But there is so much spin here, I'm feeling nauseated.